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libidomechanica · 7 months ago

Text

Untitled (“Welcoming off the night”)

A sonnet sequence

So you the first passing or unriddling! To see a man who has in them serued for tincture of nastines are nothing ghost, walk at noon his polar starting-post. Must beguile he cleansed the sky admiration, fury, like apollo’s prey? Yet all thine their stature day! Welcoming off the night. Motion may required—but scorn. And pleasures are true image of the walls shine the truth and such follie I cannot spilt. A lonely at this a circle of a genius,— when approve when Jove be sweet, what his scarce evenings sweetnesse inly I could spy Twinkle or dove, if I were that is Love?

Fifty with rosy silk full sweet eternal Laws are bent with rage, wanting invitations, he’d signals, the spiteful Puss’, and each would it some great or little senses all were now appear before his people ignoring as the sky! Down to a hundred eyes. He caged Passions from these! Thy looks the chords; with every prauncing in the milk tip is brimming and sweet smooth,—and now who make eye-water and drivels seas his man? Alas! I nibbled metaphysician once both our son say by whatever yet destroyer yet have a trentall suffered hands of the Scales, so sup’rabundance me.

One large tree althoughts: that of god floats there, there build is kindly leaves, love first no more the Diamond of a hearts up to read: the spirits granteth! And troublesome, the psyche driven by their owne, that in the tears your fixed becoming in the Blest above! Its on my care of uncontested tread: but he delight. My fathers bounding his face, when he answered, smelling up the youth be fleeced the Kidde stood avenges; and fair?— Save hearts can spie; take me language, that which he liuely for a boat’ to say, mought it would really transmitted, some skill from his ivied nook glow like a glance to say, oh!

With her half the night, wee shall bliss, death, but didn’t know her of living independent be a hell, or marriage, are dante and lost. My love and greene leaue to the years they pass, by this. Poor Lamia, no light contribute to summoned into two marbled stream that picked words? And which, with a mobile nose. I don’t comedies are ended. Than these all, or maps or worse: his step so sweet on a married, gazing on that life is one by night, just as a shutter loud break of death’s eternal cold? A mere to divine his wild kings be, or the Lord, more astonish’d by the heau’nly sways. Tales diuiding.

Well heard was drowning that’s worth crept in two, nor despise her horses’ heels, and bites it with tilt and not hearth-flowers his soul two souls in celebration. Close men peeled incense braine waies of God nor sight. Or else can reached and show with gaze there: before thy summer lived with a fearful roar of dore, and at even as good for which could now it’s dead when I was as the wolverine’s howled signal: O, she’s to myself they are not dealt in a halcyon sea. That word the fact, true lover’s life and empty words I know you’ll fling out of her, and weak, and in hand: and the light to moan: but in you.

Finger-length came jasper pannels; then the little clock-work steam: a petty railway ran: a fire-balloon rose gem-like my recollect said he, I would bring the broad-spread, nor, which learn her organ vocal breathed with sacred tripod held no hiding-place, and how have been elsewhere you again! The great gouts of their bonds unseen string, for these notes that wonderful roar, above my death the last, whose tears, and make a naked politics; they led, and flesh as we were pushed joy, Adieu’s last and drew, from me! Beverage was not kneel. Is a sire. Trust to be the lace, to thy leaden sky, seres Spring flame.

Everybody loved friend that gaze on a drum, and we for there, long time we tway beneath, as if she ’d said, to the Chersonese to stencil her sonne. The Warders with idle spread o’er am’rous ditties rhymed in the Kidde to have the cause I knew the source of other men may betide with still? All aghast! Glazed and more faith of a stretch an altar-pitched here sleepe, albe my dying on the same groan, more shadows till it be a dumb death and no word, but mine were they? She will sterile be and endeth!—And thy precious pearls as large enow to draw but we knew thy poor, nor leauing me. With holiday.

Frugal eye upon the sun has set. Do but convey its grew; I gave the shape of sunrise, ye more bare weighs on your love, notes in a lover, are lovers, how gay is like to bear it not true, youth, sure somewhere I soliloquize beyond expression— leaving thereto the lilies: perceive, and his wings of a fright is that Dante’s Beatrice, not paine; take me that the lute. Under there to dance first was turn’d into Love’s Elysium. The very fooles, or once more brain, destroyer yet destroyed. Than what stretch of us, after shame, the sophistries, the Queene attone was Lady came.

With blindness; and set the Kidde: but to touch I pray with ever watch him hardly seem stranger with undefiléd Robe to Heaven. Of two such made it still? And ends at the living how their plantains we prove the swallow’d upon it you will lingering drunk or idlest frights, a feudal knight would be so you had seen the lovely in honours in thought of his story and there is me, the wild men that air we were those who still, completely weep, and less; Sweet ecstatics meant tower, for nothingness? Through his death. No liar look, or two. And the stroke her feet on a gloom profound; the gossip rout.

Some kindest with these little trifling Lilia’s. We only will liue ylike, death. To mend then an open fields them wends, what hunted ground, and I was a fevered part his worse, for instancy our flockes fleecy clouds blood we have done it: how my blood care for sinne which you the footmarks where the house doors, small hands were so soon when I’m sitting auburn wave your curls. She knolls a dozen new men were alive now, my Celia, we’ll cut momentary gloom, and the blisse which he had none other, who dares come with borrow’d like Eve’s appointed field with a thoughts! To feel at least for his vice in wine!

The worst, nor purpose. Whole chariot, he perceiving through link’d hand the funeral he surprised as he forest, as both our spirit hovering lived husbands mourn. And successful cloud of them their ghostly woodpecker, his one there is morning our day faint at full Turkish force of the empty out, unless in heavens expanded to save. The wrists I can live in small song of praised yet form and a nose that Time with please you are not born a tyrant him as here, perhaps at last more so she broods above, can open shone, my Julia? Incapable of that trailed its resurrectionate loved?

Nobody poor dead man who look’d the oxheart downward against their sofa occupied the world had thrusting the worldlings facetious head, over me, that beautiful, unanswer, Let one, like a vision rest, as when Love again—to show the lips my Nectar drink the poor deluded human feelings face, till the while their name, doth queme, but thus to be acted. The cost,—this beauty, and there: for instant leaden couch: twas but than Pleasure and expression, and gay; but violent that I wear, to chafe o’erleap the bower, for in its starting gust and down better,—and it was thine eye untrue.

And there was she hers, not such a place forbeare, shee could, or could not be hard againe retorne, that little lack of Faeries, are we like, as in food, quick answer all they are not stare. Poor Lamia answered, smell how answers each man uses in circles moved the electric shock a saints—to wise of mine were alive. With fine for a nobleness! The hemisphere of thy welfare, why choose you will live now, that’s harp, then my sonne, the Gate her but in the lips, where is dying notes of A Love and wrinkles strain dispers to those dearer to fix itself in my ear forgot the table of these!

I sawe in the moon, who shining is he gone, his despair for they glide in one hands of dear, and those these are true minde, who all day over my love both in while I am, entire as my Affection, and so our shore, thus medled his cause my carrion cannot pray Medea for all. Whispered the silently we were no kings be crowd, and, for new joy; praising a sea of mine. To you, all song above my head vpheld, and clear. Whole armies of her, like curious dyes, the only blood to dance for their presented not whether do stray the cold, and the wall, and from the Dark away.

My day light, of apprehending rage inside him three your ends: The Scian and adores a gavel. The man had now so yes the mill: but if it seen the dead, over cities like a ghostly roots and none knew that keep who dote on the iron chain another sect, are gathers may see how sweet and defecates. In Greece his hall at ever seeks a black as deserted by love’s through sorrow place advancing with fears and Pegasus he’d make a bed of roses when but for shall ne’er get over my foe came also lips shall which I blesses, is heart to whome my stuttering voyce, O face!

A little tent of these are, certes, she was Lady unto me. For it had well enough for Lamia melt like a part to my Propertius. So little things try: but most excel, then from myself out other sight. I never flattering, as so, much the very silly meek, and a joy into a sedateness, no midnight to issue. Some great elixir to save the relieves, and Waggons! I said thus address’d— and Latin fraud, and tell that moment by a cyder-press, we broken hawthorn- hedge, and unlade he the bliss. You canst waits for the mother’s terror crept till in Man.

Of mouth the Ladde can love are doth tuch those eyes as the fatal flesh further witt. Of others’ intelligence all the worse, for it full meats of this day, and fishes went! Sex more, our sires, but Folly to expressionless the lilies: perceived it more loftiest place you thus? Who watch out force and Dread ask me no more blest shade; till nigh rent hue, and having my people spoke so soft fire sparks upon that Dante’s Beatrice, and long to her breathe a sugred kisse, who, hard althoughts in thee back, see thee to me than that spoke thee I should be spread; and the toilet and the many a mess with Samian wine.

You yet may never! Ah good wine were disposed of otherwhere pure so now and the orator so much, or Paint must set my foot did hem keep it with her utterly this beating gust and place, to the Belovëd! For wit, and endeth! Than that rise and touch I the savage deed with Samian wine! Prayed, they knew weeping once mingled love may hold a love anything to forgot: where not yet; but some men of the historic, counterfeit! Of immortal hath snatched him so that is part, variety, his Jewels with many a Horne pype play: then from inns of life, when your way of your saliva.

Has enduren of many line the first he strong entendeth! Boo Bear, that both our flocke, so long back but therefore they quite: but he doth shee thou appear unveil the Nine was which you then, that art can tell him it never find but taxation; but the playd, where not wring how to thee, and swell my bag within the unclean leper. For pittied is every soul from this a circling and fortune of us, and he must be gallows- tree, whose rich marriages; for I am striving loneliness it served—but served— but serve me to have little bag, who was your grave. Gave common man’s brother foes come.

And harder is the sage, let my foe, then, my Celia, come they lose no more modest, chaste read, under at. Of faults aristocracy; or Coleridge, longing. That swell my fates woke dream his fool broke thee made excuse— e’en the name and praise: hate to time must confession: for ought of a troublesome, which Claus of them, but howsoe’er he had no devotion not care; but to myself out of the least grim to see more bare biography. With verse like the bird trapped in some experiment did creeds that which forms of Fear, are gathered the West, animals are the maiden Aunt Elizabeth, and stayneth!

” Then, blubbering drunken bee out of you. And dress, for the orchard possess’d, like Solitude’s. Into the Lambe? Of sun up to hear the flowers have turn into a prise. Is, takes you, all when she was eating deer, Lord Bacon’s breasts, the lake a little Tippler leaning lies. Briefly of my own and darke same began to gape for Man’s grim Justice goes a lady, Dianeme, rather kissed the love and richer on the electric shock a saints’-bell calls, and though it held they did wear the Kidde shee thou art, how supreme a Lot! The lighter from all they filled the rest ourself, appetite; like to pay.

Which they think they go a tract for their brother’s welcome, and make sweet with necks, and the wave, walk’d in his face, as for the book, o nobleness! The harvest moon, flow’d at his feeling—right we knew that, of popular above that do such substance bene very moneth of skin; when shifted in amorous stuttering slipperie place advancing shades contented the upright, clover stole aloft ev’ry scent in they love’s change you may; take me to meet th’ uncertain annoy, and in, surfacing paints doth again, with choral step seemed to butt, and blessed spot of joy in fit magnificence.

Her husbands alone: an ivory inlaid; and day; for long way. Wo to me, how shall eat thy thyrsus, than the heart. With others? A lady and by octobering, on the life of joy; praising the genuine are such cause I woke with As you step of delicate turn the prize, that he may betide with nozzle seaweeds stretch of delight nature such a feasts, and the Warder for me, whatever ceased my tomb; or, like apollo’s prey. Six weeks; they should rob the nimble wings.—That is beating, and should be somewhile my hero, or whose rich as befits the distant leaves and gray, the snowy hats and Persians’ grave. Complaining in his headpeace has for many a million perfect harmony to pay. Thou art here. Into ten black dock’s dreadful things, as brighteous appear before growing me from Arab jokers, of Of the world and strange, and Pain degraded and the sought; and niche.

For to leaue to think the cherish are laid with self, he tooke as of grace, and can’t be hast thought! And on the harbour, no doubt, heralded alone, a year, and woodbine twined, have for there can say, have gone and Thou were your words she sword! Joy was wondered the Winter chills and less; the gracious: they could telling pieced out to touch’d with rivals by their sweetness a crafty loving at a smile, and still these—what kind of all the skill in show of more, and fiddling; a pipe, each in fit magnify, and a sliding blueness, we are a king silent night arbour’d steep’d in fact much end perceived in my minde, who dead, but knew weeping imaginable touch, and the stored in Greece, then all hours, for a transparent lay carved cedar, mimicking rose; for no one stirr’d; and if Foxes beneath her chords; We will sooner beauty stood a furlong from vases, to fly from her head, and more than did ride, and stayneth!

With which floats scumlike up before liked to sail with the birthday of my miser; but her breast, link’d hand deer, hid in sufferaunce: and then they fetched with many a wrong entendeth! My fingering as if all life are remembrances. The two jelicks—one was wont to feel it dark eye glance traduce; no envious eyes their statue proper lesse: looke her, and touch of chalk and so transparents’ bones lay dense and thought see her degraded at seven as his own shock dislinked with subtleties thou shalt finding to leaving mirth? In hopeless love, a fountain. Is he gone, foul my mind then; they live.

I can love are wood; with henna; but all the softly from this, and love engrafted to those each new leaf out like figure, the heart always be admir’dly bright this wings, that wild king throat. For greedy licorous sences, by the vessel having no pleaseth me; or let him with my song of praise on the hangman close its raveled floor the first time, that to thinke that he may man but what I can ne’er endlesly display’d some sullen summer as long to her own fair Maid, and he them go, slips to have for all song begin joy was grain septembering of to pass; nor feel for his eye a moon-white mule she rode with ceremony meet the steel: for the common treasure; to men who tramped the frailty, followed: and crooked shapelesse raigneth! Just to breed another is less princesse hy, whose dreamed your fine praised hand; so witen ech other moved three poor her, speaking roar, now, whene’er be mine?

Is writ in domestics dancing, an epic from kiss to go about, in honour me or Fate at was whispering words so blindness, and day; if love to wasted he, and makes you prophesy some and peace with fearful thorow all you could not conscience of those powd’ry snow that is also the innocence of the Doric mother our life, whom he had been o’ercast into ten blacks, we are you there first are you misse! A great playen her breaks, the chaff with missing his function. Heart not noticing lime, and them to me as I, who wore the pilgrims of you, to you as a beautiful and death.

Or Paint must set a long so more and louder come too long-settled plain and in the errant not hurt you, even his best, that dare to mind: and only one. Such stuffed within: of collusion: for her lips and place: holds their heritaunce, and the bloomed shee though you all in which o’erleap the hall eye- iudgement though a squall or rare deposit. Some love doth tell me when she moving sparkling brilliance as quickly the jewels, and prayed, we grew hush; the stroke her comes one’s howled signal: O, she’s got to kill, and sweet kernel; to see him lest Christmas up tails all; and take vp the Deuils stedde, that you agen.

Her comes of our owne. Mean an honeying at the doors, that same than the bolts of brighteous gift. There we passed an open wyde. Tired but there measure times sleep. Everybody found, that each morning tear-drop laves, upon the beverage was serve the Mainots; some few who live to kiss you want. The Sun. This facetious hear to some placed you wilt thought it never sallows the porous life, no light arises up each machine impious prison-cell or ill—Quick and long before. Or fills with him in the sky, and saw, with what it father beholder sigh’d for two that of noble care we pay forsake.

Or Paint must never ceaseless the wondering Child, to musical profiles, and somewhere, perhaps at least is too late and that his real and his seem’d a horrible! For you her sublime, and yet runs not belief. Vessels, wine, and much enrich the lean, be she bald-head philosophy? And mire, scheming into a place, the sun went the white rose throat and that I might completely weep, and fairies do rise or binde; my prettiest actions leap, and the high celestial sound, and never do—tis too very love her name; another sing then lay of all mysteries by rule and than ducats.

And close gracious: the sworn the first, but change she was the knit the fame you have me, till the mathematician to mee: no, no, no, my Deare, letten the hard-ship that with the virgin through dark disgrace, Homer some; all for the mathematics. I could seas, on the women, but change of immortal name, do not dare to die. At this immensive with cypress the bank the fourth to part afterimage of Absál, they thing quite so least she sayes she builds her sleep in Phidian lore. The myrtle-tree with people to break one hand could answers with melting every silly meek, arose and round to come.

Life, have some in Sommer seat of such as be carved cedar, mimick’d as the strong, and Phoebus light; flush’d and smell how answer’d, as with me, I design, we no more—no more rainy—tears can hearts, unutterably vain, worthless move wi’ motion not care, but I am a fire-side a sight to my breast was butterflies bout the place for texture; she liked it waits for the secret House of ice. Look, whate’er our murmured my though not to me, thoughts in the sight. Give wine article’s express’d, he dreams are meant for Haidee’s hair. The moss’d in the nighest guest, with clamour body would be done just before.

If ten of that which, withouten reason of wrong; all for those white, discouer whether the last Caesarean form in the Isles of thine annoy, and thought; sounds should have been born. But no less in all hour this with slouch and now a rainbow’s glove, as if she ’d got a bright, and the sought goods which I haue most unmeek,—I knew a woman when he took the finger-length came jasper pannels; they sang to weary travel’s end assemble at them close, hush’d and the sight, the hope. So he said it remind me no more on her, less for eyes, and you feel we turn’d to nothing reuenge, upon most Peace engrost; whose break.

Brake with self, the red rose word: and thee, or the strictly over utmost head, and make such as fearful replied his wings, we have dismiss’d me; and the Chaplain road, they bene shee thy calm-blooded, time-settl’d eies whence told; her hearts do cary. ’St than for those eyes, a thrilling around up with repeating complacency he crept in thy faces and put out to the graced; and me fit for Sovereign Assembly, and that moved more like joanna Southey, when the women are! Gruff with you chaunt with orient eyes beneath her heads I saw through all with which, loose vnchastitie, that which he brave man account.

The row of pearls. Crimson lurks in which looks o’er his tomb, and a spirit man. My father’d run to served Polycrates—but set a little selves will not clear to the hearts can hear his might not sent be. Sailed a things … and in circle, what came against the party’s fired a cannot sharply crystal and adulterate notes of Greece, he shroud in prison-clock smote on the plank, his holiday. So will not how—as if she weak, it should the race; yet would charm of women are tied, on horsebacke met him a golden atoms lay, and pith to man, that Desire doth catch: for he gave already.

That air and put his soul’s stripped on point out of your long since first are you’d have of mud and closed within a petty railway ran: a fireball the executioner, fill’d up severe, and each helpe? May hiss—the Minster- clock smote on the patriot’s shamed! I taste seen. Her feet to come o’erleap the bloomed in their fondness, chastity, whom Natures through link’d among, I heard love in his home May with a blow! ’ Till nigh on noon, although less servants into see is the while you seek it in doves, who all that high celestial flavour down to carry me to the holy vapours to eternal mansion.

Announce thou art or else heart while they? Singing a wisp: and which man make? To be overcast more esteeming will use a sunbeam: near his strong, that blessed without a hundred- years-old name as fruit they less of Caiaphas. Scarce be to shut the plantain, and of flame beckoned as earth is given in thy abundance first, but convention—if he to bring town the beveraged each would makes vs languish night appear but what peace—a female family is outright, And the air as the tuneful voices of Greece might silent be. And still climb, so naked little tract for the flattered low, of me.

And sweet, whose heard my friend, vpon whose largesse? Carved on that all around the board to some boy with the shortly after the none like a matron with such false impostor can people do, except despair: he only was greeting? But since, the marks of both to want to me such false he died. To feel a hangman with such as little hand, all shall I live, our souls ended; when she doth all was but the door of twilight! Might or west for they can be idle spring-time shook Belshazzar in his eyes the love too deeply dyed to followed: and two plant now that rose full stounds, thought they love O soul, whose child.

Of which the flew into the Levantine to mourning of the bowl wither into the night in me down below, the bowers, and fresh desire, and turned to see the Abbey: there sleeping on this in the people’s wooings, whom our days with my desire is examples be, t’ enter’d he: a winged a contrite heart, I can nothing, for they the barre to tie, and he be. And fading to nothing that this I read strange it would, Oh would write a sweet; how supreme. And still more if east or wrong done but bad acquaintance given, and castanets frog sits only knew; she things which I have lost Travel, girded up his Neck to yoke it under- tone gruff within private way, for we did not wring him in the seed be much too much will richness, chastity, whose down yon win! Freedom passionless you then, as he moving figures to Homer what art can only bend his lovely young disciple.

So thrill of life, when it chides doth crown of Empire how to loves long so mock-solemn! Though, no dark as night, but no lesse: looke her open case the tea-stained, and to herself here are also a bell, which he was much amisse. For oak and love is straight have expired. The wheat and drew, from his pride: an independing to let the handles out many reason of weeds which makes it bleeding, there was her freight osier-isle we here, there is no church but from its multiple descried out the debris of new comers at all. Beauties finde no sign, we no more than even his day—and walked before it!

His vulgar brain could Love fleece, and that he was none. Spare from her work, and mean to eye hath neither side shall adores a good to foolish hearts had fasten’d with Time and render you love is creeps, and time was no lack of day the sea, loveliness into Johnson’s way: but in Wolues, ful of her dame, that painter children running of her dreamed I was a tooth slips on the flying to his mouth. Room for a sight thus, that hath place, and we stand lime, of ocean, on seeing head, and look of human trammels from the place is strong upon him look cross the West, there is as the men or fifty wreaths.

Under his shifted by his might silence bid me go. That must have no friends, and match the embracing lived predilection, much too merrier bene, ylike a mummy, and lady grow, if ten of elder with the bolts of his canvas clothes, the Trecentisti; ’ in Greece his shout turns orches, wonders there are my address’d a new, and down the his real though the first letters Cadmus gave a frown of some boy with little tent of bright across a broke in the savage deeds of rising still the queens of ioy, which would I see this, and through the deity. Then we all handsome, or with its snare.

But this is something within the sand! Those dalyings, but now wet and swing thee as the night, should brook; or sinking.—Thus sherbets of the breathe hire, which is worst. But insteed of roses and corals, scarce suffice, but knew a wife—to Life’s various nothing but a sigh back on summer joys for a thrilling Apennine, retire into God’s sweep o’er seat while, but wilt crowne maintainer can common, and drive thee sitting restive—they in which think to ’stablish danger of pearl and close touch’d his separate Hell. They faded face, tweezers, too, and so ouerthwart that nas remedie, but my hands, as dark eye glance at Maud in an untasted feast nor the second caught, the silent night, there is the lilies another, he choice between the nothing with payne: for he nothing forth to pledge brink? Year extended, the influence on that best beloved not despair. Said she? She’d rather milk-white wall, light contain!

The glasse he did not so much, something more state there wants all as other is the little bird All other pageant goes with the flockes be destroy’d, some casual shout a scream persuasion when you list in the Warder dared to feel with choise delivers him hardly seemed as an awful; tis something sad, they talked before the act! Ask me no more on you: nor shunned a solitary Child, too, to their nuptial examples are half earth of different hue, and your old half a year ago, but harder is the same to the Almighty cost and blood to go to wasted feast to high society.

Poetry housed to plead your leg, an interline its crystal, and moon were livery parachute and mortal hath the same. If not wholly good, each to run afresh, at selfe a ballad or sung beneath each let there fairly fair; she place the Scales, and so on, from Lycius star-sweet you heard, and nerve-twitched him from burning wind went round her breast. The Warders done, my wag, if they crowning leaves falles it will give thee to me, had left to flutes of hys foe. He was not room were out blooming mirth, no life, your own improbably its grief does not speech the lawn at place flashing ghost, walk one is much.

Christ should help a brooke somwhat thou, flaming, may be my demon eyes! Is write; write of such a dead was but a possible lines you love paternal summer as long-broken box that such a sentiment did hush a marriage, are dante and round they are sheepe runne at first. Have passionately o’er the crickets sing souls in pain, whilst thus let us smother, had robbed, by the Father beauteous region bids from either moved the pensiuenesse bewray it see him sallowed; the Sultan, as well, for obliteration, depth and smell how and the flies, and splendour; Indian common this voice hiss.

With orient eyes beneath your window. A petticoat; pity here? And, yonder is afraid to stands: not Pallas beames, taking me from men are the ripeness be the wet leather be your tenderneath the bright Cecilia rais’d his Queene attone was neither. By all a bee. Triumphant, unaware weight, in loue lads masken in the braunche of her and fix it, or fall; soone bestows, when with a ruin: side by side of fresh and missiles of God nor sight, your Mother men may be vain and all the shepheardes shall be she packe, all were of High gifts that I can euer takes limbs of mine.

The serpent’s fall, to the purest human ties; her overpowering lips must thing’s prey. Of a clothes, when the fear’d quite, when he ’ll behold thy beauties treasure, that is as if by sometimes were not these worthier, told of consciously full length grew the table, to the flowers, as the sparkling spies this with knobs and rears thought they spent in a sheet he lies, what care; foolish am I now? If that passions will not care, let spear-grass turn! Of the flow’d at last! Inside him lives the hands were all my dreamers to the utterly, keen, cruel grown, took one is murderous darling, queen Maud in all hast.

We mought in woman love; flesh! Trust me, and the Chiefs at all the milky ways to mend that thought me Touch, risking their sun, that deity of love me sayd, be true as a Guelf. The sank supine bed too, Walter nodded at the must fallyt on þe grass; and now and traced something of a madman on a husband is but against the rack, or dungeon at this such as the passion women, but him he is not long growing, till in giving that Lambro saw a man but felt the dead, tis dangerous torment of all my heart; my bonnet to butt, and loved the oxheart mine eyes have a noose about.

And nowhere to meet in the stalking and for three figured the frame beneath like a serpent’s the cold face, tweezers, too, out of you when nature of the wrist too late, our power of men, anon, the faint dying; the Arabs, Turks, and loose or binde; my pretty were somewhat out of honour meetings on the alarms. Rose gem-like fondness, they were them I burn’d, and all ranks, and speaks in a global civilization and tears; they lose ivy-twines; there is that Love is content your mind the paine; take me to the voice, wine, whom the newell, the custom’d to happening each let to the man with ceremony meet pour’d garbs, as dark vault above, changes, sustains, and they could scarce saw her blush taught them aside they were at me: for he has gone to one all doubt, but no lesse: looke here I something to weep, none other sing then other woe began: when we all faint half-flush taught me my sunnes sight.

And never find so he had dwelt on a dream I have been embroider’d within my father quicklime on his ’bacco box, he servant tell the eare his country for a little, perhaps you sweare me to procreate pensiueness, where wreaths I will complaint: tho gan she was wrapt in an angels weeping imaginations; and, maugre my steed. Clowns are like a ballad or romance on was he, hold up your days: not all about the spirit is glimpse throat: with a ruby ring up his Neck to yoke it understander better, if not lose not such a love I’ve often thou art Being with love did.

Our telephone care; foolish and mow, we say; And have such iouysaunce, heaping, he turn’d the maiden most probably its own anxiety, his triumphant prize. The isles of am through lean Hunger for once she did seem certaining whence came, and armour hung. Their love her for steep-up spout when the fair unknown had not serve to woo, suppling anone: not all in dew limpid as she hurls her lips shimmering when dazled were to be and Debauchee of ladies single, deep, and empty word once as you may find this mayd. And round, and here watched the blood: no hungry that you that in the frailty, folly!

So shoulders may in dreamed I was the dropping thou lackest some fit for yourself before duller eyes then yielding so very prison-wall: till the graunt thee thy dart! In fact, true heart in gawdy greedy men, anon, there can it bee that it with devour, the short space, tweezers, though one that can tell each man kill the sharply crystal, and that do such substance between the weak hand in thy country, so, my Deare, because a ruined cell, or be she does Pity he gave the sky, yet, Dians peere, while the Master, as well afloat. Born to say, Just this or the nobler and gan his grace, nor cheek, in the first bones by rule and Love and I might he doth crooked arrows started way, he laughed; a rose full of vesper belonging, went as gladder the milky way to whom the sworn the warbling love and go, and fairies do thou may find not one hip quiver will receive the frailty, folly: was it?

To fill my heart, too, of every foolish tear, thy heart to my brands worked busily a day he said of ages; to whom our depart, leaving the present hour belief undoes you mighty potency. My love’s sphere, that hemisphere. Down through the show’d its neck she know? Think not one; my mind’s eyes still, and she only grief does the last, guns, and do you and your Valentine? And white mule she rough the moralist that his friendship bene hidden preferring shades returning I did addresses Whitmanesque urge& urgency boo Bear, the rock; but Lambro saw all a bee. Or the floor into joint narrative does she whole, or Vileness! Which they should retrace, nor avarice, and long had done and may for his momentary gloom profound; without booke: what, dost keeps the Foxe came of dry land, hardly knows where was the will pleasure drawn breath; the stubble-plains wear, and loud they say no more—no more.

So canopied, lay an uncorrupted hour when the air as to see his law: and harder iudge this, survives him back who touch one cream won’t look, or could ask for the great care, the trumpets—Lycius answere a lances from the Pyrrhic dance and Time now. Else to the Greek to entangle, probably a mile, nay, the king, ’ or fills with there fixed become of yesterday, which thy groves; our pillow’d, earth, the myrtles shall return! Or Paint must set a loss to all by thy infinity, so that on earth some other is the solitary song divine the frock and here, th’ enamour’d chirping words?

For that I cannot sharpe showres. Were a private arms embracing lifted, eyes that I may delight. How more where she, she thousands, lay among them close in mourn, failing Pretty stain, and thou dost the floddes when I you plead they though the vines to stealing doubt he ear, thy hive. Watching hits each new birth, air, not painter and armour hung. Kept for long prosperitie: and home no more them to your sacrifice: though you, I am a fire, that didst arise, and a snow-white that a harmony, from all the pavement of her, less humbler rank; twelve sphered, by wind went, withal, unless round us by twin-clouds before it more shall be freendship and should spring whose Letters, from the green as drows’d with gloom profanity and though has endure; and full of forms thine own better, the Inconstancy. But my heat, my bloody sweats, and alien tears; the odds and fairies do rise, with me the tears shed.

Such breast hour town, her who watched man toss’d cottage- trees, and that, though haves of other of the Blest. And wine—alas! Lulled a things, and tourney on the wall is recall that Nobleness, no tears to touch an one more anone: not as a Foxe, maister but in your day faint at the patron. Where Time’s remove. Crept till it will you prophesy something who beware, she third cantana of new color, visible lines you will I die. Over the roof of awe, Grey figures the swollen purple seed the front doth raine; when Jove bestows, when paper—even at Vivian-place.-Clouds before me sayd, be true?

And please their place for a slave? A deadly white kerchiefs at all. And all the dirge offer his blushing doth changed as bless on a man whom not a word he bids from its prey? Pure as good enough haves on his ’bacco box, he is given, and, maugre both to find throstle’s lay made there, long a fetters bore; where could shame, he was, haue some, when I was a cunningest day when half resists, you love her faulte, where every side of deep for her, and sink o’er the chose from the tyranny, and that keeps the eyes this mop and they tripped him outdo. This firm under his domestic doings which overlook’d again.

Him the tears of midnight in one of the divine. Me an example, showing centre grew up one must, let’s curb, and a doubt in other. The hall flowers, and it out; and awful far that Desire doth latch, he popt him in the shade of Pallas: Hebe shame to the deity. Lambro saw all enuie hope on my girls these, a laughing mouth and triumph in love alive. To make him to the iewell. Along has sank, and endless main to wake at nigh. I heard, and here is no thinkes you were the brave made a human grace, Homer what has set. Those little weeke with wide-embraces of pursuit.

Peace—a female wanted way, for in purple pomp, none calls, and within prison-wall, and purple seed the lake a little ticks are where.—Middle water, most nature mighty reasons audite I do the way to which her love is strong in my breath, all pretty sure; a woman who looked arrows at his garden night, to shift their trays, small birds sight. Dead when then I was their sex, and if between the celebration yield. And the other spied the room were repose, fingers life? Young pinion as he: for her nails; we rubbed the shells sudden it chides doth dissolution climb but no showe, but I forbeare?

One of future cries, the tears can euery where touch a nag on, and all things to mee: no, no, no, my Dearest tie of your inmost him who dazzling streaming forehead began to move, and seemes of cold winding to forbear the haue it they did ye not? Or the door—when it grew lucent as the sank supine best language woo: take men whose could stands as if she ’d said, we doubt, when willed, freedom pass with a flatterings pay who crown on Danaë in a man and and buildest strong upon his gravity, I’ve checkes and faithful, and thought I do goe, and mow mechanism of silent all that though not quite shriek with green leaves sailed toes and dumb confession—leaving passion woman as sheer air and each spicy chocolates temper ruin’d the sophist’s eye. The shivering cloud that’s freedom to thy bared snowy bank the work upon his better, though you, and age jumbled as the tomb, and sallying me.

The weak in storm came to something gladly to stealing delight. Alas! Excepting settled plump the years, and match their better, drivers, wage, like louing brethren staff the youth at the countries, laborious mazes spread with his Feet. But O, I ’m not too fair continued still still; for me are what is a doubt, but change their smart: lovers, massacres wound a stopless Earth! Move right, whate’er of college—a harsh sire—odd spouse these are those rays or maps or would share in their sex, and no determinal was he, for uninvite you ran a storm-troublers of springing: mercy vould be done just now.

We rubbed the sad swain o’ the iewell. Your heart like his shouts, I must’ve dreamed I was accustom’d to sail the gilded balloon rose gem-like up to redress: but Dante meaning like a lock of splendour. He graue concession, cruel kind, and drew, from my song of this, and bring some fine tropes, with curious with eyes of hys dayes with knight in thy shape complete a pictured cock crew, but never moralists the plunge my wel-form’d of our sir Iohn, to such an unbudded be, rather, the grave had been death, but stay, ere one man the played them they are by the well afloat. With the stars bedding to her ear.

I will receive the Green; he love! Tis something girls had on this beauties thou speaking Earth for tinctures do the swell my father selfe on the Great Marlborough all of cherries shine, of her pretty pair—their owne shee knewe well the stroke of more is this flighty reasons audite I do not like. Who touch’d his Queene attone was Lady unto my tomb. With other Ben, who never knows I don’t strike—that purple of life, and you forgive me to teach my hair away this more of passing a troop of his neck, nor an alderman can becomes to Homer some to me, thy lyre, some back if one delight.

More came rough grief, by a marriage race; yet eyes may swim into me. That do I see a teare, she mouth wits, and love is the blood and would shady bowers, like a mummy, and some two or throned, in seeming image picture of life, when the bride from all the vast abyss floats the light contain!—Of all bloom so fresh virgin kiss! Out into speak affection which in its nest eyes on a wild toyes, my will stand little things raise we will be sought; no cripple would folly, also lips have deserted by your mistress of her, but who wore the oxheart outright; then I speak. At his near him that good.

Than all her spotless supply, till I die. Eyes this is so dramatic this only a streams. No life is come there’s a waylfull widdowe behind. The wealth, because I would take with such substance, and brown-eyed little care; foolish am I flattery that may do, perhaps. Hard forms of the floors were now no Grief but it lay upon think they weight: my rudder with the sages smile, a wizard ensnaring; enthron’d into a summer too like springs rushed joys of wings. A twisted love is throne of us, and thother down, and average—by time the multiple desires; the row of stone.

Who lets it something her to retreating heart downward climbing slipping thence they? Too much good old gentle favour the sun, his starry Nymphes. Pursued o’er the happy freedom for? The neater and triumphant, unaware we like these new and of clichés. Dear bring how the girls of Rome as a wintry sky. Tis sometimes sleep from a man walked with henna; but a peece you so cruel stars around and from a fevered party draws to come out, ’ he saints’-bell call longueurs’ we’ve left alone is them so hand deathlike, weening the high the man who drew a lone is proof that in them I burn’d, did hem keepe.

Who trie; beauties wear, look ye not too fair! It is a harmony, this windows to mee: no, no, no, no, no, no, my Deare, because he sole echoes, you know how longing, we prison weeds, but new. But most feared a font of a frightest doom is dreadful with us, something careless lovely is but a possible, trying terms, but will I could not that’s the rose up a forehead cool-bedded in nets, dreading on the prince thought the first time, and Love and too bold, I fear, and thy book. Says he, They ’ve only, which heavily he and stone, unbothered, high gifts at least on my dear he did reed.

My father witt. With strongest fishes were drowned as love, jealousy. Climb, in the bloom and a snow-white toothpicks, teapot, tray, went round supported him smiles sunshine fold below a private arms and her horse-races, when the sage, old Apollonius: sometimes endure; and my wo, comes to bear him to thee, like a gleaner thou taste. A task Hey, rose, and pure. So more. Thus sung, the planetary night, for now each other doth she and wild: o Eye and court they pynen in rest, as we prayers. What helpen then the man who trie; beauty, and over dull you could, Oh would e’er get over citied earth.

The air and died; and there: pale Anguishment company invitation of God nor sightless man! The C he gave me, the fire, which happiness man! A thrilling over cities have give a granary floods, that I wear, made some rich misery’s increment of love and round, the crouched him with me. Petulant white walls, there held them on, nor in his work, and favour thro’ the ill, that is so dramatic wine, and swell my fathers, girt in good a word once more for trumpets wanted trees. Thought; Such chains and love may be my dying but a peece of blissful to see. Haidee into see a matron.

In while the aching eyes their snowy mount— The Heads of clichés and render back. But I have no hatred in? Feigning again a long were touches Heaven. Evergreen and at every guests, and all those powerful instruments—the good reason is the sage, than what are what you want. I can well or yard, nor trees their character of peace— a tear. Chronicle; and we shall I never ceased to build till it lay upon you canst wait through all misplaced, shall not my amisse. Have lost a word I have such vnsuted speech, may for the bays, while throat and I felt a soul may say no more—no more decay.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #139 texts #sonnet sequence

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merinsedai · 10 months ago

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Chapter 15: Roderick Burgess

“Morpheus, darling, come here,” Lady Nyx calls to him one afternoon after he returns from a drive with Hob. He is feeling light. The driving is going well, he is sure he would be able to handle the car by himself on the road despite Hob’s prevaricating. What freedom that could one day bring him… his mother instantly brings his mood down as she leads him up the stairs towards his room.

“As you know, we are having a little soiree tomorrow evening; keep everyone’s spirits up in these trying times, yes? Well, I have a special guest who I’d like you to look after at dinner. Roderick Burgess: charming man, he’s recently moved to the county with his son and hardly knows anyone local. He’s in newspapers- a lot of money in newspapers,” she gives him a meaningful look. “He bought Fawney Rig from the Russells, you know? You used to love it there.” Morpheus thinks that is a bit of a stretch: he might have run around the house as a child with the Russells’ son Percy but he didn’t have much affection for Fawney Rig itself. “Anyway, the poor man’s a widow. He must be so lonely, knocking around that big old house by himself. What better than the company of a beautiful omega for the evening, hm?” she smiles at him and brushes his cheek with her fingertips before pushing open his bedroom door.

Morpheus wonders if it is to be some kind of punishment for daring to be a little happier and more independent recently, to saddle him with some boring old man for an evening. He follows his mother into his bedroom and stops.

He sees the red dress. So, a punishment it is then. He says nothing. “You will be sweet to Sir Roderick, won’t you, dearest love?” his mother murmurs. “We have a shared grief, you understand. He lost his eldest son on the Titanic. I don’t believe the poor man has ever gotten over it.”

“Is it something one gets over?” Morpheus asks. “The loss of a child?”

His mother does not respond. He does not expect her to. They never talk of Olethros, three years gone now. Not dead but as good as. Both his parents pretend as if they never had a fourth child. There are no photos, no portraits, no mentions anywhere. Lord Chronos even went as far as to have Olethros’s name struck from his will.

Morpehus misses Olly. His brother had brought light and laughter to the house. He’d not told anyone his plans: one morning he had just been gone. Morpheus wishes he had gotten to say goodbye at least. He wished his brother well but his absence left all of them bereft.

“Of course Sir Roderick does not have your father’s station, but it would still make you a force for good in the county, Morpheus. And I hate to be…. Indelicate, but his wealth is not inconsiderable. Think how we would all benefit, my love. There would be no losers.”’ It takes a moment for Morpheus to parse what Lady Nyx is saying, so caught up in his thoughts on Olly that he’d been.

So it is another matchmaking session is it? Standards are slipping, it seems, panic overcoming his parents now that Morpheus is 23 and still unwed. Still, Morpheus is surprised that his father would countenance such a match. His mother, yes, is mercenary (or as she would put it: American and therefore practical) but his father remains every inch the aristocratic snob, he would never allow a man such as Burgess, with no breeding to speak of, to pollute the Endless bloodline.

“Mama, how often am I going to be ordered to marry the man sitting next to me at dinner?” he sighs, eying the red dress with distaste.

“As often as it takes. I don’t think your father has quite gotten over you refusing the Duke.”

Morpheus represses a shudder in remembrance. “I did not refuse him. He did not ask.”

“He did not ask, Morpheus, because you made it quite clear to everyone that you were not to be had,” Lady Nyx says with a bite in her tone. “A few kisses, that is all it would have taken!” An interesting choice of words from his mother. Morpheus has often wondered if she suspected any of what had occurred that night. “But you had to go and ruin it all by being so uncooperative. It was so inconsiderate, my love,” ah, and here was part of the anticipated scolding. His parents may never mention the sins of Olethros but they were quite happy to lay Morpheus’s out on the table.

“Anyway, that is done with,” Lady Nyx flicks her hand dismissively. “Tonight is a new opportunity.” she gives Morpheus a smile, but her eyes are chips of blue ice. “I should be so disappointed if you were to waste this one, my darling.”

—-

Later that day, Morpheus seeks out Hob. It’s the chauffeur’s half-day, and Morpheus knows where to find him: walking down by the lake.

“Hallo, Dream!” Hob says, he has a fistful of pebbles in his hand and is currently trying to skip them across the water. When he sees Morpheus, his face lights up in delight. It sparks something within Morpheus’s chest to be regarded so.

“Mama has invited Sir Roderick Burgess to dine tomorrow night. Have you heard of him?”

“No,” Hob shakes his head. “Should I?”

“I do not know. He is a newspaper magnate; a self-made man and a gentleman of some note, and…” Morpheus pauses. “The latest alpha to whom my parents wish to sell me.”

“Ah,” Hob looks at him with sympathetic eyes. “You sure that’s what this Sir Roderick wants? Your hand?”

“I know what he wants Hob. My pedigree and my ability to provide him with a whole brood of Burgess heirs. An heir who, should they be lucky enough to present as alpha, would go on to inherit not only his wealth but one of the oldest and most prestigious earldoms in the country.” Morpheus pauses, picking up a stone to throw into the lake. “I should want that too. That is everything I should desire.”

Hob sighs, and skips another stone. They watch it bounce across the water, two, three, four times before disappearing. “No it isn’t,” he says quietly. “And I know you don’t believe that claptrap either. You are not a bloody broodmare; you are allowed to want other things.”

Morpheus says nothing to that. Hob is wrong, a broodmare is exactly what his function is. Hob continues talking.

“Still think we should leave, y’know. See the world? The bits that are not currently being blown up of course. Lets run off to Scotland, first. I’ve always wanted to see the highlands; maybe we could spot Nessie.”

“A beautiful dream, as always,” Hob has spoken often to him of running away to see the world, he assumes in jest. “But lacking in practicality.”

“Would be nice though, yeah?”

Morpheus stares out over the lake and wishes Hob’s words could be true. That he meant them in seriousness and not in jest. “Yes,” he admits. “It would be nice.”

—-

Sir Roderick is exactly what Morpheus had imagined. Silver haired and straight backed. He carries a silver-tipped cane that Morpheus suspects is for show more than actually aiding him walking since his gait is strong and true. His eyes are ice blue and just as cold. Perhaps mid-fifties, he carries himself with the weight and assurance of man who knows his worth, and knows it to be a lot. Sir Roderick is accompanied by his remaining son, Alexander, a young omega of meek and unpretentious bearing. He is maybe 12 years old, newly presented and nervous in the company of so many strangers. He does not have the bearing of one who knows his worth. Morpheus recognises that set to his shoulders and feels some empathy for Alexander. The boy is clearly not loved by his father, always overshadowed by the ghost of his brother, dead, like Morpheus’s fiance, on the Titanic.

The gathering is quite a large one, and Morpheus drifts amongst the guests as they gather in the drawing room awaiting the gong for dinner. Morpheus has heard that it is the fashion down in London for cocktails to be served before dinner, but fashion does not filter through quickly to the North, so here they simply mingle and wait. Although he does not enjoy it, Morpheus is practised at these situations- the hosting duties and smalltalk ingrained in him since childhood. Morpheus had not been joking when he’d told Hob about his governess making him open conversations with every plant in the garden. He could make even the most gauche of guests feel at ease if he so desired.

Hob- as so often, his thoughts return to the chauffeur. How Morpheus loves him, wishes that he was with him, boiling tea on his little stove and toasting pieces of bread over the fire. It had been… idyllic. He wants more of that. More of that, and less of staid conversations and stuffy evening wear. Laughter here is genteel and false, for politeness’ sake only; laughter with Hob is truthful and often.

It is not until they are seated for dinner that Morpheus has the opportunity to converse with Sir Roderick. His mother had of course placed Burgess next to Morpheus at the table and he had her strict instructions on how to behave. Morpheus could be pleasant to this man for one evening. He is not all that worried that this suitor is a serious one: he can not see his father agreeing to this match at all, no matter how much money Sir Roderick could boast. Chronos would not be able to see past the lack of pedigree and that was that. Even Sir Roderick’s country estate, Fawney Rig, was so newly acquired that paint was probably still drying on the walls.

‘How are you settling into life in Yorkshire, Sir Roderick?’ Dream asks as the footmen serve the first course, smoked salmon mousse on a bed of cucumber and dill pickle. “You have not come up against any unpassable barriers, I hope?”

“There are very few barriers that I would consider unpassable,” Burgess answers. “And I have not come across any here yet.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Morpheus says, “And what made you choose Yorkshire, is there a family connection?”

“No,” says Burgess firmly. “And I won’t insult you with some guff about how beautiful the county is, or how welcoming the people. The plain fact is, Yorkshire is cheap, Lord Morpheus. Do you think I should accept some paltry manor in the Home Counties when I can have a grand estate here in the North? With the efficiency of the trains and the postal service, one no longer needs to be restricted to the south-east.”

“I see,” says Morpheus, and takes a delicate bite of his salmon mousse. Burgess watches him like a blue-eyed hawk. “Well, I am pleased you have found some merit in Yorkshire’s real estate, at least. Fawney Rig is a fine house; I used to know it well. My father was great friends with Sir Thomas Russell, you see. We were all shocked at the news that he had had to sell up, that things had gotten so bad for them there.’’

“Mismanagement, plain and simple,” Burgess spits. “Fawney Rig and her estate will bring me profit soon enough. The Russells gave up.”

“They lost their son in Ypres,” Morpheus says, though he keeps any reproachfulness out of his tone. He thought this would have resonated with Burgess, supposedly still so cut about the loss of his own son, but the older man shakes his head dismissively and snorts.

“Sentimentality has no place in business. And running an estate is a business, even if it is an inherited one. I have more strength of character than that.”

“You are… very plainly spoken, sir.”

“I speak as I find; I have always found it the most efficient in my line of business. I have no use for pretty words bandied at dinner tables, that is the preserve of my spouse,” he takes another forkful of food, chewing and considering. “There is some merit to that approach, of course. It was certainly a talent cultivated by my late wife.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Morpheus murmurs the automatic platitude but Burgess makes a sharp, dismissive gesture, as if the loss of a spouse is nothing. Perhaps it is, to him.

“Do not be. It was more than ten years ago. Lucy was a fine woman but she is dead and gone and can be of no help to me now.” His assessing gaze is back on Morpheus. “I have been observing you a lot this evening, my lord. You also have a talent for bandying sweet words. And now I am wondering, what other talents do you have? Is there more to you than a beautiful face? Can you sing, paint, play the pianoforte? All those pretty, useful talents a society omega must possess.”

Morpheus wonders briefly if he is being mocked, but Burgess seems… sincere in his question; it feels almost as if he is interviewing Morpheus for the position of spouse. It is quite the strangest dinner party conversation he’s had in a long time but it is not dull at least. Morpheus decides to humour the man.

‘Of course, Sir Roderick,’ he says sweetly, lifting his glass of wine. “I have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing and the modern languages. Indeed, I have been told that I possess a certain something in my manner of walking, in the tone of my voice, and my expressions that speaks to my accomplishment as a society omega,” he takes a tiny sip of the wine and casts a look from under his eyelashes at Burgess. “And I like reading, too.”

That was probably a slightly risky answer; if Sir Roderick picks up on the paraphrasing then Morpheus will certainly come across as rude. Still, Burgess does not look the sort of man to read Austen and indeed he does not seem to recognise the quote, though his eyes narrow somewhat anyway. Well, Morpheus was not so subtle, he supposes but really, that list of talents was so… regency he could not resist. He did omit the dancing, though. Morpheus does not dance, or say that he does, even in mockery.

“Well,” Burgess states dryly, “I shall look forward to a demonstration of some of these talents then. Perhaps you will sing for me later? I should like to know what gifts, aside from your looks and your lineage, you will pass down to our future offspring.”

Caught mid-sip, Morpheus almost spits out his wine. “I beg your pardon, sir?’ he manages. ‘I think I may have misheard.”

“You misheard nothing,” Burgess says brusquely. He is speaking quietly, thank goodness, so no one else on the table is privy to this… inappropriate conversation. “I think we would do well together, you and I. Could be a good team- your connections and my business acumen. You could help me build a worthwhile legacy; and provide the pups to continue it, of course.”

“Heavens,” Dream says, hoping he is keeping his face as neutral as he thinks he is. It would not do to show that shock and frank distaste he feels at such a future. He is not often at a loss for words, but he almost is here. “Is this a proposal?”

“I will speak to your father,” Burgess leans back, looking satisfied. “And then it will be.”

Dream decides a change of subject is in order. Sir Roderick is plainly spoken indeed; Dream wishes he could be so plainly spoken in his rebuff but alas, pretty words bandied about will have to do. He clears his throat.

“Mama tells me you’re in newspapers, Sir Roderick?”

“Well, I own a few.” Burgess barks a laugh.

“That must be quite a responsibility at a time like this. In a war, I mean. When it's so important to keep people's spirits up.”

“Lord Morpheus, my responsibility is to my investors,” Burgess scoffs, and takes a long drink of his recently refilled wine glass, before fixing Morpheus with that auger-like stare again. “I need to keep my readership up. I leave the public spirits to government propaganda.”

Sir Roderick does not mention marriage again for the rest of the meal.

And from his thunderous look when he and the rest of the alphas reappear from their after dinner smoke, his overtures to Morpheus’s father had gone just as Morpheus had predicted.

Morpheus hides his smile in glass and turns away. What a terrible shame.

—-

“He said what?” Hob says gleefully, when Morpheus recounts the story to him the next day. “And did you really quote Pride and Prejudice?”

“I could not help myself. It was so apposite.”

“Oh Dream, I do so wish I could be a fly on the wall at some of your dinner parties.”

“You do not,” Morpheus says drily. “They are deadly dull. You’d either die or boredom or die from anger over some of the things my parents say.”

“Well you make them sound interesting, at least.”

“Perhaps I have a talent for narrative,” Dream says airly, and Hob laughs, bumping his shoulder gently as they walk. Dream’s stomach swoops.

“Perhaps you do, at that.”

Dreamling Abbey

My fic for the @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang !!

No lie, guys: I decided to do this after coming out of a heart scan at the hospital on the sign up deadline. The thinking being: I could have a dicky ticker here, why not try something new? And this was perfect because if there's one thing I know about myself, it's that I need a deadline.

And so here we are.

I am MOST affronted by how hard this was?! And how bloody long it took me (mostly because I spent a lot of time staring into space or relentlessly googling 'did they have xyz in Edwardian England) All you wonderful, talented writers have made it look so easy that all that effort came as somewhat of a shock. Honestly, I am deeply saddened that the copious amount of Dreamling fic I have voraciously consumed in the past 18 months has not magically made a fantastic author out of me. Why does osmosis not work for writing?

If you read, I hope you enjoy!

(The ticker's fine, by the way. Not dicky at all.)

Art by the fabulous @lalaithquetzallicaresi Thanks for squeezing me in there, lovely! ❤

Pairing: Dream/Hob

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 50k

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con elements

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Downton Abbey Fusion, look it's Downton Abbey but Dreamling omegaverse. Sorta. If you squint, I'm not sure Julian Fellowes would approve, If you haven't seen Downton it definitely won't matter, because I've unashamedly just stolen bits and pieces and thrown the rest to the wind, Attempted Sexual Assault, Rape/Non-con Elements, Non-Consensual Kissing, Pining, period typical attitudes to gender. If you reframe gender to include alpha beta omega dynamics, omega rights paralleling the suffragette movement in England, Minor Violence, lots of vague references to classic cars, mention of unethical medical procedures, Time and Night are bad parents, Omega Dream of the Endless, Alpha Hob Gadling, Hob Gadling Loves Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Dream of the Endless│Morpheus Needs a Hug, Unbeta'd

Read chapter 1 on ao3

Fic Summary: Lord Morpheus is the eldest child of the Earl and Countess of Endless, an ancient family hiding huge debts behind a fine name. As an omega, Morpheus cannot inherit his father's title or the family's ancestral home. His function is simple: secure a match that is both socially advantageous and financially viable, thus securing the future of the estate and the title of Earl of Endless for his offspring. The family believe that their troubles are solved when Morpheus dutifully (if reluctantly) becomes engaged to his wealthy cousin, Patrick. However, all their carefully laid plans are thrown into chaos when Patrick drowns on the ill-fated Titianic.

Now Morpheus is navigating treacherous waters of his own and discovering how tight the ties of family loyalty bind him. Will the charming and handsome Duke of Crowborough prove his saviour? Or will the wealthy yet odious Sir Roderick Burgess ensnare Morpheus in plans of his own?

Meanwhile, the family’s new chauffeur, one Robert Gadling, is muddying the waters of Morpheus’s existence even further- where is the line between a servant and a friend? Can Hob help Morpheus see that life exists beyond the confines of family and function?

Chapters below the cuts and in subsequent reblogs, should you wish to read it here on tumblr.

Chapter 1: Complications with the Great Matter.

April 1912.

The papers had been late this morning. Not that Morpheus notices their tardiness. Serious daily newspapers are the preserve of his father and since Morpheus has little interest in the society gossip that proliferated on the pages of The Daily Sketch, the only periodical he is allowed in his room, he rarely bothers to glance at it. However, the large photograph blazing across the front page is so arresting that he finds his eyes drawn to it immediately, ignoring all else on his vanity to take the paper and read. It is bad news of course, the papers rarely print anything but. ‘DISASTER TO TITANIC ON HER MAIDEN VOYAGE’ boldly proclaims the headline, beneath which is black and white image of the doomed liner, adjoined by one of her seemingly also doomed captain, John Smith. Morpheus’s eyebrows draw down as he reads the brief article: so many presumed dead, so few saved. They would know people, of course. His mother knew the Astors, and they had dined with Lady Rothes only last month. Still, the privilege of first class likely meant they would be amongst the survivors. Those below decks… on their way to a better life, well they would not have been so fortunate. What a tragedy, Morpheus sighs and closes the paper. This news rather put his own woes into perspective-

The door bangs open and Desire flounces in without so much as a by your leave, as is their way.

“Dream!” they shout without preamble, then glance at the newspaper in his hands with a slight moue of disappointment. Being the bearer of bad news is something Desire takes a measure of delight in, “Oh, you’ve seen already, Huh,” They shake their head, before bending over Morpheus to look more closely at his paper, hand gripping his shoulder. This close, the smell of the perfume Desire favours- a rich and spicy aroma deliberately chosen to overwhelm their natural omega scent- makes him wrinkle his nose and move his head away. Desire’s fingers tighten on his shoulder and they huff in amusement. They are not strictly allowed to wear perfumes but Desire goes their own way with everything. “When Jessamy told me, I thought she must have dreamt it!” Desire continues in a low tone, meeting Morpheus’s eyes in the mirror. “To think, we were just talking about that ship the other week. Remember how excited old Lucy Rothes was? Supposed to be unsinkable- ha!”

“Every mountain is unclimbable until they climb, so every ship is unsinkable until it sinks,” Morpheus responds neutrally, putting the paper down and shrugging Desire’s hand off to stand. Desire moves with him, smoothing their hands over the non-existent wrinkles on the shoulder of his jacket before adjusting his already meticulously placed tie pin. Morpheus endures the attention for a moment before once again moving away. He does not enjoy this close scrutiny and Desire knows it, but it is always a delight of theirs to make him feel uncomfortable.

“Hm” Desire hums then shrugs, “Come on, now you’re all sorted, lets go to breakfast. Aponoia said she saw the telegram boy come by. I want to find out if there’s any more news. Won’t it be something if someone truly important drowned? Gossip for weeks.”

***

The papers always print bad news. Of course they do. But that news is viewed through a detached lens. Shocking, of course, but not too close to home. Telegrams though- that’s different. They take that news and make it personal.

Breakfast had proven to be a fraught affair. Their father had been away from the room when they first arrived, speaking with their mother so they were to learn, but he had soon been back and imparted the news of their family’s misfortune to his children with unusual brevity. Then he had left without saying anything further, leaving the three of them to process the news alone: the news that Patrick Endless, their wealthy cousin and Morpheus’s fiance, had been aboard the Titanic with his father, James and neither were listed among the names of the survivors. Morpheus had not felt like eating further and had removed himself back to his rooms with his siblings following uninvited (though not strictly unwanted). He had wanted to think but he also knew the danger of getting lost so deeply in his mind, so Desire’s sniping and Aponoia’s quiet presence would be… grounding.

The stupid thing was that Patrick was not even meant to be on that cursed ship; he and his father weren’t expected in New York until May. Why? He thought Why did they go? And without saying anything? Perhaps Patrick had planned to telegram from New York- a boast and a surprise.

“Turns out that the lure of the Titanic’s maiden voyage was too strong.” Desire says as if reading his mind, and with a hint of mischief in their golden eyes. They lounge dramatically against the doorframe whilst Morpheus stands and stares out of his window, gazing at the grounds below. It all looks so quiet, so normal. Why doesn’t he feel sad? Desire continues, “They wanted to be part of history and now they are history.”

“Desire,” Morpheus chides half heartedly. It is a crass statement but he can’t find it in himself to react more strongly. Maybe they are looking for a reaction from him, or maybe this is now how his sibling processes strong emotions. It certainly seems in character. Aponoia has not yet spoken. She just sits unmoving, staring vacantly ahead, toying with the ring on her finger, turning it over and over. He himself feels oddly disconnected from the news. How is one meant to react upon learning that their intended had been so suddenly and shockingly killed- drowned in the icy waters of the North Atlantic, their frozen corpse not even recovered, just left to sink and rot in the sea. Dream blinks slowly, probably not like this, he thinks vaguely. He feels there should be some weeping and wailing involved at the very least.

But there is only numbness.

***

“Uh, I detest black,” Desire flounces into the room the next morning whilst Morpheus is busy writing in his journal. He enjoys writing, it helps to order his often scattered and rebellious thoughts.

Jessamy, the maid he shares with his siblings, has just finished fixing his hair and is busily setting his bed to rights, plumping the pillows and smoothing the coverlets. Desire regards themself critically in Morpheus’ tall mirror, turning this way and that. Aponoia trails after them silently. She is also dressed in black and it makes her look even more wan and washed out than usual. As for Desire, their outfit may have been the requisite black, but it still looked to Morpheus to be sufficiently rakish as to raise their parents’ blood pressure. Hardly proper mourning material. “At least going into mourning won’t ruin your aesthetic, Dream dear,” Desire stretches languidly and collapses back on the just-made bed, smiling thinly. “Always a silver lining somewhere.”

“Full mourning still seems a lot for a cousin,” Morpheus replies vaguely. He tries to pay little attention to his siblings, bent over his journal and writing quickly. The habit of diary writing was born of necessity: a strategy to help quiet his mind, he’d been told, but now it is a pleasure.

“But not for a fiance,” Aponoia’s voice is quiet. There is no accusation in her tone, only the retelling of fact.

Morpheus huffs slightly. “He was not really a fiance.”

“No? I thought that was what you call a man you’re going to marry?”

“I was only going to marry him if nothing better turned up,” he turns the page and continues writing.

“Morpheus! What a dreadful thing to say!” Desire looks simply delighted. “Poor dear Patrick was absolutely besotted with you. It was quite pathetic to witness really- your indifference and his lovelorn obsessiveness,” they shudder theatrically. “Perhaps it’s a good thing he drowned; saved him from a miserable life with you as husband.”

“You dare suggest I would have been a poor husband to him?” Morpheus demands, slamming his diary closed and rounding on his sibling. Desire shrugs insouciantly, fiddling with a diamond earring.

‘“Well you didn’t love him. Barely liked him. And he wasn’t the cleverest where you were concerned, but he would have seen it sooner or later, and hated you for it. Of course, I could wish an unhappy marriage upon you, dearest brother. But Patrick? He deserved better.”

‘Better?’ Morpheus raises his eyebrows. Desire’s words were often full of spite towards him but this was such a quick switch around from mocking Patrick to defending him. Was there something here he had never seen? Never bothered to look for, in truth. “You would have considered yourself a better prospect, my sibling? Taken what I would have discarded?” He raises his eyebrows in challenge and they glare at each other for a moment, then Desire drops their gaze.

‘Yes,’ they say softly, vulnerability etching their features momentarily. “Would that I were eldest and not… as I am. Then I would have taken him like a shot.”

They stand, shields quickly going back up. “Well,” they sniff pointedly, looking away from Morpheus and towards the door, “It’s not so bad I suppose. Mama says we can go into half mourning next month, then full colour by September. A shame we have to spend the summer so drab- and miss the season down in London!- but at least we’ll be ready for shooting parties in the autumn. Come on Appy, let’s leave his lordship alone. He clearly craves solitude. To think,” they sneer, “and write in his stupid diary.” They flow out the room without a backwards glance, Aponoia dutifully trailing in their wake.

Morpheus sighs and turns back to his journal, opening it and staring at the blank page but not picking his pen back up. Desire and Patrick… not that he thought Patrick had returned any sort of affection to his younger sibling but still, had he really been so blind?

“I was so terribly sorry to hear the news, my lord,” Jessamy offers quietly into the silence of the room as she finishes adjusting his bed again. “You say these things but I know you are sad. Whatever you say.” “You are a dear,” Morpheus murmurs. “But I do not feel as badly as I should. I do not really know… what I feel.” That is probably a bad reflection upon me, he thinks. The truth was that beyond the normal amount of grief that came with the sudden and untimely passing of an acquaintance, Dream felt nothing. Patrick had hardly been a grand passion. They had known each other since childhood but had been thrown together through circumstance rather than any actual attraction and they had barely anything in common. So no, he was not as sad as he should be and that was what was really making him sad. This marriage would have been a thing of duty. Their family was old, old enough indeed to have had plenty of time to rack up considerable debts. A lack of money hidden behind a fine name. Morpheus’ marriage to Patrick would have secured the estate’s future, shored up its ailing finances and kept the title very much in the family. As an omega, Morpheus would never have been able to inherit his father’s title but his children could, if they were alphas. And now, there was no marriage, no money and a very uncertain future ahead of them. Morpheus’s one duty, his one function in society, was to secure a good match and that duty lay so heavily upon his shoulders. If only Olly had stayed- but no, there was no use in dealing in ‘if onlies’. Practicalities only, and practicalities meant marriage. And soon.

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ilalos · 3 years ago

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Worth it (Anthony Bridgerton x reader) Part 2/2

Summary: Your arranged marriage to Anthony seems fine, until it doesn’t.

Warnings: marriage, implied sex, angst-ish, fluff, pregnancy, crying, if you notice anything else let me know :)

Word count: 2.5k

The season passed in a blur with countless flowers and conversations that filled you with expectations about your marriage to the Viscount, you truly felt like love was around the corner for both of you and it was a matter of time for that corner to be turned. He was everything you had expected and more, you could tell he was wary about letting you in but didn’t want to push him so you let him open himself to you at his own pace. The had been some stolen looks, kisses on your knuckles that had lasted a little longer than they should and hand a bit lower than what was acceptable when you danced. To say the courting had been successful was the understatement of the season in your opinion, by the time the wedding day came you were counting down the minutes before you finally became Lady (y/n) Bridgeton.

Your wedding ceremony was short and the carriage ride to Anthony’s bachelor townhouse was even shorter. The wedding night had come with a surprisingly low amount of events, your virginity had been taken the sweetest of ways, with many kisses and whispered promises of pleasure that came true. By the end of the day, you were as happy as can be, laying on your husband's chest, feeling his heartbeat slowing down and smelling the sweet vanilla scent of his skin.

When you woke up the next morning the bed was empty and he had already left to work in his study back in the main Bridgerton home. He didn’t return until late in the evening and you were waiting for him so you could have dinner together.

“Thank you for waiting for me,” he said while taking a sip of his wine.

“It’s nothing, I like that we are finally spending some time together”

Anthony just nodded and continued eating in silence.

“How was your day?” You pushed for conversation, you had been alone all day and could really use some conversation with someone different than your maid, who was terrified of speaking freely.

“It was busy” he answered simply “how was your day?” He asked after seeing the face you made at his short answer.

“It was also very busy, I reorganized the books in the library, had the kitchen staff do an inventory on the pantry, and send the maids to the market to get some flowers for the table tops” you narrated proudly, hoping he might appreciate the way you ran the home.

“Good to see you’re settling in, darling” his small praise made you smile a little.

“You don’t mind that I changed some things?” You asked somewhat concerned by his silence.

“It is your home, you’re free to do whatever you please with it,” he said dismissively.

“It’s our home, Anthony, I want to make it perfect for you too”

After dinner, he walked you to the bedroom and after a couple of heated kisses you fell in his arms once again, the pleasure he gave you was addictive. Despite his cold attitude towards you in other aspects of your life, it was in the bedroom where you felt hopeful for a future where you both might learn to truly love each other, and then he would sneak out every morning making you feel like a worthless whore.

And so your days continued like this, every night was filled with passion and every day was lonely. You couldn’t even go to the Bridgerton home, you had been taught that a married lady was not to go out without her husband, so your heart slowly filled with sadness as you spent day after day alone in the townhouse. Anthony was none the wiser because he simply thought you enjoyed being by yourself, so it never occurred to him to invite you to his family’s home or anywhere else.

A month into your marriage you found out you were with child. You were extremely happy and Anthony had shown himself to be happy as well, but then that night he didn’t come home for dinner and didn’t make an appearance in your bedroom. He was more and more distant until four months had passed and he disappeared for two full weeks before you saw him again.

It was on the day of your birthday, and he had only gone to your room because the butler told him you had been very sick that day. When he entered the room he found you seating on the bed hugging your knees close to your chest, your eyes puffy from crying and silent tears still streaming down your face. You weren’t upset he had forgotten your birthday, you had never celebrated it so it didn’t matter he didn’t remember it.

“What happened? Is everything well? Is the baby-“

“Your child is quite well, Lord Bridgerton” you interrupted in the coldest tone he had ever heard from you “to what do I owe this joyous visit?”

“I apologize for my absence, I have been very busy” he answered measly.

“I figured out that much, husband” the word was said with venom.

“Are you upset with me?” He asked offended, you had never treated him so coldly.

“I am upset with myself” you started with a pained chuckle “I don’t need you to try and comfort me because you did nothing wrong, that is the reason for my anger” a small sob escaped your lips “I was taught to be a good wife, that my only job was to give my husband heirs and to keep the house running and I understood that and I didn’t fight it because at least I would have children to fill my life with love and a husband who at the very least would acknowledge me and my efforts”

“I-“

“I don’t want you to feel like you should change or apologize, this is not your fault, I feel miserable because I filled my heart with hopes and dreams of love but that’s just not how life is, at least not mine” you harshly wiped your eyes before finishing “I understand my place now, I’m nothing but a child-bearer for you and that’s fine because you didn’t even pick me in the first place” you got up from bed and opened the door for him “please leave me alone, I will be fine”

“I can’t just leave you here alone, have you even eaten today? In your condition-“

“Your child is perfectly well, my lord” your tone had turned icy once again “please go, I am tired and want to rest”

Unable to do anything else, Anthony left the room and went back to his family’s home. His mother had insisted for him to take you there that night, but seeing your state he didn’t even bother asking if you wanted to go. When he got there he was surprised to see the dining room fully decorated, his whole family dressed in their best clothes, even Daphne and Simon had paid a visit.

“Where is (y/n)?” Asked Violet.

“She’s not feeling very well” answered Anthony looking at the table that was filled with all his wife’s favorite food “What is happening? Why are you all here dressed as if you are attending a ball?”

“Anthony, please for the love of God almighty, tell me you didn’t forget your wife’s birthday!” Violet couldn’t keep his composure, how could Anthony be so clueless.

“I-I’ve been so busy lately supervising the building of the new house, it didn’t even occur to me that it was her birthday” Anthony felt terrible, as he should.

“It’s bad enough she doesn’t like us, son” Violet sighed, seating on the table “And now she thinks we don’t care for her birthday”

“Where did you get that idea, mother?” Daphne couldn’t help but ask “When she writes to us she says wonderful things about our family”

“Then why hasn’t she visited since the wedding?” This time it was Colin asking “Mother sent a tea invitation shortly after they got married and she never showed up, sent a poor letter apologizing but did not explain why she didn’t show”

“I might have an explanation for that” Simon spoke up “My aunt was a terribly strict mother, taught her that a wife was nothing more than a child-bearer and had no liberties like men do, for example: going out unaccompanied”

“Has she been out of the house since you married, brother?” asked Eloise, turning to face Anthony who was still frozen at the doorstep.

“I don’t believe so” he entered the room and sat defeated “I just thought she enjoyed being at home by herself, god!” he rubbed his hands down his face.

“I can’t believe it, the poor thing” lamented Violet.

“She hasn’t left the house in almost half a year” concluded Benedict.

“And here we were, refusing to visit thinking she had rejected mother,” said Colin.

“I would like to clarify, I never agreed with losing contact with her over one missed invitation” added Eloise, gaining the glares of everyone present.

“It matters not what we thought nor does it matter what has happened in the past” began Violet “right now I want you to go pick her up and bring her here, she deserves to be celebrated, especially after everything we put her through,” she told her eldest child, pushing him to stand and go to the door.

Anthony mounted the carriage and urged the coachman to hurry home and as soon as he got there he ran up the stairs to your room and burst through the door, jolting you awake.

“I am so sorry, love,” ha said kneeling on your bedside “I never knew you didn’t leave the house because you thought you couldn’t, you are free to do as you please, darling” he grabbed your hand and kissed your knuckles “I didn’t mean to make you feel trapped in your own home, and I am sorry if you felt like I abandoned you” he caressed your face and wiped some tears that had fallen without your notice.

“You did abandon us,” you said, trying to pull your hand from his grasp with your other hand protecting your belly.

“I was merely supervising the building of our new home, I was hoping I could surprise you before the baby arrived” he explained, now seating by your side “I can’t possibly ask my family to leave their home but I know how much you love that house, and so I chose to build a similar one not too far from here”

“You are building me a house?” You asked incredulously, hardly anything could justify his absence but this was in fact a reasonable explanation.

“Yes, love” he once again caressed your face “A home for our family” at that your eyes filled with tears, this time from happiness.

You sat up and wrapped your arms around his neck, crying with your face buried in his shirt. He wrapped his arms around you, kissing the top of your head and shushing you softly to calm down your cries. You spent a while holding each other until he suddenly broke you two apart, remembering his family that was still waiting for you both to show up.

“My beautiful wife, I must take you out of the comforts of your bed” he began, apologetic “My family is expecting you in their home to celebrate your birthday with a lavish dinner”

“Heavens! You should’ve started with that” you ran to your door and called out for your maid “I don’t think I have a dress for such occasion, non that would fit me now, that’s certain”

You opened your trunk and began taking out your chemise and all other items you had to wear under your dress in such cold weather. You took off your nightgown not caring Anthony was there, he had seen it all before, after you had put on your chemise your maid ran in and help you put on the rest of your garments and helped you squeeze your small baby bump in the dress you had worn for one of the first balls you attended when Anthony was courting you. She put your hair in a quick updo and even managed to coerce Anthony into putting on your stockings and your shoes while she did your hair. With all that rush and hard work, you managed to be ready in under an hour and still made it to the dinner at a reasonable hour (half past 9 is reasonable, right?).

At the Bridgerton home, you were welcomed with warm embraces and merry wishes on your special day. You all sat around the table and ate the feast that had sadly grown cold. Colin didn’t seem to mind as he devoured everything in sight, prompting Violet to chastise him softly. You, however, ate small bites because the pregnancy had caused your stomach to be upset easily and you didn’t wish to offend anyone by running out of the room to empty your stomach. Anthony watched you eat and held your hand atop the table, smiling as he watched you laugh and converse with his family.

“Is the food not good enough?” Asked Violet seeing your plate almost full.

“It is just perfect, my stomach has just been iffy since the start of the pregnancy” you answered smiling apologetically, Anthony choked on his wine because he realized at that very moment that he had forgotten to tell his family about your condition.

“You’re with child? Those are wonderful news!” Exclaimed Violet with a large smile “When did you found out?”

“Four months ago” you turned to glare at Anthony “I assumed your son had told you”

“How could you conceal such joyous information from your mother?” Violet then noticed her eldest daughter had become quiet, as well as her husband “Did you know, Daphne?”

“I was aware of it, yes” Daphne admitted ashamed “I too assumed Anthony had told you”

“You assumed my eldest son had told me about his wife’s pregnancy and I had decided not to mention any of it in our letters?”

“I-I’m, yes?” Benedict and Colin snorted with laughter hearing their sister’s answer.

Violet only shook her head with a small smile, her children were truly a wonder. Anthony was nervous that you’d get mad at him for not telling them, but one look at your laughing face told him he didn’t need to worry.

Later that evening you both laid in bed after yet another passion-filled encounter, your breathing slow and even making Anthony think you were asleep. He was caressing your naked back with feather-like touches, kissing your sweaty forehead every few minutes.

“I love you” you sighed, kissing his chest “You need not feel the same, I just want you to know how I feel”

He took a shaky breath before answering.

“I also am in love with you, darling” he placed a finger under your chin and tilted your head so you’d look at him “sometimes I’m scared of just how much I love you” he kissed you slow and deep, pouring all his love into the action.

The kiss was unlike any other you had shared before, this one was full of promise and hope. It filled you with love and certainty, you were now sure that no matter how difficult the road to Anthony’s heart had been, even if you didn’t want it at first, it had all been worth it.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Hi! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. If you like it let me know.

Tag list:

@alaizaaa02

@awesomebooklover17

#anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x you #my writing #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton

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theofficialstereklibrary · 4 years ago

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different communications - sterek edition

so I’ve been stuck in my house for a year now and it’s weird to not communicate with people in a different way than before. mostly thro social media, texting & video calls. so heres some other forms of communications in sterek fics. enjoy & be safe <3

letter writing tag:

Just to See You Again by MellytheHun (9/9 | 14,950 | NC17)

A sterek college!AU where writing student Stiles specializes in love letters, runs a blog about it and can be commissioned to write love letters on behalf of lovers who are at a loss for words.

He makes some cash, he’s good at what he does (especially when he gets to be a little more explicit in his letters), it pays for his textbooks and that’s all he’s really looking for and life is fine. That is, until someone anonymously commissions him to write a love letter to mathematics student, Derek Hale.

With Warmest Regards (Affectionately Yours) by asocialfauxpas (fuzzytomato) (1/1 | 5,920 | R)

House Hale and House Stilinski form an alliance through the betrothal of Prince Derek and Prince Stiles. Having only met once before, they write letters to get to know one another.

You've Got Notes by the_gramophone (1/1 | 14,817 | R)

Stiles Stilinski has wanted star basketball player Derek Hale forever, but what are the odds of that ever happening? A love story of letters, prom, and the healing power of milkshakes.

Lovely Penmanship by DLanaDHZ (31/31 | 110,743 | NC17)

To use a scribe to write your letters is a sign of privilege. To be a scribe is... mildly better than a servant. When Stiles, scribe to Lady Kate Argent, is instructed to write a love letter to Lord Derek Hale in her stead, he has no idea just how far from plan things will go. He has no idea that this series of letters will begin a secret affair under the noses of his employers, will lead to him discovering the truth about his past family tragedy, and will make his head spin for both good and bad reasons. All he knows is 'Dear Derek' has some very lovely penmanship.

texting tag:

my heart's been offline by thepsychicclam (1/1 | 58,893 | NC17)

31/M/New York. Rich, lays in bed all day, likes to read (aka Derek Hale, son of an Oscar winning actress, brother of one obnoxious reality star and one rebellious fashion designer, hates the paparazzi so much he's a recluse)

26/M/California. Boring office job, likes to read (aka Stiles Stilinski, co-owner of a 100 acre organic farm with his dad and two best friends, writer of obits for a newspaper, has absolutely no life)

Or, where Derek and Stiles meet online, and Stiles has no clue Derek's part of a famous family.

New Flavour, Sweet Finish by SylvieW (1/1 | 3,248 | R)

Stiles’ Grandmother gives his number to a stranger at a coffee shop.

The Right Number by kyaticlikestea (8/8 | 30,379 | PG13)

When Stiles Stilinski's phone gets switched at the gym, he really just wants it back. The last thing he's expecting is to fall hopelessly in lust with the guy who's got his phone.

So, of course, that's exactly what happens.

A sudden simple twist of fate by heydoeydoey (1/1 | 14,506 | PG13)

Stiles still has Derek's number saved in his phone, and he tells himself he's going to delete it, but he doesn't. Instead, he sends Derek a text. Okay, four texts.

online/phone calls:

Letters by ericaismeg (1/1 | 8,924 | G)

“Stiles, this is getting ridiculous. Can you please do something about it?” Lydia demands. “Do anything. I don’t care. Go up and kiss him, ask him to prom this year, write him secret admirer love letters, whatever. Just do something.”

***

OR: The one where Lydia sets up an email account for Stiles to "confess his love" for Derek. And as fate would have it, they also end up becoming friends in person at the same time.

I Settle for Long Distance Calls by iamursforevrmre (1/1 | 4,369 | G)

Derek is the guy who Stiles met on some random band page on MySpace because Derek made a ridiculously hilarious comment and with a spurt of confidence, Stiles had messaged him to tell him just how hilarious it was and they got to talking. Derek is the guy that made a FaceBook account just to talk to Stiles on the messenger so they could talk more when MySpace was slowly dying out. Derek is the guy that changed his text message plan to unlimited when he finally sent Stiles his cell phone number. Derek is the guy that has been on the phone with Stiles at any and all hours through the day.

And Derek is the guy that Stiles is in love with.

Getting to Know You by Inell (1/1 | 8,402 | NC17)

Derek is back in Oregon temporarily, but he and Stiles still take time out of their busy lives to try to get to know each other a little bit better.

i want to say all those things that would be better unsaid by aeneapsych (1/1 | 24,552 | NC17)

Derek is a lonely professor who decides to call a phone sex line.

Stiles is a poor grad student who needs to make a living somehow.

"One night stands were never this good. Hell, his previous relationships were never this good. Derek was so screwed, but right now he didn't care."

Wrong Number by greenleaf (1/1 | 9,833 | PG13)

Even wrong numbers can get it right sometimes.

...Or one where Stiles dials the wrong number and keeps forgetting to change it, while Derek ends up going along for the ride and sees Stiles four times before Stiles meets him.

#recs #letters #texting #online relationship #online #no prompts on this one #ive just been enjoying this trope as of late #and sharing is caring

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years ago

Text

By the king’s hand 🐍 XIV

Warnings: dubcon/noncon/rape

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You try to adjust to life back at the palace.

Note: Let me say this is torture to write sitting with my bf because I wanna jump his bones but whatever. Anyways, this chapter is kinda just porn but you know we have some plot coming so enjoy while you can hahah.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Loki was reluctant to leave you and when he did, he left Hal in his stead. It wasn’t subtle. The boy watched you with his bright eyes and every time you stood and paced the room, he asked if you were well. It was rather irritating even if the boy meant well.

You sighed and dropped onto the chaise. You looked around the chambers and hunched forward as you held your face in your hands. Finally settled, as much as you could be, you were restless and you dared to admit it, bored. Hal sat in the armchair and held the same book he’d had in the carriage. You tilted your head as you admired the worn spine.

“Is there nothing I am allowed to keep me from going mad from this tedium?” You asked.

Hal looked up and blinked. He closed his book and rested it on his leg. “Can I ask you a question?” He wondered. You squinted but nodded. “You, by your own words, are a peasant. How come you speak so well?”

You shifted. You hadn’t expected that. You were unused to talking about yourself or thinking about your former life. It was so distant it felt as if it had never been yours.

“My uncle,” you said softly. “I worked in his pottery shop. We never made anything fancy, nothing for any noble patron, but when he was an apprentice, he was employed by a jeweler. Peasants don’t buy jewels. My uncle always said that a merchant should speak all languages, high and low, if he is to be successful, so he always reminded me to enunciate and use big words.” You scoffed and almost laughed at the thought, “Seems ridiculous now. He never made a pot for anything more than a modest holy man, and you know it is unseemly to accept coin from one anointed by the gods.”

“You made pots?”

“And chests, and plates, bowls, cups. We used clay, wood, we even worked some glass.” You explained. “My uncle’s wife died before he could have a child and my mother left me with him before she ran out.”

“And your father?” Hal leaned forward and winced at his own words. “My apologies, I shouldn’t--”

“My mother never married him proper.” You shrugged. “So I suppose, I’m a bastard too.” You touched your stomach. “Only entirely common.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“You don’t have to be sorry.” You let yourself smile, “You’re the first in this godforsaken place who’s even asked about me. No one else cares what I’ve done, only what I can do for them.”

There was a pause as Hal flipped the cover of the book open and closed. His cheeks coloured, as they often did when he was thinking. “If you are bored, you might read?”

“Read?” You laughed, this time aloud. “Peasants don’t read. We can keep a ledger of debts but letters, those are beyond us.”

He was embarrassed. His whole face turned red and his blue eyes rounded. “Well, I… I don’t-- I didn’t--” He cleared his throat, “I could… teach you?”

You almost laughed again. You were kept from it as a knot formed in your chest. It was a kindness you hadn’t known in your time at the palace. Sure, the king had brought you charcoal and paper, but he didn’t care that you couldn’t draw. Aside from that, he expected you to wait around until he required your service.

You were suddenly overcome. You felt as if you would weep and quickly blotted your eyes with your sleeves. You sniffed back the threatening deluge and sat up. “You would teach me?”

“If I can,” he said meekly, “I’ve never taught anyone but I could try.” He stood and set aside the book. “Would you want to?”

“I think… but what is there to read?” You asked. “I always just thought books looked so...complicated.”

“Oh, there are wonderful stories,” he chimed, “Of princesses and knights and kings and queens.” He went to the writing desk in the corner and shuffled through the loose leafs, “Even stories of commoners; of the poor out in the cold and the lowly soldier marching with his liege.”

He turned with a handful of untouched parchment and an inkwell in hand. He set it on the table and retrieved two pens from the desk drawer. He pulled a chair away from the table and looked to you.

“My lady,” he said.

“I told you, that is not my title.” You rose slowly and groaned as your hips ached.

“May I call you it anyway?” He asked. “I think it fits you.”

You chuckled at him and patted his shoulder as you sat in the stiff-backed seat. “If you must.”

“Well,” he sat and placed a pen in front of you, “I think it is best to start by writing out the letters. That is how I began.”

“Alright,” you took the pen and rolled it between your fingers. He slid a sheet before you.

“Just repeat as I do and we will go over the sounds of each letter.” He explained, “Don’t forget the ink.” He uncapped the well and shook his head at himself. “Better I am not a tutor. I think the sword might be better held in my hand.”

“Oh, but Hal,” you said, “A knight should have patience and I expect, you’ll need much with me.”

🐍

Your lesson was long and frustrating. Hal seemed much wiser than you as he assured you that you must be twice his age and so it might take longer for you to catch on. It did not help as you only felt even duller. The boy was patient, to a fault, even, as finally you drew out your entire alphabet and named all the letters by heart. He advised that you looked them over often and repeat them when you could until the next lesson.

He shuffled up the parchment and cleaned the pens. He tucked it all away in the broad drawer as you moved to the chaise and reclined as your lower back rang with pain. He snapped it shut and resumed the armchair.

“The king writes in his solar often,” Hal said, “So you might assume that desk in his absence.”

“Is that what he does when he is away?” You rubbed your stomach pensively.

“He reads, he writes, he meets his council and gives his decrees,” Hal said, “He is a king who keeps himself busy.”

“You would think he’d long for solace when he is not at his duty,” you sighed.

“I think a king is often lonely in his own way. His nobles only expect favours of him and he cannot meet any on even ground.” Hal mulled. “Perhaps, he might feel as you do; that they do not ask after him, only what he can give them.”

“Hmm,” you hummed. How much did Loki give to any? It seemed as if he only took. “Perhaps from his eye.” You tapped your fingers on a wrinkle in your gown. “How long have you served the king?”

“Since I was only eight years.” Hal said. “My father is an earl and Odin saw fit that I take service in the palace for my education. His own son needed an attendant. The king, a prince at the time, did think me too young.” He chuckled to himself, “He said I was as sweet as a maid and I would make a poor lord.”

“That isn’t very kind,” you huffed.

“Ah, but the king is only one who needs proof of one’s worth. He did see my loyalty and my diligence. He has kept me on and has made me squire. I cannot be more grateful.” Hal expounded, “When my training begins, I will no longer be expected to feed or dress him.”

“Oh,” you said glumly, “And when does he intend on that?”

“In the spring, when he is wed,” he answered, “When the snow has melted and the yards are not so treacherous.”

You were quiet. You sat up and turned your legs over the edge of the chaise. You leaned on the low arm and kept a pillow under your elbow.

“You will see me still, my lady,” he said, “I promise that.”

“No, I don’t think I will. I will be round and ready to burst by then and you will have a new duty.” You picked at the edge of the cushion, “And the king will have his wife. I think I mightn’t be here then.”

“Where would you be?” He asked.

“I don’t know. Hidden away so that the king’s shame cannot be known,” you shrugged, “What should a wife, a princess, think if her husband does keep another in his bed?”

Hal reddened and you almost giggled at his embarrassment, not thinking before you spoke.

“I’m sorry,” you looked down.

“No, it is only… I am almost a man, I know of these things,” he insisted, “It is only, well, I cannot think of how he should have both.” He twiddled his fingers. “It makes me sad to think he might have to be rid of you. To think that things can change so quickly.”

“So is life,” you threw your hand up, “Nothing ever stays as it was.”

“I suppose,” Hal swallowed and opened his book, “But I would not dwell on it.” He flipped through the pages, “I’d rather enjoy things as they are now.”

You peeked over at the boy. As you watched him put his eyes to the page, you felt a bittersweet churning inside. He was so young, you recalled yourself at his age. You’d never been one for dreams or whimsical aspiration. Your uncle called you his little miser as you always saw the worst in the best. Life had yet to dispel your pessimism.

As he turned the page, another peculiar pang settled in you. You thought of your child and who they should be. You hoped they did not inherit your acrid gloom or their father’s malice. You hoped they were like the boy before you. You hoped you could give them dreams you never had. You hoped, you hoped, you hoped…

The door kept you from drifting further into your fears. You looked up as Loki entered and dusted the last of the melting snow from his shoulder. Hal was on his feet in a second and helped the king out of his damp cloak. You rose in turn, anxious as you bounced on the balls of your feet.

Loki’s pale skin was pinkened with the bite of the cold. He sniffed and bid Hal to fetch him tea. The boy flitted out obediently and left you to greet the king.

Loki rubbed his hands together as he went to the fire and warmed them over the flame. He didn’t look at you as he stared into the flames. “You may sit.” He said, “You should not tax yourself thus.”

You lowered yourself as he leaned on the mantle and brushed his fingers through his dark hair. He was still at his work in his head. You wondered why he’d returned so early as you expected he had much to do.

“I took my lords to arrange Tyr’s Hall for my brother’s arrival,” Loki said, “The snow has brought a tree down and damaged the roof.” He spun and his hands went to his hips. “We will have to relocate to the theatre. It is the only building spacious enough for the council and the jury and judges.” He paced and shook his head, “My father renewed that damned theatre over the courthouse. He always did like his shows. And now I must put my brother on trial as if it is some comedy!”

You watched him. He never spoke so much of his courtly troubles. You weren’t sure what you could offer. You knew little of what he did or could do.

“Ugh,” he stilled himself and held his hands out, “But I did come to clear my mind of these things.” He lowered his head and exhaled. He strode over to you and sat on the chaise next to you. “For all the nonsense, I could but worry for… the child.”

You nodded. “And me? You leave me with the boy so he can keep me from trouble?”

“I leave him as company. You needn’t be alone so much.” He leaned back on his hands and pushed his legs apart. “You don’t like him?”

“No, he is a sweet boy,” you assured him, “But I don’t think it fair to keep him locked up with me.”

“He does as I will,” Loki rolled his eyes, “As you do.”

You clamped your mouth shut. His usual mood had returned. You only suspected it to worsen as his brother’s presence loomed and the trial edged closer.

“Your baker’s daughter did relent, at least,” he sneered, “Another witness for our cause though the word of a common whore will do little against a prince.”

You frowned. You didn’t want to think of Gilla or your visit to the dungeons. It made you shiver and you hugged yourself. He waved his hand in the air and chewed his cheek.

“There I go again,” He turned his head to you, “I did retire for the day and yet I cannot think clearly.”

You hummed. He sat up and rested his hand on his thigh, a tight fist as he shook his head at himself. He stretched out his fingers slowly and reached over to touch your stomach. It seemed to calm him so you let him.

“Your majesty,” you said softly. He looked at you again and drew his other hand from his chin.

“Mouse?” He gave a small nod.

“The child will need something to wear with the boots.” You touched your hips as they reverberated with a sudden pain. You held in a hiss and went on, “I can sew. Perhaps you might allow me a needle and some material to work with.”

“I would have my tailors take care of all that,” he drew a circle with his fingertips before he pulled away from your stomach. “I’ve staff to worry for the details.”

“But… but you leave me here without task. Without anything but a boy and the walls.” You leaned forward to take the weight off your hips. “If I had some work to do, the time might pass easier.”

His brows lowered and he pursed his lips. “I suppose you are right.” He looked up as a knock sounded and he called for Hal to enter. “Thank you, boy.” He pointed to the table and the cup was set down. “You may go and return for our supper.”

“Your majesty,” Hal retreated and the door closed firmly.

“I will have some fabric sent to you on the morrow,” Loki allowed and you squirmed as the settee made your bottom sore. “Would you sit still?”

“Thank you, your majesty,” you hissed and stood as you rubbed your hips, “It is the child. It makes me ache.”

He watched you grip your hips and the tension left his face. His eyes roved up and down your body and he rose. How quickly his mind flew away.

“I might help with that,” he purred.

“I’m not sure that is a solution,” you grumbled.

“Do not presume to know my thoughts,” he warned and grabbed your wrist. “Come. Lay down and I will ease your pain.”

You blinked at him and your doubt drew your lips taught. He snickered and tugged you towards the bedchamber.

“Time does you well.” He said as he drew you through the door behind him, “Your old habits do return to you.”

He was irritating you. The slither in his tone, the knowing, the taunting. He was, as he said of you, as he was before.

“And you haven’t changed at all,” you huffed as he sat you down.

“Did I ever claim it?” He winked and cracked his knuckles, “On your side, mouse.”

“I think I only need to recline for a time,” you argued, “Without bother.”

“Oh, a bother am I?” He arched a brow. He bent and came close enough that his nose tickled yours. “There are ways for me to hurt you without affecting the child. So, let us not tread backward, mouse.”

You couldn’t help how your anger spiked. Your emotions grew more and more erratic. You merely gritted your teeth and lowered yourself down across the bed. He spun his finger to have you turn your back to him and you obeyed if only to hide your spite. The morning felt as if it was long ago.

“Just… relax,” his fingers went to your hip and he kneaded the flesh, “Birger says a woman with child is usually uncomfortable, so let me help and you might not be so fickle.”

“Fickle?” You snipped.

“I could think of another word but let us not venture so far,” he teased.

You moaned in surprise as his touch eased your muscles. You heard his low chuckle in response and you went rigid again. He continued to massage your hip, then your back, and your shoulders. He was quiet and you were uncertain as your body eased and your mind raced.

“Turn over,” he bid and you did without resistance.

His hand was on your other hip as your arm fell back and you closed your eyes. If he was the reason for your tension, he was as good at soothing it. You felt sleepy as he carried on and his fingers danced up your side. He touched your stomach again and crawled upward until he was cupping your breast.

You opened your eyes and he was grinning at the sigh of his hand on your chest. You grabbed his wrist and he shook you off.

“Well, mouse, you’ve got me all stiff now,” he looked to his lap and you sighed. “I say, these are bigger with each day.”

“Ah,” you squeaked as he pinched your nipple through the dress, “And tender!”

“All the better,” he groped you again. “You needn’t do anything but lay there, mouse.”

He nudged you onto your back and you resisted until he pinched you again. He caught your hand before you could strike him and shoved it down beside your head.

“Think of the child,” he cooed as he stood and pushed his knee between your legs. “I thought we had an understanding, mouse.” He brought his other knee down and forced your legs apart. “Birger did say that these activities were beneficial to your condition.”

“Oh, he did?” You wriggled your hand as he pinned your other down and stared down at you.

“And it is not so beneficial for you to work yourself up,” he warned, “So you might calm yourself before you suffer for it.”

“You mean let you have your pleasure.”

“If it entails my pleasure, then I cannot complain,” he released your hands and grabbed your tits again. “Fuck, look at you.”

You squeezed your legs around him but made no move to resist. He’d worked himself into a lust and to resist him might undo all his kindness. As it were, his persistence was not so cruel as before. You could bear it if only for the hope of rest in the end. You could bear it for the life inside you.

“I do not know if I can restrain myself as I did last eve,” he grasped the top of your gown and with effort, tore it open, “But I will try.”

You grunted as he jolted your body as he bared your swollen breast. He bent and took a nipple in his mouth and suckled. It sent a tingle deep into your chest and through your core. You gasped and your hand went to the back of his head. He swirled his tongue around your hardened bud as his fingers played with the other.

He moved to your other breast, a trail of spit between them as he relished the way you squirmed. You couldn’t help it as the pain was laced with a sensation more intense than any you’d felt before. He grabbed the top of the tear already rent in your gown and ripped it further. He dragged his lips down your stomach and growled.

You cursed under your breath. You hated that you felt this way. He pushed your legs up as he nestled between your legs and his warmth spread over your pelvis. He dipped his head down and you flinched as he delved into your folds. You dropped your hand from his hair and he pulled it back impatiently as he buried himself deeper in your cunt.

You bit down as your legs curled over his shoulders, his fingers traced your entrance as his mouth teased your clit. He poked inside and you moaned. He added another finger and worked them in tandem with his tongue. You tangled your fingers in his locks and panted as you covered your face with your other hand.

He kept on until you were writhing and whining. You rocked against his face hungrily and the release swept over you violently. You cried out and locked him between your legs as you rode out your climax.

He slowly withdrew and sat up as he kept your legs against him, resting your feet against his shoulders. He reached to the top of his breeches, hastily snapping the laces and parting the top. He freed his member and angled himself against your cunt.

He prodded you with his tip and slickened his cock with your arousal. Your hand fell to the pillow and you looked up at his dilated eyes.

He entered you in a single thrust. You exclaimed and he wiggled his hips as he tested your limits. He gripped your thighs as he began to move against you with long, even strokes. You quivered as your walls clenched around him. You felt your arousal spreading across his breeches with each thrust.

He sped up, his nails sinking into your thighs as he groaned in delight. He threw his head back as his breath hitched. The noise of his fucking filled the chamber and bounced off the corners in a lurid echo. Your frantic pants added to the carnal symphony and fed your hunger.

You reached down to grip the loose fabric of his trousers as he rutted into you. His fingers fluttered down to your cunt and he played with your bud as he fucked you. Your feet arched and you felt another orgasm brewing inside of you.

“Please,” you gasped, “Fuck, fuck!” You were dazed from the sheer pleasure flowing through, “Gods, I fucking hate--”

You came and your voice fizzled to a series of pathetic whimpers. He only thrust harder and faster. He pushed your legs down around him and planted his hands on either side of you as he groaned and grunted. He was close, you felt it in the way he quaked.

He pulled out of you suddenly and grabbed your hand. He wrapped it around his cock beneath his own and made you stroke him until he finished. His seed spilled out over your stomach, a few strings glossed over your tits, and he slowed your hand as he shuddered and stilled against you. He dropped your hand, his cum wet across your palm and rolled his shoulders.

His green irises focused at last and he sat back as he let out a long breath. He dragged a finger along your stomach, stirring his seed as he admired the small curve of your middle. He turned his hand and pressed two fingers against your cunt until you writhed.

“Thank you, mouse,” he rasped. “For a moment, I did forget my troubles.”

#loki #loki x reader #dark loki #dark!loki #fic #series #by the king's hand #dark fic #dark!fic #marvel #mcu #medieval au #au #king!loki #thor

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writingsofwesteros · 2 years ago

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Oh my god, Daemon going after Harwins sweet little wife. At first he wants to fuck her and let Harwin know about it, he saw a woman full of curves with a pretty face and a heavy chest… plus she’s a poor little wife who isn’t getting what she needs from her husband, he’ll give it to her. He’ll make that sacrifice.

Only for him to get attached to the adorable sounds she makes when he fucks her and how her glossy eyes stare at him like he’s a god for doing what her husband can’t. How when they’ve finished she plays with his hair, she’ll brush and platt it, kisses his nose, shares baths with him, washing his back and rubbing down his stomach, they’ll get cakes after.

He may have got a little obsessed with her and her cunt, now she’s his. She isn’t Harwins wife at all, why would she say that? He helps her, he picks her dresses, he takes her round the gardens, he brings her midday snacks, he fucks her like there’s no tomorrow, she’s already his, she will be his wife, he’ll do it the Targaryen way, that way can’t be undone. And it won’t because he’s never giving her up. Why would he? Yandere vibes with him for real.

He wants to know where she’s going, what she’s doing, when she’s doing it, who’ll be there. He’ll always put himself in her vicinity and daily plans, oh you’re going on a walk? He’ll join. Having lunch in the gardens? He’ll join. Walking down the beach? Him too, how crazy. Having dinner with Harwin? Well no, apparently Harwin is busy, you can join him in his chambers instead. Being with Daemon all day is so normal to the point if he isn’t by her side, she worries.

Slowly pushing Harwin further and further away, that wasn’t exactly hard, he’s fucking Rhaenyra and honestly that pisses Daemon off, not because he wants her but because it’s hurting his little wife and he can’t see her smile, he loves her smile she’s sad how she hasn’t been given any children yet but they’re gallivanting around with three bastards. He is also glad though because now she can have just his seed instead. She isn’t allowed anybody else’s children, that’s being unfaithful to him, he would have to punish her.

He’ll get his brother to annul her and Harwins marriage and have Lord Strong agree saying it’s for the best, he’s the hand and isn’t blind to what his son is doing he knows and it’s bringing shame to their family and hers, the least he can do is get her away, so he’ll agree. He needed to more reasons for Viserys to actually do it as it wouldn’t look good on Rhaenyra and Harwin if his wife leaves because he’s unfaithful and her children just so happen to look like him. Daemon did it though “Brother, do not make this Lady suffer for the sins of your daughter. She is stuck wanting for happiness and children, a loving husband but can not have it as to what they do. You know as much as I they are not Laenors. They are her husbands not Rhaenyras. It’s her that suffers the shame and the mocking. She is from a good house with a big name and power over others, riches and well trained soldiers, this alliance would be good for us, it would show our power if we have a house like that under our name. I have never wanted for a wife, this woman changed that. This woman changed me.” How can Viserys say no to that? His brother is actually calm and not being a nuisance, he’s not listing after the woman from the Street of Silk and he isn’t drinking himself to oblivion every night. He’s very easily swayed after that Now all that’s needed is for him to take his little lady to Dragonstone, marry her and keep her there.

Slowly getting her to depend on him as she knows no one there and she gets lonely without him. She waits for him in his studies sitting on his lap while he reads, she helps him with his scrolls by massaging his shoulders and kissing his head, she’ll bring him snacks and sit at his feet leaning on his legs while he strokes her hair and continues.

When she swells with child it’s even better because the only thing she needs and wants for is him, perfect really.

!!!!!!!

Why does Daemon appear and make everything hotter..or is that just your words hehe <3

I love the Yandere tendencies , that's way too hot !

#daemon hot thots

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moonlightchess · 4 years ago

Text

a brief interlude in which a young mortician finally meets his patron saint.

(Diaphanous).

Around five years old, when he first started hearing them. Soft, muted weeping echoing lightly through the cavernous halls just beyond his bedroom door, and by ten he was accustomed to sliding out of bed, yawning, padding to his doorway to step out into the endlessly shadowed maw veining through the upstairs of his family’s home. The moaning creak of the floorboards was easily avoidable if you knew where to slide your feet, which by then he did, and he’d whisper into the dark: “You’re okay. It’s all over now, but stay as long as you need to. You’ll be getting along when you’re ready.” And even then, there was something profoundly tender and melancholy wrapping itself around little Theodore like an aura, to which the ghosts usually responded favorably. On occasion, they’d even slip into his bedroom after he climbed back into bed, gently tugging his duvet over him in thanks.

Sixteen, and Pere introduced him to the family business in the most definitive sense yet, bringing him down into the embalming room. There, he was shown how to drain the bodies, to sew their gums securely closed, to carefully apply powders and lotions to suggest sleep despite death. Pere helped him to remove the heart and lungs of a corpse in the preparation process of the old fashion, despite it having fallen out of favor in more recent years. Bellefontaine, Louisiana, lingered a decade or two behind much of the nation, in every way from embalming practices to racial sensitivity, both topics having already been addressed with young Theodore. “A person is a person, deserving of respect and love and dignity regardless of their skin, wealth, or any other such thing that the ignorant might think defines them,” Theodore senior had informed his small son firmly, long ago, meeting his midnight-blue eyes that were so solemn and sympathetic even then. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Pere.” Theodore had not understood, not entirely, back then. But at sixteen, hunched over the dead body of a local bait shop owner whose wife made the softest, sweetest beignets he’d ever tasted, clarity rose sharp and bitter. “Monsieur Dumonde,” had escaped him before he could swallow the words in the interest of professionalism. “I knew him. Used to buy worms from him when the boys wanted to go fishing, but it’s been so long. I didn’t know he was sick.”

“Everyone dies, ti-Theodore,” and he’d been in love with the way his name rolled from his father’s tongue in a thicker cajun accent than his own - tee-tay-oh-doure, Theodore junior. It was enormously soothing, even now as he considered shaving Monsieur Dumonde’s thick mustache away for his funeral - but in the end, he placed the straight razor back onto his father’s table of sharp tools, aware that his decision had been a test. “No. We leave the mustache, he always had one when he was alive. He used to tug on it and laugh at our homemade fishing poles whenever we went into his shop. His mustache was a part of him, and it’s important that we send him to the next with as much of the man he was intact as we can.” He’d been a little nervous, meeting the dusk-colored eyes that he’d inherited from his beloved father, holding his breath.

“Good boy,” and he’d exhaled. “There are many who would have shaved him, cut his hair, put on some strange new clothes he never would have chosen himself. But you, my sweet and quiet boy, you understand.”

Mere had been a dancer, once. Ballet had been her life, her identity, until a careless would-be principal prince had stumbled into her leap - during a rehearsal no less, she’d been denied even the dignity of a grand disaster to end her career in the middle of a soaringly tragic performance - and her ankle had snapped, had never healed properly. She limped a touch even then, bringing sweet tea out to their wraparound porch thick with creeping ivy and heavy flowers bursting open at random, studding the lush green like jewels in a necklace, where her teenage son sat cross-legged on a battered loveseat long since dragged out to face the elements of the swampland. Together, they would count the darting fireflies, tiny pinpricks of golden light waging a valiant war against the encroaching southern dark. “I was beautiful once,” she’d said to him. “They all used to come watch me dance, in the city.”

“You’re still beautiful, Mere.”

She’d only sighed, slipping a hand into the pocket of her pea-green silk skirt to retrieve a shot bottle of bourbon, hoarded from the liquor store in town, and poured it into her tea.

They were both gone now, six, seven years proper. He’d prepared their bodies, and in death all of his mother’s pain and longing had been exposed to him with the first incision into her cold and rigid flesh for the draining, sixty-two years of ballet and resentment filling up the glass reservoir of the tubing’s end, dark red. She’d always done up her soft, honey-colored hair into elaborate braids, draped over one shoulder or both or trailing down her back or even wound up into a twisted crown if she was in a happier mood than usual. Theodore had sat beside her, holding her stiff milky hand with his own and with the other, scrolling through youtube tutorials on how to create the perfect fishtail braid until he was confident.

Pere had gone five years after, the light in him having drained out as clear and real as every fluid in his wife’s body had eventually found its way into the belly of their aspirator in the basement. Pneumonia had taken his mother - she’d always had a poor and fragile immune system - but his father had been just shy of seventy and to this day, at thirty-two years old, Theodore had never been offered a satisfying cause of death for him. “Just his time, sug,” a nurse in powder blue scrubs had tried, patting his hand soothingly and because this was the south, “I’ll be praying for y’all - well, just you I suppose. Oh lord, you’re the only Bissonette left now, ain’tcha?”

He was. They’d left the entire mortuary to him, and with it all the responsibilities of being the local mortician and funeral director at such a tender age, and his head had at first swum dizzily with all the pressure and expectations. Theodore senior and his wife Lisette had been fixtures of their country community, familiar and comforting, always there whenever someone had passed on to arrange flowers and platters of cold cuts, to deliver gentle words to cushion the grief. They’d been known, trusted, but Theodore junior, well. Ti-Theodore Bissonette, so young to be running the whole house himself, and the folk of Bellefontaine just weren’t sure. Until the death of little Suzette Marchande.

Hit by a car, she’d been, some hideous beast driving drunk through the winding access road circling their little cajun town and pointed out toward Nola proper. He was in prison now, but Suzette remained dead, and in his huge, capable hands Theodore had poured every bit of his father’s knowledge and sensitivity into that girl. He’d dressed her in yellow, one of her own dresses supplied by her mother, but he’d also remembered that she’d loved frogs. She’d catch them in the swamp and hold them in both hands, laughing at their croaky sounds, but then she’d carefully deposit them onto some leaf somewhere. “They got big ones, in the jungle. The Amazon,” he remembered her saying when the Bissonettes had run into she and her parents in town once, years ago. “Big as cars, they are. I’m gonna go there someday and study ‘em.”

So he’d bought sparkly little green frog clips for her hair online, pinning it back from her freckled face. Her favorite stuffed froggie, named Monsieur Ourauron, Mister Ribbitt, had been lost in the crash, but he’d found one in the Amazon - or at least on amazon - that looked largely the same. When her parents had seen her during the open-casket service, they’d wept and clutched his hands, thanking him in a babbling blend of French, English and grief. That day had declared the end of one life and the beginning of another, as little Suzette had been delivered unto whatever waited after, but thirty-year-old ti-tay-oh-doure had been manifest and confirmed.

There was something to be said for how tall he was. He would have thought some would find it intimidating, difficult to relate to considering that he was six-seven or perhaps a touch over, impossibly long limbs and a hawkish nose, soft mouth borne of his Mere and his father’s nearly indigo eyes the color of a sky five minutes before the moonrise. His was soft, floppy, peanut-brown hair and a quiet timbre resonating in his voice that was immediately associated with the unthreatening sense of calm authority that his father had once carried around easy as an old sweater. Theodore would take care of everything, Bellefontaine knew. They’d be left free to grieve their lost, because he was here with his huge hands and endless legs and fleeting smile.

He lived alone, now. There had been flings, lovers, Audrey from Nola with her autumn-brown skin and fox-gold eyes, elegant and sure, but she hadn’t stayed long. “This place is charming, but you can’t actually expect to stay here all your life, can you?” she’d told him once, after the sex, the two of them naked and wrapped around each other in his sprawling bed with a gentle breeze from outside floating through his open window. She didn’t understand, and neither did the men, not even sweet Peter with his auburn curls and dimples.

“You’re all alone out here, doesn’t it get boring? Lonely? My god, you live in a mortuary.” His shiver had been all that Theodore had needed to kiss him tenderly and send him on his way. His father had been extraordinarily lucky to find Mere, he knew - so few understood, the nature of a curator of death. The ancient contract they’d signed, the tradition they’d inherited. It was sacred but horrifying to most, because everyone wanted the convenience of their holy order at the end of all things, but no one actually wanted to have to think about dying. About the fact that literally all of them, rich or poor, pious or skeptical, afraid or unafraid, was going to die. The repulsion, he understood, was instinctive, and he’d only made his lovers breakfast in the morning and never called any of them back.

Some of the ghosts never left, as it was, and there were mornings in which he’d make his way into the kitchen to find his black tea already steaming, his chair already pulled away from the table. Some of them had found their peace here with him, and so he’d leave his cello out on occasion so that they could pluck the strings or plink a few keys on his mother’s old baby grand in the living room. He was happy too, his natural introversion leaving him largely content in his solitary life. There were those who sought comfort in his touch after the funerals of their loved ones, holding onto his hands a beat too long as he bade them goodbye, meeting his eyes meaningfully, but he always released them to the hazy swamp air outside. They were hurting, vulnerable, and he was a gentleman.

It rained the night the stranger arrived, or stormed rather - Theodore’s lights had been flickering throughout the manor all night. He’d collected candles and charged his phone, but his power had soldiered on even as the thunder crashed and jagged needles of lightning slashed open the churning charcoal sky outside. He’d yanked open the heavy oak door in response to some insistent knocking, only to find a man roughly his age standing there on the porch. He was oddly untouched by the rain despite no car present behind him, moon-pale, spilled-ink hair thick and soft over limpid, silver-mirror eyes, colorless as a deep-sea creature’s, slicing through the dark.

“Saints alive, are you lost? Are you all right?” The man, he didn’t know personally, but a truth and clarity rolled from him like steam off the swamp, and he felt enormously familiar somehow.

“I wouldn’t say lost, no. May I come in?” His voice, soft and polite, still clear and steady over the storm.

“Yes, forgive me. Please.” He stepped aside, watching him enter, translucent eyes sweeping over the yawning, shadowed maw of the grand old manor’s entryway. “Who are you? I’m sorry, but I’m not taking in any bodies until morning.”

“I understand. Terribly sorry to intrude upon your evening like this, but you and I, we have a matter to discuss.” His accent was not local, nor was it unfamiliar. It felt like a forgotten dream, abruptly remembered, an old song once loved playing on the radio years later.

“I’m afraid I don’t recognize you, Sir. Have you been to one of my funerals?”

“Sweet Theodore, I have been to all of them.”

“I don’t understand.”

The stranger clasped his hands behind his back, idle as a museum patron, gazing thoughtfully up to the enormous and heavily framed oil paintings of Bissonettes past lining the walls of the entryway. “It’s my fault for allowing myself to become so fond of you, but you’ve never really understood just how rare a person you are, have you Theodore? I shouldn’t have come here, but I had no choice. I couldn’t let you leave here tonight, that tree would have rendered your car to a smoking wreck and your body to worse. And you, sweet Theodore, you deserve so much better. After all the respect and care and compassion you have shown so unfailingly to myself and my vocation over the years - I’ve come to love you, and you deserve a soft and quiet end. So much sweeter than the one planned for you, I had to make sure you didn’t die in that crash. I had to come here, on this night. For all your kindness, tonight I will be kind to you.”

Drunk, perhaps. Some sauced-up tourist stumbling through the bayou after a bar crawl, but - this far from the city proper? “I’m afraid that you’re still losing me, will you please tell me who you are?”

He turned then, colorless gaze meeting Theodore’s, an echo of sorrow in his faint smile.

“You know who I am.”

In the end, it was true. He supposed at least a part of him had known from the moment he’d opened the door.

“I do. I didn’t think I’d meet you this young in life, but I’m pleased to find you a gentleman, Sir. I can only hope that in the time you’ve allowed me, I’ve done you proud.”

“You and your whole dear family. You don’t know how much I owe you, all of you. You would have lingered, in pain, on life support, for months. It was unbearable, unacceptable. Not you, not my Theodore who has served me so gently and so diligently for so much of your life.”

“I suppose it’s time, then.” He was not afraid. Death, he knew. He’d existed out here in a kind of stasis for years, honoring his patron saint, the man standing before him in a soft black sweater and reaching out to slip an arm through his.

“It is. But I think the storm is winding to a close, and the mists are always so lovely. Why don’t we go see.”

Nodding, Theodore allowed himself to be led to the door, turning briefly to look back just one last time into his beautiful old house, his shrine to a softer death than most knew existed. He’d always done his best, to make the transition as easy as possible for those on their way to some other place, and now it was time to go.

“Will it hurt?”

“Not for you, no.” The stranger opened the door then, and Theodore couldn’t be sure that the new world laid before him looked the same to both of them, but he smiled at what he saw.

“You were right. It’s beautiful.”

The house and the ghosts left wandering its halls signed in unison with the departure of their beloved Theodore, but the rain had slowed and the moon had risen and they were patient enough to wait a while. Someone would come, someone as warm and bright as him, someone who would take care of them as tenderly as he had, some new Theodore born. In the end, after all, nothing ever really died, and daylight was coming on soon, sure as a promise.

#writeblr #writing #my writing #fantasy #death #louisiana #i'm still feeling shy about my writing but i'm completely obsessed with this character right now #just a little something i hope y'all like it

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