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lovetwist · 1 month

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Veil of Deception (I)

SYNOPSIS: In a world where political alliances are forged in blood and treachery lurks around every corner, you find yourself thrust into marriage with Feyd-Rautha, the enigmatic scion of House Harkonnen. Born to be his perfect mate, you grapple with the terrifying prospect of becoming entangled with a man known for his brutality, obsession, and madness. As your union unfolds, you navigate a landscape of deception and dark desires, struggling to find your footing in a marriage fraught with danger and uncertainty. Caught between duty and defiance, summon your strength and resilience to survive in a world where loyalty is a luxury and love is a dangerous game.

WARNINGS (R18+): mildly dub-con, smut, first time, weapons kink, mentions of violence, manipulations, genetic breeding, power play

Word Count: 3.5k

PART 2

Below the towering spires of obsidian and steel, against a backdrop of opulent extravagance that flaunted wealth and power, a tension hung heavy, pregnant with the promise of destiny.

As Lady Atreides, sole daughter of Leto Atreides, you stood poised on the precipice of a meeting that would shape the course of your future. Your heart seized with nerves as you awaited the arrival of your betrothed.

Since your 15th name day, you had known of your engagement to the na-Baron. It was an inescapable fate predetermined by the Bene Geserrit. Your mother, Lady Jessica, had gone against them by giving birth to Paul, a male heir for Leto. Two years later, she gave birth to you – a gift of compromise for both sides. In return, Lady Jessica and Leto achieved the familial harmony they wanted, through the sacrifice of their daughter.

Every year, the Harkonnens requested your portrait to be sent along with a lock of hair. In exchange, they sent House Atreides jewels, gold, silks, and spice; disguised bribes for the upkeep of such a fine lady. They had only sent a portrait of Feyd-Rautha once. It was taken during his coming-of-age ceremony, a lean young man dressed in black fighting leathers. You stared often at the picture, looking to find some clue that could reveal his character. His demeanor was unnaturally cold and collected, yet his dark eyes barely concealed a burning rage. You wondered if Feyd-Rautha poured over you pictures as you did his.

Years passed and the engagement felt more like a false formality than reality. Unlike other noble families, you never exchanged letters with Feyd-Rautha or even met as a courtesy. Having completed your Bene Geserrit training under your mother, you learned that such things did not matter when it came to pairings arranged by the Reverand Mother. You caught whispers of conversation between your mother and her Bene Geserrit sisters. There would be no chance of failure, this union would be perfect. You were genetically engineered to be his absolute mate. Attraction and physical compatibility was assured. Everything about you was designed to lure him in – your scent, your voice, your everything was to be his undoing from the moment he would lay eyes on you.

Yet the thought gave you no confidence as you stood here now in Giedi Prime. Sexual attraction differed greatly from love, he didn’t need emotions to breed you. Feyd-Rautha, the enigmatic scion of House Harkonnen, was a man followed by countless stories of brutality and wickedness. You heard that he laughed when Reverand Mother subjected him to the Gom Jabbar. He didn’t endure pain, he reveled in it.

Your palms grew clammy, breath becoming increasingly shallow as you pondered the dark fate that awaited you in the form of this formidable man. Would Feyd-Rautha be the embodiment of all the whispered sin that had reached your ears, or would he prove to be an enigma beyond your wildest imaginings? With each passing moment, the anticipation mounted, weaving a delicate web of uncertainty around your heart as your braced yourself to meet the man who held your destiny in his hands.

The grand doors of the chamber swung open with a regal flourish, your heart quickened its pace, echoing the rhythm of anticipation that thrummed through the air. Through the gray haze of incense, you beheld Feyd-Rautha, a vision of masculinity and charisma, whose presence seemed to command the very essence of the room. His eyes met yours across the expanse of the chamber, a charged moment filled with unspoken tension, as if the universe itself held its breath in anticipation of this meeting.

You were ensnared in a tempest of conflicting emotions, thoughts swirling like sand caught in a desert storm. You questioned your own composure, wondering if you could maintain the facade of confidence expected of a lady of House Atreides in the presence of the young Harkonnen and the terrifying Baron. Feyd-Rautha may be your future husband, but he was not required to provide you a good nor happy life. After all, why would he? You were the daughter of his family’s sworn enemy. He may have been bound in marriage to you by centuries of bloodline manipulation, but he maintained a free will.

Would his words falter, betraying the tumult and hatred raging within him? Or would he summon the grace and poise befitting his station, masking the turmoil that churned beneath the surface? Your apprehension mounted, a symphony of doubt and fear playing out in the recesses of your mind. Yet, amidst the chaos of your thoughts, a glimmer of determination flickered like a distant star on the horizon, urging you forward into the unknown with a quiet resolve born of necessity.

For in the labyrinthine dance of politics and power that defined their world, you knew that you could ill afford to falter now. With a steadying breath, you squared your shoulders and prepared to face your destiny, whatever form it may take in the guise of a madman husband.

Feyd-Rautha, with an air of effortless confidence, strode forward, his gaze a smoldering ember that ignited a spark within your soul. In that fleeting moment, as your paths converged amidst the darkness and mist of the surroundings, you felt a surge of something unfamiliar yet undeniable—an electric current that crackled between your bodies, binding your fates together inextricably.

Words eluded you as you struggled to articulate the wave of emotions that threatened to consume you. Yet, in the silence that stretched between you two, you found solace in the understanding that this meeting was but the first step on a journey fraught with uncertainty and possibility. He bowed without taking his eyes off you. In greeting, you extended a gloved hand, Feyd-Rautha grasped it with a firm sense of resolve. You knew that your lives were now intertwined in ways neither could fully comprehend nor stop.

And in that moment, amidst the hazy dream of your shared future, you glimpsed the faintest flicker of something akin to desire dance across his eyes. You noticed a dilation of his pupils as he laid a kiss on the back of your hand. Then, his grasp of you tightened and tightened. Your face contorted in pain as a crooked smirk appeared on his features.

In the dim light of the chamber, your eyes traced the contours of his cheekbones and the fullness of his lips, searching for traces of the young man you once memorized in a portrait. Yet, try as you might, only a beast stood before you in the guise of a gentleman. When he stood at his full height with his darkened leer, you held yourself back from cowering. His gaze was vicious, his smile vulgar with blackened teeth, and he exuded an air of savagery.

“How delightful it is to finally meet you, Lady Atreides.”

His deep, raspy voice caught you off guard. What a performer he could be! Long gone was the ethereal allure he displayed when first entering the room, now you could see him for what he was.

“Likewise, my Lord Feyd-Rautha.”

Uncertainty lingered like a specter in the room, casting a pall over the impending union that would bind you with him. You let your gaze lower onto the floor as your parents approached to talk with the Baron and na-Baron.

You could feel his intense gaze burning through your body even as you moved away to be with your brother. Could his eyes pierce through your facade, unraveling the intricacies of your soul like fine thread? Such questions gnawed at the edges of your consciousness, casting shadows on your will to remain strong.

As the evening progressed, the tension in the air thickened like a fog, suffocating any semblance of ease. Seated at the long banquet table surrounded by your family, the Harkonnens, and noble guests, you found yourself ensnared in a delicate dance of propriety and peril.

Across from you, Feyd-Rautha lounged in his seat, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he watched you with unabashed fascination. His demeanor was that of a predator toying with its prey, his every movement calculated to instill a sense of discomfort. Your family would leave to Arrakis after the wedding festivities, then you would be truly left alone with him. The precariousness of your position tugged at your heart.

As the meal commenced, the atmosphere grew increasingly tense, punctuated by the clinking of silverware and the strained chatter of polite conversation. You forced yourself to engage in small talk with those seated around you, your words measured and careful, lest you betray the fear that coiled like a serpent in the pit of your stomach.

Despite your best efforts to maintain a facade of composure, you couldn't shake the feeling of being scrutinized by those dark, probing eyes. It was as if Feyd-Rautha could see straight through you, peeling away the layers of pretense to expose your most secret vulnerabilities. You found yourself growing increasingly unsettled. You longed to escape, to retreat to the safety of your chambers and away from the suffocating presence of the Harkonnen heir.

But you knew that there would be no reprieve, no sanctuary from the darkness that had descended upon your life like a shadow. For tonight, and every night thereafter, you were bound to him by the cruel machinations of fate, condemned to walk a path fraught with danger and uncertainty. And as you raised your glass to Feyd-Rautha’s toast to your impending union, you couldn't help but wonder what horrors awaited you.

“To the most beautiful bride in the world, I will certainly savor tomorrow’s…memories.”

The men at the table chuckled darkly while your father’s and brother’s jaws clenched. You lay your delicate hand over theirs, do not mourn me. If I am to die, I shall do so with honor.

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As your mother lowered your veil, you noticed tears forming in her eyes. You never thought you’d live to see the day the impenetrable Lady Jessica shed tears for you. I must really be walking into my death, you thought.

You looked at your reflection in the mirror. There were no words to describe the vision you saw. Crafted from the finest silk and satin, your wedding gown exuded an air of majestic elegance with flowing skirts cascading like waves of moonlight around your figure.

The bodice, adorned with intricate beadwork and delicate lace, hugged your curves with a tailored precision, accentuating a slender waist and graceful neckline. A row of tiny diamonds trailed down your body, gleaming against the smooth expanse of your back. While the front of the dress was conservative, your back was tastefully exposed through a combination of sheer silk, diamonds and pearls.

Your hair was pinned neatly into a bun with a delicate braid on each side. The veil was gauzy, making your face seem like a daydream. The ivory fabric of your dress pooled at your feet in a sea of frothy tulle and satin, forming a train that trailed behind you like a regal cloak. The wedding dress was embroidered with delicate motifs of growing vines, mountains and ocean waves – a reminder of Caladan.

At your collar, a border of intricate lacework added a touch of timeless elegance, its patterns catching the light in a dazzling display of shimmering beauty. With every movement, the gown seemed to whisper tales of romance and splendor, a clear hope to the love and devotion the seamstress had prayed you’d find. You choked down a sob.

You’ve made me an angel for him to ruin.

The wedding hall was adorned with such grandeur, you’d expect the emperor’s daughter was getting married instead. The flickering silver torches cast dancing shadows upon the ebony stone walls. As guests gathered in hushed reverence, the air crackled with anticipation, as if the very walls themselves whispered of your impeding damnation.

At the front of the hall, beneath a canopy of arched black silk, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen stood, an imposing figure in his ceremonial garb. His porcelain skin was stark against the darkness of his clothes as he awaited his bride.

You approached with measured steps, hardening your grip on your father’s arm. Your eyes must’ve betrayed your fear and resignation because you could see Feyd-Rautha biting the inside of his cheek to suppress a laugh.

As you reached the altar, his lips curled into a predatory smile, his voice dripping with malice as he spoke the vows that bound you together in unholy matrimony. The words echoed through the hall like a curse, sealing your fate alongside his.

As you exchanged rings, a union forged in the fires of despair, you vowed that though your body may be bound to Feyd-Rautha, your spirit would remain forever free.

Standing before him, you felt the weight of his gaze like chains around your soul.

With a solemn nod from the officiant, you and Feyd-Rautha were instructed to seal your union with a kiss. He removed your veil, his eyes lingering on your face. As his lips met yours, a shiver ran down your spine.

The kiss was surprisingly gentle, but devoid of love. You gasped when his tongue entered your mouth. It was a macabre dance of dominance and submission, a twisted mockery of affection that left a bitter taste upon your lips. You try to push him away, but he holds your hands firm against his chest. The Harkonnens roar with applause and laughter. As you pulled away, a sense of profound emptiness washed over you, a hollow echo of the dreams and desires that had once burned within your heart.

The rest of the wedding banquet was a blur. As you were led to the high table by Feyd-Rautha's side, you couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped, ensnared in a web of malevolence. The guests, mostly Harkonnen allies, noble families, and sycophants, feigned smiles and exchanged whispers, their eyes gleaming with a perverse curiosity at the spectacle of your union.

The feast itself was a decadent display of excess, with platters of exotic delicacies and goblets overflowing with rich wines. But the opulence only served to accentuate the suffocating atmosphere, as the room was closing in on you with each additional piece of ornate furniture.

Feyd-Rautha, ever the consummate host, played his part with calculated charm, his laughter ringing hollow in your ears as he regaled the guests with tales of conquest and murder. You watched him from across the table, his features twisted in a mask of false benevolence, and you couldn't help but feel a surge of revulsion mingled with a sliver of pity. He, too, was playing a part – ever the performer.

Throughout the banquet, you were subjected to the leering gazes and whispered innuendos of the Harkonnen cronies, their crude remarks slicing through the thin veneer of civility like daggers. But you held your composure, steeling yourself against their taunts and jeers, refusing to let them see the cracks in your mask.

As the night wore on and the wine flowed freely, the mood grew increasingly raucous, the revelry descending into a frenzied ecstasy. You found yourself adrift in a sea of faces, each one a grotesque caricature of humanity, their laughter and applause a cruel mockery of your predicament.

And amidst the chaos and debauchery, you couldn't help but wonder what was in store for you, chained to a man whose heart was as black as midnight. As you absentmindedly finished your last sip of wine, Feyd-Rautha stood suddenly, his chair loudly rattling against the granite floors. A chilling silence descended upon the hall.

He extended a hand towards you and you immediately understood his intentions. You departed the hall, hand-in-hand as men watched with envy and women stared with pity. You couldn’t bear to look at the faces of your family, afraid that you might beg them to take you home.

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As you left the banquet hall with Feyd-Rautha, a heavy sense of foreboding settled over you. The echoes of the evening's macabre festivities lingered in your mind, each laughter, each lewd jest, a reminder of the gilded cage in which you now found yourself imprisoned.

You walked beside Feyd-Rautha, his grip firm upon your hand, guiding you through the labyrinthine corridors of the Harkonnen estate. There was an eerie stillness in the air. With each step, you felt the weight of your predicament pressing down upon you, the reality of your situation sinking in like a cold, unyielding truth.

You stole a glance at Feyd-Rautha, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Occasionally fireworks would alight by the window, allowing you to see his eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger that made you look away immediately.

As you walked in silence, your mind raced with a flurry of thoughts and emotions, a storm raging within you. You couldn't help but wonder what awaited in the bedchamber. You weren’t ignorant to the act of consummating a marriage, but your husband was no ordinary man. What horrors lay in store for a woman bound to a man as cruel and cunning as Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen… what would satisfy a man like him? But amidst the fear and uncertainty, a flicker of desire burned within you, a stubborn resolve to claim him as much as he claims you.

He led you into a large room with double doors. Compared to the gaudy decorations of the wedding hall, this room was relatively simple: a chamber of dark elegance and understated grandeur. There were only the bare necessities required of a bedroom, but each piece had been impeccably handmade with the most exquisite of materials. At its center, a massive four-poster bed stands as the focal point, its frame crafted from polished ebony wood, intricately carved with motifs of serpents and ivy. Perfectly sized above the bed, stretching over the ceiling was pure reflective glass. You swallowed thickly, this man had no shame.

A grand chandelier hangs from the center of the ceiling, its crystals casting prismatic rays of light across the room, illuminating the space with a haunting allure.

The walls are lined with dark, navy paneling, adorned sparingly with antique tapestries depicting scenes of forgotten battles and dangerously sharpened weapons. A sleek, black writing desk sits nearby, stacked with books on war strategies and adorned with quill and parchment.

A sense of regal simplicity pervades the space, each element carefully curated to its master. This is a sanctuary of solitude, where one can retreat from the heaviness of the Harkonnen world and immerse themselves in the embrace of peace.

Busy admiring the room, you didn’t notice Feyd-Rautha locking the doors behind you. You tensed when you suddenly felt the coldness of a blade against your back. With one precise slice, he cut your wedding dress open leading all the decorative pearls to fall to the ground. Your hands instinctively went to cover yourself, but his newfound grip on your wrists was even faster.

“You are mine now, pet.” His hands slowly guided yours down as he ripped away the rest of your dress. “Do not resist me, I want to see you in all your beauty.”

Your face flushed as you looked away from him. You knew objecting to his wish was futile, perhaps if you appeased him then he’d be gentler. You learned this was a useless thought the moment you saw his expression – raw, animalistic hunger chipped away at the edges of his sanity. His pupils dilated so wide that his eyes became monochromatic orbs of obsidian.

He removed his own clothes with swift and lithe movements, revealing pure sculpted muscle. Through the rapid rise and fall of his chest, you could see that he was barely holding back his lust. Feyd-Rautha was going to devour you without leaving a single morsel for the world.

“I-I… If you hurt me, I will scream.”

“Go ahead, it’ll only stroke my ego if you do. Scream loud enough for the whole banquet to hear. Let them know what pleasures your husband bestows upon you.”

With each step he took towards you, you took two steps back. When you felt the bed come into contact with the back of your knees, you realize you’ve been trapped.

“Lie down.” he commanded.

Sensing the tonal shift in his voice, you obeyed. You felt his long, slender fingers enter your most intimate place. When he curved against your inner wall, you let out an involuntarily moan – which he quickly swallowed from your lips. You had touched yourself before, but only rarely during occasions when you couldn’t sleep and the moon was hanging high.

However, this was different – he was different. His fingers reached places where yours never could. Your body made lewd sounds as he pumped in and out of you with torturous speed. The way you grind against his hand was indecent, but he rewarded you with such sweet friction. Hearing his low pants against your ear, you couldn't help but writhe into his touch. When you came undone, he smirked and licked your essence from his fingers.

Before you could catch your breath, he was on top of you again; caging you between his toned arms. He reached out to grasp your chin before roughly crashing his lips down on yours. The kiss was all-consuming, he was drinking in every part of you without letting you breathe. Your eyes wandered down to where his member stood unnaturally stiff and enlarged. Your new husband sneered at your expression before his right hand circled around your throat.

“Your throat… it shall be my axis tonight.”

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ijuststareatstuffhereok89 · 6 months

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Hi my dear !!

My req idea is a fluffy (spicy thoughts can be included) 'seeing each other for the first' time thing with Asgard!Prince!Loki and his betrothed princess yn 🍬💓

💖💖You got it! Thanks for the fun request, @fictive-sl0th! I hope you don't mind that I added a little twist to your idea! Please enjoy! 💖💖

“The Princess and the Stable Boy”

After a lifetime of preparation, you finally travel to Asgard for your wedding to Prince Loki, a mysterious man you’ve never met. After your cruel betrothed repeatedly abandons you during your wedding week, you find a special friend with an open ear to whom you bare your soul. But the situation becomes fraught when, on your wedding day, you find you want to give your heart to someone else.

Pairing: Prince!Loki x Princess!Reader Genre: Fluff, Angst, a little spice Content Warnings: forced marriage, hidden identities, some borderline-smutty thoughts Word Count: 4.5k

MASTERLIST

“And, tell me, what is the Prince’s excuse this time?” you asked, looking at the diminutive maid in your doorway, her plain white robes a stark contrast to the elaborate, guided threshold she filled.

“His father is holding court this evening, m’lady,” she replied, her head bowed, refusing to meet your eye.

Twisting your lip into a skeptical frown, you kept your disappointment inside for the sake of dignity. “Court is never held after sunset,” you answered. “He’s pissed off again.”

The maid didn’t reply. “He did send his regards--”

“--every cursed night for the past four days he’s ‘sent his regards’! We marry in another six and I have yet to see his face, nor he mine,” you growled, frustration rising in your voice as your anger obscured your manners.”Is he deformed?”

“No, m’lady. His handsomeness is unmatched.”

“Does his tastes fall to another sex?”

She denied. “M’lady, the Prince is open about his desires, and he does not discriminate between sexes.”

“Well, does this bastard wish to marry me or not??”

The maid looked helpless for an answer. You softened a little in sympathy. “I suppose you wouldn’t understand.”

She shook her head bashfully. “No, m’lady.”

“Then, just go,” you dismissed, not even bothering to wait in the room for her to leave before scurrying into your parlor and slamming the door, finally letting the scream out that had been building up inside you. It felt like a wonderful release, but it didn;t solve your problem.

You were getting married to a blank face in six days, uniting your realms, as was decreed on the day of your birth. You were raised getting to know your husband through correspondence, tutors, and finishing lessons. You only knew of his interests through quizzes and long hours of study. And for all your hard work, on the eve of the culmination of it all: he hadn;t even bothered to meet you.

It was enough of a humiliation when your entourage approached the palace at Asgard only to be greeted by your future brother-in-law, ready with an excuse that your fiance was ailing. The following day, you’d heard he was spotted hunting on the edge of the city.

The next day, Prince Loki missed your supper with the royal family. Queen Frigga had given you a sympathetic apology, insisting she would send him to greet you personally the following day, assuring you that Loki was eager to wed and merely taking care of some final pre-marital business.

He never appeared at your door, and you’d wasted the entire day waiting for him.

You were a strong princess, full of glorious purpose, ready to wed whether your heart wanted to or not. Prince Loki was making it very difficult for you to keep your resolve the more it became obvious that he was avoiding you. Every minute that passed solidified the fact in your mind that you were going to be nothing but a weight shackled to his ankle, occasionally bearing an heir and appearing publicly at his side. You were about to become an official Asgardian ornament.

What a sad fate for a princess, you bemoaned, throwing open your balcony doors and stepping out into the night air. You overlooked the inner courtyards and fields of the palace property, a tree line off against the indigo horizon. The twinkle of the city itself was off, beyond the north wall, the light pollution dousing the stars above your head. The rolling knolls were difficult to admire in the twilight.

Something caught your eye before you lost yourself in pitying thought: by the west wall appeared to be a stable, occupied with the royal steeds no doubt. You could have sworn you heard a whinny from that direction. Smiling, you decided that perhaps a horse’s ear was better than no ear at all (and you’d already scared away most of your maids).

Within a few minutes, you’d donned a black cape and simple dress so as not to attract attention. With all the free time you’d had not getting to know your future husband, you’d gotten to know the ins and outs of the palace corridors quickly, so it was no time before you were out in the open air and strutting toward the stable. You briefly looked up in the direction of the highest tower in the palace: the tower where the royals themselves bedded. Prince Loki was up there somewhere, not giving a damn about you or how lonely you felt.

“Don’t worry, Loki,” you whispered bitterly before turning away from the palace again, “I won’t say one voluntary word to you for the duration of our lives.”

The stables were clean and impeccably-kept, and the lights you’d seen were still on when you arrived. You stepped inside to find that only one of the stables was occupied, by a tall, sturdy, black stallion. He was contentedly munching on something in a metal bucket hanging off of the side of the cubicle.

Someone watched the horse, leaning with his back against the opposite stall door. His ankles were crossed, as well as his arms, and he looked deep in thought. His raven hair hung in his face, unruly and thick. His gray shirt was unfastened, hanging open at his sides, barely holding onto his shoulders. His tight green leggings were tucked into shin-high leather riding boots. He had a tattoo of an ouroboros winding about his chest, just below his razor-sharp clavicle. You swore it was moving very slowly, slithering about the man’s chest in an infinity loop.

There was a quality to his profile that immediately stopped you in your path. It was intimidating, but also attractive, as if he was posing for a painting but trying to look candid at once. Upon hearing the shuffling of your boots on the hay-lined floor, the young man lifted his gaze to meet yours, and his blue eyes lit up.

Looking upon his face only added to the haunting, yet rustic beauty of the man. His jaw was angular, his lips perfectly plump and distorted into an amused smile at seeing your face.

“Princess,” he mumbled, his voice low and casual. “You’re a long way from your chambers.”

You rolled your eyes. “How do you know me? We’ve never met.”

He scoffed in reaction. “Everyone in the palace knows of the lovely future Princess of Asgard. I may be just another peasant among the ranks, but I’m not as dim as most of them.”

“You certainly have the arrogance of the Prince,” you sneered back. “I did not mean to suggest that you’re simple.”

The mysterious stranger raised his eyebrow and pushed off from the wall with his shoulder. “You’ve met him?”

Shaking your head, you looked to the side sheepishly. “No.”

“Still?” chuckled the boy, taking another step toward you, but planting himself there. “And you have not tried seeking him out?”

“It isn’t protocol for me to summon him,” you sighed. “It would be considered stepping out of line.”

“Well, from my experience,” said the peasant, “Stepping out of line is the quickest way to get what you want.”

You looked at him again. “I suppose being judged so harshly without having the chance to even please my betrothed isn’t the best motivator.”

Your conversational partner shrugged. “Maybe he is simply nervous himself? Perhaps he feels those scrutinous eyes fall on him as well, and he isn’t sure how to--?”

“--I should have known, you’d never understand,” you mumbled bitterly, turning your back to him. You had no interest in listening to this apologist make excuses for whatever mental game your fiance was playing without your consent. You chose to disengage quickly, not having the energy to stand up for yourself. “My mistake. I’m sorry to have bothered you, stable boy.”

You began to walk away. “My name is Arik,” the boy called after you, his voice heightened.

You stopped. He sounded instantly contrite.

“It sounds as if I’ve thrown a switch I shouldn’t have,” he continued. “Please forgive me, Princess. I didn't mean to further distress you. I was only seeking to console with you a possible explanation as to the Prince’s rude welcome.”

Turning back, you allowed yourself a small smile. It hurt your cheeks to do so after several days of doing very little with your jaw other than bemoaning your annoying situation.

“Arik,” you repeated.

He nodded and clicked his heels, standing at attention like a general, and bowing at the waist. “At your humble service, my Lady.”

You stepped in further, gaining a closer look at the stable boy. Indeed, the tattoo moved on his chest. “I’ve never seen art like this,” you said breathlessly. The details in the ink were beautiful and delicate. Arik seemed to like you moving in and focusing your gaze on his pectorals.

“My br--Prince Thor has a similar one,” he said quietly. “It is a large bolt of lightning shooting down his back from between his shoulder blades.”

“How do you know this? Do the Princes walk about the palace nude?” you laughed.

Arik’s smile widened at your laugh. “No, Princess. I served with the Princes during our mandatory conscription. Close quarters and all.”

You sighed. “Which means the blasted stable boy knows my husband more than I!” you lamented.

He laughed with you. “Perhaps it is time The Prince conquered his bashfulness,” he agreed. “From where I stand, he is the one missing out by delaying his meeting with you.”

You felt a burning blush crawl up your cheek at the compliment. “Arik…” you paused before continuing. “...if you do know the Princes so well…could you tell me about them? If I cannot learn of my husband from himself--”

Arik took your hand in his, bringing it gently to his lips. “--if you are asking me to familiarize you with our sovereigns in their pathetic absence, I would be most happy to oblige you, Princess.”

Your heart fluttered against your ribs, and you began to feel giddy.

“Sadly,” he went on, your optimism instantly dropping off, “my services are required elsewhere in just a few moments.”

You sighed. “Oh.”

“However, if you wished to meet me here tomorrow evening,” Arik suggested, “It would be my honor to take you for a ride through the knolls.”

As much as you wanted to say yes, you knew that you had to turn him down. “The masque is tomorrow night.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot.”

There was no way Prince Loki would be able to abandon you at the masque ball set for tomorrow. It was in honor of your impending marriage. Even if you weren’t going to see his face, you would absolutely be expected to dance with him in front of the mobility of Asgard.

“If only I could leave him alone in the middle of the floor for once,” you muttered bitterly. “I’m sure he regrets our appointment tomorrow night more than I.”

Arik smiled. “I admire your passion. Perhaps, though, it would be prudent to wait until you meet the Prince, to pass your own judgment.”

“He doesn’t deserve you as a loyal servant,” you remarked.

Arik shrugged. “If you do find yourself in need of more flattering company, I have a small trundle here. As long as the nights are warm, I spend them out here. Come find me at any hour, and I will be your humble ally.”

“Thank you,” you said tenderly. “I needed a friend to find me tonight.”

“As did I, Princess,” he said, holding out a hand, brushing a small piece of hay from your hair that had settled. That tiny, intimate touch from another person was enough to make your nerves tingle. You’d gone for such a long time without any comforting physical contact.

“Then, Arik, I will leave you to your duties,” you said, pulling away before anything even more wonderful could happen. Awkwardly not knowing how to address the strapping young peasant as you left his sight, you smiled and backed out of the stable.

Arik called out after you. “Sweet dreams, Princess.”

He was all that you thought of as you went through the motions the following day in preparation for the ball. You were fitted for your gown, a rich, golden fabric draped loosely over your body and held to you with green and black ribbon. Your mask was green with gold feathers. Your hair was swept up into a complicated braid and laden with emeralds. Yet even more jewels were fastened to your ears and throat, all submitting to the green and gold palate.

Just as the palace was beginning to saturate with the odor of roasting meats and breathing bowls of wine, you were ready and escorted to the Great Hall, where the festivities were already in full swing.

Even as the room stopped to acknowledge your entrance at the top of the grand staircase, your thoughts were with the stable boy who’d been the first in Asgard to treat you like a creature with a soul, with needs and fears. No one in this room knew a thing about you even as they praised you as their new princess.

The crowd parted as you descended the staircase, revealing a tall figure dressed in green finery and Asgardian military insignia standing precisely in the center of the room. His hair was slicked back and tucked under a golden diadem, his high-necked jacket fastened from jaw to hip, a lacy black mask curling down his face so that nearly his entire visage was obscured to you.

Great, even looking right at him, I can’t see, you complained inside even as you bowed cordially, reaching Prince Loki for your first meeting. You immediately got the scent of wintergreen and pine from him when you reached proximity.

“Princess,” said a deep, restrained baritone from underneath the mask you faced. Prince Loki clicked his heels and bowed formally at the waist, which only made you long for your secret stable boy more. He shared the Prince’s posture, but that had to be from their shared military days.

“Your Highness,” you barely mustered. “At last we meet.”

“You sound disappointed,” the Prince suggested.

“Only at the bitter reception from Your Highness,” you boldly answered. “What Prince treats his betrothed as such garbage as I have been?”

Loki didn’t twitch, blink, or acknowledge your cheek. He simply took the first position of a groom about to dance with his bride with all the restricted grace of a automaton.

You went to take your position at Loki’s front for the dance. You only did so out of obligation. However, before you could touch his arm, you found yourself stepping back again in spite of yourself.

“No,” you said.

Gasps echoed about the room.

“Princess?” Loki asked, sounding insecure for the first time.

“You’ve been treating me worse than a scullery maid since the day I arrived. I’ve wanted nothing but to please you and please your subjects, but after being held in this palace like a prisoner in a cage of glass and gold, I’ve come to realize this: you don't deserve my hand. However, seeing as I am being forced to give it to you regardless, I am choosing to retain a mote of my own autonomy tonight by refusing this dance.”

No one had seen this coming from you, let alone Loki.

You sucked in your breath bravely. “If you permit me to leave this annoyance of a party right now, I will consider it our wedding present.”

Committing to the offense, you spun on your heels and quickly walked back up the staircase as the murmurs and gasps grew to a louder hum.

“Princess!” Loki was pursuing you, calling to you as you retreated.

“So NOW you seek me out, now that I humiliate you in front of the assembly?” you hissed as soon as you turned the corner. “I won’t be anyone’s ornament! May you be damned!”

He eventually gave up and remained behind. You found yourself stomping about the corridors alone, making a beeline for the stables.

Tonight, the air was even warmer. Your gown fluttered in the breeze behind you as you made your way to the stables, where no one seemed to be home.

“Arik?” you called, going inside to find no one, not even the horse, around. “Arik? Are you here?”

After a few moments of you pacing up and down the row, and you heard the sound of shuffling feet outside. You rushed back into the open night, and sure enough, Arik was returning, the black stallion bridled and tethered to his side. The horse was already wearing a saddle built for two.

“My Lady?” Arik called, slightly out of breath.

“Did I find you at a bad time? You look disheveled,” you remarked, taking in how Arik looked like he’d thrown himself at a pile of laundry and decided whatever garments stuck to his body would create his wardrobe for the evening: a white peasant shirt loosely tied at the neck, and black pants.

Arik shook his head. “Alvis was startled by a serpent. Reining him in proved a challenge.”

“Then, perhaps he wouldn’t be amenable to the possibility of a ride this evening?” you asked, batting your eyelashes.

Smiling, Arik raked a hand through his hair. “I think he can be persuaded, but…shouldn’t you be at the gala, Princess?”

You scoffed, taking the ribbon tying your braid together and unfurling your hair, shaking it loose until every gem fell to the grass. “If His Highness wished to dance with me, he would have thought of this before casting me off like an old glove.”

He snickered. “It didn’t go well, I take it?”

You shook your head. “I wouldn’t even stay for supper.”

“Well, that won’t do, Princess. This has already been a trying week for you. You need sustenance.” He indicated the double-seated saddle on the back of Alvis. “I’m sure the horse is well now, my Lady. I can take you to a place I know of on the edge of the kingdom, where we can remedy that.”

Nodding enthusiastically at his offer, you stepped up to the horse, suddenly realizing that you’d never ridden before. Arik seemed to be able to read your mind, scooping you up into his arms and placing you on Alvis before quickly mounting the horse himself.

You got the briefest hint of wintergreen and pine as you wrapped your arms around his waist.

Arik took you through the knolls and orchards south of the city proper as the sun descended and night returned. The shadows of trees along the path fell across your faces as you rode through the lawns and groves, away from everyone else and off into a better place. Arik showed you how to stretch your arms out to pick apples and pears off the fruit trees you brushed past along the way. You laughed as you made a game out of who could nick more treats before being caught and chased along a few meters by an irate farmer who happened to be walking offside.

You were brought to a waterfall on the edge of the kingdom, where you and the handsome stable boy sat on a boulder, close enough to the falls to feel the chilly mist. As you feasted on your ill-gotten fruit, Arik told you about your intended, and answered every question you had.

He was beautiful in the soft moonglow. A perfect specimen, healthy and strong, but also brooding and sweet. Ridiculous as it seemed (it had taken less than a day), you were completely in love with Arik. He was more of a god in his humble rags as he sat before you now than Prince Loki could ever be while arrayed in his furs and finery.

Something bothered you while he spoke: Arik spoke very fondly of the Prince in spite of your criticisms, almost as if he was trying to sell him to you. It was as if Arik could sense your growing feelings for him, and he was perhaps trying to protect you by throwing you off of his trail.

“Tell me, Arik,” you implored, “Do you think Prince Loki even has the ability to love?”

“Princess, do you expect love to come from your arranged marriage?”

You shrugged. “I was hoping for some.”

Arik smiled tenderly and took your hand. “If I know Prince Loki, he will take care of you and your children for your whole lives.”

Shaking your head, you pulled your hand away. “That isn’t what I want! I want love!”

“But--”

“--I can’t ever love Prince Loki,” you said decidedly.

Arik’s shoulders dropped, and his smile disappeared. “That is very sad to hear, My Lady, That notion will only lead to a woeful match. If I know him, he wishes only for your happiness. But why do you sound so certain of this?”

“Because without trust, there can be no love…and how can I trust someone whose face I’ve never seen?” you explained, breaking down in tears at last, leaning against Arik’s broad shoulder.

He gripped you tightly, and you felt safe in his arms, wishing you could be there forever. “Let’s run away.”

He didn’t respond. You found yourself doubling down. “I mean it, Arik. I could live a thousand years with you starting tonight.”

He pulled away from you far enough to make eye contact. His face was once of concern, of seriousness. “You can’t mean this. We barely know one another.”

“I do! I do!” you said quickly. “Arik, you see me as not a Princess, but a woman, someone who wants to make the best of a fraught situation. You understand my soul,” you wept.

Arik looked touched. He pursed his lips as he thought of what to say next. “My Lady, I don’t know what to say…”

“Take me away with you. Let’s go tonight,” you proposed.

“No, Princess,” he insisted, pushing you away, standing straight. “You are engaged.”

“So, you won’t have me, and he doesn’t want me…no one wants me,” you whispered.

Arik’s heart broke for you, and he returned you to his embrace. “Eloping would be instant death for us both, my Lady,” he said quietly. “If it weren’t this way…”

“Oh, Arik, I wish you were the Prince!” you cried, laying your lips against his and putting your palm against his cheek. He kissed you back, wrapping his arms around your whole body tightly.

“Will I see you again after tonight?” you asked softly once your lips parted.

He sighed. “It may not be a good idea,” he mused, breaking your heart. “Even this beautiful kiss we’ve just shared is enough to condemn us.”

You nodded. “I would never wish to cause your death, Arik.”

“Then, let’s stay out tonight,” he suggested. “With the promise that we won’t ever address the notion of running away ever again.”

“I agree.”

He returned you just before dawn, to the door of your chambers, giving you one final kiss before leaving. Just before he turned the corner to return to the stables, he stopped to give you one more piece of advice.

“I really do know the Prince intimately, Princess,” he insisted. “And if I know him, I know that if you give him your hand next week, he will give you his heart.”

You felt a hot tear sting your eye. “I trust you,” you said with a small nod.

Arik smiled. “Then, perhaps, there can be love here after all.”

It took all of your strength to be reserved as you closed your door to the last hope of ever having a happy life with Arik the stable boy.

As promised, Arik had disappeared, removing any temptation you’d had to seek him out and go back on your own word to bind yourself to Prince Loki. You let the depression settle over you, painting you in a numbing glaze of complacency in your own imprisonment. You were meant to be a shackle on the Prince’s ankle, as promised by virtue of your birth. You would have to resign yourself to that, and be content with that.

Five days later, at dusk, you were escorted down the long hall leading to Asgard’s throne room. You wore a grand gown in peacock-blue, your hair down and loose about your shoulders, a golden circlet draped across your forehead, your face obscured by a veil so thick you needed a bridesmaid to guide you to your palace at the groom’s side for the ceremony.

Goddamnit, even now I don't know what he looks like, you admitted the defeat bitterly. Your face was stone. You’d mentally prepared yourself for this, but it required a stiff upper lip to endure.

The ceremony was grand, but brief. A cauldron of eternal fire received your written vows to one another, and as the smoke formed the great tree Yggdrasil above your heads, you braced yourself for the moment where Loki would lift your veil and look upon your face.

You closed your eyes as the Allfather gave Loki permission to greet his new bride with a first kiss. The ambient light increased behind your lids as the veil lifted. You waited in silence for several moments for the kiss.

Instead, you heard a familiar voice say “Open your eyes, my Lady.”

Obeying, you didn’t expect the kind blue eyes that belonged to your beloved stable boy to be looking down at you from the face of your husband. Confused, you raised an eyebrow and mouthed, “Arik? But…Loki?”

He shook his head and said softly, “We are one and the same, my dear.”

“No,” you mumbled. “It can’t be!”

The deceitful Prince took your hand and quickly kissed it. “I came into this match with the same fears as you, my love, and I had to know that you could love me for who I was, and not what my title was.”

“But…you were so mean to me…”

The Prince shook his head. “Please accept the grave mistake I made in choosing to avoid you. I thought that you’d already resented me due to our reluctant arrangement.”

“I wanted to meet you, to know you!”

“And so you have,” Loki said with a tender smile. “I assure you that Arik is in my heart. He was the real mask I wore, in order to have the courage to meet you for myself.”

You couldn’t believe it. “So, now we’re going to go forward and build an entire life off of a charade?”

“You said you trusted me,” Loki added. “Perhaps we can begin there, and with a kiss.”

The line was pure Arik. You were sold.

“It IS you!” you smiled happily, a warm wave of affection making your head spin.

As the Prince leaned down to give you your bridal kiss, Arik’s lips met yours and removed the last doubts you would ever have.

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acourtofwhatthefuck · 2 years

Text

Coming Home (Part 6)

Azriel x Reader

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five

Warnings: Lil bit of spice in this part, lads 🌶️🌶️

If I’ve accidentally missed you off the tag list, please let me know so I can add you! ❤️

⧪

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d danced so much. The last time you’d laughed like this, beautiful and unguarded.

Lucien was…a riot. Exactly your kind of person, with his wicked humour forming witty remarks in your ear as he’d spun you round the dance floor, guiding you from one dance to the next. You knew you’d gained some attention for the simple fact that you hadn’t changed dance partners since you and Lucien had joined hands. You couldn’t bring yourself to care.

You’d forgotten what they were like — these parties. Lavish events that went on from dusk until dawn and sometimes beyond, the food and drinks constantly replenishing, the dancing feet of people never seeming to tire. You appreciated the lengths that Rhysand had gone to in celebrating your return; all the streamers and banners and decorations, the pure extravagance of the event that was held purely in your honour.

But at some point, some time in the early hours of the morning when the music continued unfaltered, the marvelling stares and whispers had begun to get a bit too much. Lucien had noticed the dip in your mood, your enthusiasm, straight away.

And that was what had led to the two of you sneaking out of the party together, bottles of faerie wine clutched in your hands as you left the packed throne room behind and wandered together around the Hewn City, the sheer size of it offering you at least a little bit more privacy. No one seemed to have noticed your exits.

Talking with Lucien as you strolled around was easy. You’d laughed, dipping into hidden alleys together whenever people’s gazes strayed to you, pressing yourselves against the walls and trying not to let your fit of laughter echo out as you hid. You felt like two naughty children sneaking off into forbidden places, and it was great. Light and airy and free.

“You know,” You hummed as you strolled beside the redhead, taking a long draw from the bottle in your hand. “I don’t think your mate likes me very much.”

Lucien snorted, prising the bottle from your palm and taking his own sip. “I don’t think she likes me very much, either.”

The two of you were most definitely, gloriously drunk, and perhaps that was why it was so easy to talk about things that usually clenched your heart so tightly. Through your short time alone, you’d both discussed the complex history of your families — him detailing the fraught relationship he had with his brothers, his father, and you dipping into some of the very deep, very hidden truths about your own father. About how you’d always suspected he hated you. How he’d seemed to see your lack of wings — lack of the Illyrian traits that Rhys had inherited from your mother — as a massive disappointment. It wasn’t something you liked to delve into if you could help it; Lucien seemed to make it as easy as breathing.

You hadn’t talked about Azriel, though. Yet.

“There’s truly no hope for you and Elain?” You asked softly; you couldn’t see what it was about Lucien that the middle Archeron sister could possibly have an issue with.

Stopping, Lucien leaned against the wall of a granite-hewn building and took another gulp of wine. “She can barely stand to be in the same room as me.” He swallowed. “And yet, the Shadowsinger merely breathes in her direction and it’s like he hung the moon for her. She comes alive.”

Such sad, biting bitterness in his voice. It was clear, even beneath all the wit and laughter and charm, the love he felt for his mate was a persistent wound that would never heal. You could understand that kind of pain, even if you didn’t have a mate yourself — understand the aching, gnawing feeling that rotted you from the inside while you watched the person you loved fall for somebody else.

You sucked in a deep breath, taking the bottle from him, and let your head fall back against the wall. “I get it. I’ve spent my life watching him pine for females. Firstly Mor — now Elain.” You swallowed a great gulp of the tangy wine you’d stopped tasting hours ago. “But me? Never me.”

Lucien’s gaze was a heavy weight as he turned to you, his intoxication becoming evident in the way his body slumped forward slightly, his shoulder brushing yours. “The Shadowsinger?”

“Mhm.”

“You love him?”

“Wildly.” You grimaced as the last dregs of the bottle disappeared. “Unfortunately.”

“Well.” The redhead blinked. “Fuck.”

You snorted — it was all you could do. Because if you didn’t laugh, you’d cry, and scream, and shout and—

Lucien’s laughter joined yours, an easy, drunken chortle that rumbled deep in his chest and spread infectiously. Within seconds, the reason behind your hysterics was lost. The two of you were laughing because you could, and as Lucien steadied himself against the wall, a lazy grin pulled at his lips. He leaned closer to you — close enough that your faces were inches from each other.

“We’re the rejects, aren’t we?” The breath that fanned your face as he spoke smelled of the wine’s berries, and an impulsive part of you wanted to lean forward and taste it, lick it. Lick him.

“Uhuh. Rejects.” You murmured back, leaning in. You could just feel the whisper of his lips brushing yours, begging you to close that tiny little gap. His eyes roved yours inquisitively, like he was sizing up if you had the nerve.

You did. Or, at least, you would have — would have kissed him with wild, reckless, drunken abandon — had the approaching footsteps not stopped you in your tracks.

It was a cool clipping of boots against the cobblestoned street, and the whisper of wings, that announced your interruption. The tall, dark figure rounded the corner, and Azriel stilled before you and Lucien.

“Hello.” You chirped casually.

Azriel’s eyes slid to Lucien, flicking over his stance, the close proximity between the two of you. You could have sworn a muscle in his jaw ticked.

“The party is over.” His voice was short, clipped. “Rhys sent me to find you.”

“Well.” You pushed off the wall. “Here I am.”

Azriel glanced at Lucien again. “I’d get going, if I were you. Keir has been well behaved tonight, but I doubt that courtesy will last much longer.”

For a beat, Lucien said nothing, merely staring back at the Shadowsinger like he was weighing up a snarky response. After a tense moment, he, too, pushed off the wall, and he turned to you, that gorgeous half-smirk back on his lips.

“Lady.” He addressed you with a swift, flourishing bow at the waist. “I thank you for your company this evening. Welcome back to the court.”

His exit was nothing more than a chilled autumn breeze as he disappeared before your very eyes, leaving just you and Azriel in the dark, quiet street. You weren’t even sure how far you’d wandered from the party.

“Come.” Azriel murmured, turning on his feet.

You followed.

⧪

None of you returned to your homes immediately.

With the sun beginning to rise as you landed in Velaris, it was Mor who made an executive decision to take you all for an early breakfast in one of the cafes along the Sidra.

The mood surrounding your group as you occupied a table at the back was one of calm contentment. Undoubtedly, you were all still feeling the effects of the alcohol — probably you more than anyone — but as you chatted over steaming cups of tea and warm pastries, that ever-present weight on your shoulders felt somewhat lighter than usual.

Azriel was the only one who didn’t engage.

If his presence wasn’t already so noticeable, you may have forgotten he was there, from the way he sat quietly and stared forward, barely touching his tea. You didn’t dare to stare at him for too long, lest you catch that cold, brooding gaze.

With Velaris waking around you, the members of your group began to break off. Amren was the first to go, announcing she planned to sleep for at least an entire day. Cassian practically swept Nesta off her feet and shot into the skies with barely a goodbye. Feyre and Rhys stood soon after that, and not particularly wanting to be one of the last left behind, you accepted your brother’s offer to see you home before he and the High Lady turned in themselves.

Back at your house, the silence enveloped you. You’d not long moved in, and the smell of fresh paint, of brand new furniture, had a very clinical feel about them that didn’t exactly warm you as you stood in your bedroom, peeling out of your dress. Your only saving grace was the exhaustion beginning to drag you down, hopefully enough to pull you into sleep before your loneliness crept in. Your bed was huge, the unoccupied side of it noticeably empty and cold.

After barely managing to remove your makeup and change into your nightgown, you fell between the sheets and allowed your eyes to flutter shut, memories of the evening, of your dancing and smiling and genuine laughter, comforting you enough for your breathing to slow, your eyes growing heavy.

You were just drifting off when you heard it — the dull thud outside of the glass doors that led from your bedroom, out onto the balcony.

You sat up, suddenly aware of the room darkening — of a huge figure blocking the daylight that had been streaming through in hues of pinks and buttery yellows.

Azriel stood on your balcony, his eyes meeting yours through the glass. You threw the quilt off your body, not even caring about your flimsy little nightgown as you stalked over to the doors and yanked them open.

“Do you have a particular aversion to knocking on the front door?” You snapped. “You know — like a normal person?”

Azriel stared back at you, his expression unreadable. His gaze dipped down, taking in the column of your throat. The cut of your figure through the silky material.

“We need to talk.” He said.

“You could have talked to me at breakfast.”

His eyes, suddenly deeper — heated and hungry — flicked from the peak of your breasts through your nightgown, back up to your face. “No, I couldn’t.”

A small, petty part of you, still hurt from his rejection, from the harsh words he’d spoken to you, wanted to turn him away. To slam the glass doors in his face and climb back into bed like your heart wasn’t thudding wildly.

But you didn’t have that sort of resolve. Not where Azriel was concerned.

With a soft, relenting sigh, you stepped aside, pulling both the doors wide open to accommodate the span of his wings as he entered with a graceful lope.

You watched — as he strode in, still in his clothes from the party. He stopped in the middle of your bedroom, his eyes roving over the decor, the various trinkets you owned, the painting Feyre had gifted you as a moving-in present. Slowly, with such lethal precision, he turned on his feet to face you.

“Well?” You pushed, shutting the doors behind you. The cool air certainly didn’t help with the hardened peaks of your breasts. You crossed your arms over your chest.

“Lucien Vanserra is Elain’s mate.” He said.

You cocked an eyebrow. “I’m aware of that. Thank you.”

He took a step towards you. “So what were you doing with him tonight? Why did you leave the party with him?”

Studying his face, the realisation dawned on you — the direction in which his mind — and most of their minds — had probably taken when you’d wandered off with the redhead in tow. A small slither of satisfaction filled you as you read the ire in Azriel’s eyes.

You barked a laugh. “You think I fucked him?”

Azriel shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time, from what I’ve heard.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” You acknowledged with a casual shrug. “But if you had visions of me leaving the party and riding him into oblivion in the fucking centre of the Hewn City, you’re very much mistaken, Azriel.”

“Even still.” That same, telling muscle in his jaw moved. “You were being reckless. Drinking and giggling and flirting with him. Everybody knows he’s a mated male. The kind of shame, of humiliation, those actions would put on Elain—“

“So that’s why you’re here?” You cut him off. “To defend Elain’s honour?” The thought of it left you cold and reeling.

“I’m here,” He took another slow step towards you, “to advise you to stay away from Lucien.”

Folding your arms tighter, you clenched your jaw. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“He’s Elain’s mate. Elain’s.”

It was then that the fraught tether on your anger snapped. Perhaps it had been building up since your confrontation at the clinic — or perhaps since long before then. Whatever it was, that well deep inside you that you usually kept sealed, full of longing and loneliness, anger and sadness, of pure fucking love that would never be reciprocated — it spilled over.

“How many times a day do you repeat those very words to yourself, Az?” You laughed coldly. “Is that how you keep hold of your control? What you repeat to yourself over and over to stop you from sinking your cock into Elain?”

Azriel moved so fast, you barely had a chance to register the flash of darkness. You were lifted off your feet, and suddenly you were pressed against the wall, Az’s body warm and solid against yours as he glared down at you, a guttural growl ripping from the depths of his throat.

“Watch yourself, Y/N.” He bit.

You almost laughed. Because all of this — every bit of it — you found it thrilling. Seeing Azriel lose his signature cool calm, feeling the way his body pressed against yours and anger sparked off of him in little zips of lightning that snaked their way through your veins and lit you up from the inside.

He was close — so close. His heavy breathing fanned your face, and you could almost hear how hard he clenched his teeth.

“Why should I?” You said — tested him. Such a reckless, stupid game to play, and yet you couldn’t stop yourself.

Azriel’s head dipped. For a split second, you thought…you thought maybe he would kiss you. But then his nose brushed the column of your neck, the fine strands of his hair tickling your cheek.

“If it were Elain I wanted to sink my cock into,” He said, his voice a deep, vicious purr, “I could have done so long ago.”

Hell — you didn’t doubt his words. You’d seen the way Elain simpered around him, her cheeks a brilliant pink, her eyes vibrant. She liked to play the coy, sweet thing, but you imagined how thoroughly she’d give herself to Azriel if he offered.

So why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he taken the chance? Simply to keep relations with Lucien civil?

All thoughts, all potential quick-witted responses, had eddied from your mind. He’d beaten you at your own game, rendered you useless with his proximity, his scent. With his nose that continued to brush your neck, the feel of his skin against yours.

You wanted more of it. All of it. To rid yourself of all your clothes and barriers, to feel every intricate inch of him against you.

Azriel caught on to the change in your scent immediately. He stiffened against you as your legs trembled. You wondered if he’d pull away and fly out of the doors without another word — but then his forehead fell against your shoulder, pressed into it, and he emitted a soft, frustrated groan.

“…Az?” You whispered.

“Don’t move.”

You wanted to listen — really, you did. But you’d never been much good at listening or taking direction. Shaking so hard you thought you may slide out from his grip and down the wall, you shifted your body.

The tiny change in position told you precisely why he’d said what he had when the long, hard length of him pushed through his trousers, up against your stomach. You sucked in a sharp breath, the exhalation causing you to move against him.

Azriel struck.

He ripped his head up, and in one fluid dip, his mouth was on yours, pressing a forbidden, bruising kiss to your lips.

You didn’t hesitate for a second. You kissed him back — hard, passionate — the kiss you’d hoped for on the balcony on Starfall. The one you’d imagined so long before that, and so many times since.

Azriel’s hands slid to your waist, the warmth of his palms pressing through your flimsy nightgown. He was so big, towering so much over you, that he had to lift you up just to keep your mouths joined. Another gasp had your mouth opening, and he grasped the opportunity while it was there, sliding his tongue in to dance around yours.

Gods — the taste of him, the feel of him — you wished you could bottle every element of that kiss and keep it for yourself. You tangled your hands within the silken strands of his hair, tugging just hard enough for him to grunt into your mouth.

You breathed heavily against his lips, “I want you.”

“Mm. No.” He grunted — growled — again. “We can’t.”

The refusal would have stung — if he didn’t follow those two, horrid words with another searing kiss. You let go of your grip on his hair, instead fisting the material of his tunic in your hands as you yanked him closer — harder — against you. You lightly nipped at his bottom lip.

The gasp he emitted turned into another one of those low, frustrated whines that you swallowed greedily. “Why can’t I stop?”

“I don’t want you to.” You breathed, kissing him again.

He kissed you back — not the heady exchange of passion that it’d been seconds before, but a quick, chaste kiss that he didn’t allow to linger. A peck — but slightly firmer, deeper. He did it a second time, a third, and just as you were about to open up for him again, he pulled away.

You could see the rise and fall of his chest through his black shirt as he stared at you, his bruised and swollen lips slightly parted, his dark hair tousled.

His eyes swept over you. You could only imagine what he saw — how flushed you probably were all over, how visibly your legs trembled. The peak of your nipples through your nightgown — a reaction provoked solely by him.

As he stared — and stared and stared and stared — realisation began to dawn in his eyes. He blinked, as though stepping out of a trance. Touched his scarred fingers to his lips and gently pinched them, as though he couldn’t quite believe what they’d just been doing.

You knew that look — the one of regret that was rapidly emerging from the one of desire. He blinked again. Took a step back.

“Az…” You murmured, daring a single step towards him.

He shook his head. Shook himself out of his thoughts. His face looked truly shell-shocked. “I need to leave.”

The punch to your heart was palpable. “Please don’t skip out on me now.”

“I have to leave.” He said again. In stiff, stunned movements so unlike his usual grace, he stalked back over to the balcony doors.

What could you do besides watch him? Even with your heart shattering inside you, that painful sting of something being dangled in front of you, just for it to be ripped away, you couldn’t stop him from running off into the morning light. You couldn’t begin to think of how much worse you’d make things if you tried.

Az ripped the doors open once more, and he turned his body just slightly. Just to look at you once more. A frown had darkened his features.

Without a word, he stepped out, and took a huge leap off the balcony, his wings carrying him off into the distance.

Tags: @safetypinxtales @historygeekqueen @smartiepants217 @mulansaucey @kennedy-brooke @highladyofillyria @issybee0611 @goldentournesol @percyjacksonspeen @high-bi-andreadytocry @esposadomd @positivewitch @bsenpai @cityofidek @shannonsaid @topaz125 @azzydaddy @nobody00sthings @sfhsgrad-blog @elizarikaallen @hanasakr @ruleroftides @mis-lil-red

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free-my-boy-grumbot · 10 months

Text

if you know don’t give it away, also i know all my followers have read it so i’m kinda hoping this breaches containment here

#cameron monologues #asoue #a series of unfortunate events #poll #lemony snicket #snicketverse #asoue netflix

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horeformilfs · 5 months

Text

Grieving

Alcina Dimitrescu x Fem!Reader

TW: Poison, Major Character Death, Suicide, Depression, Isolating

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The grandeur of Castle Dimitrescu echoed with the rhythmic hum of daily life. Y/N, the head maid in the vast kitchens, moved with precision and grace, orchestrating the culinary symphony that unfolded beneath her watchful eyes. The scent of spices and the clatter of utensils filled the air, creating a facade of normalcy that hid the underlying tension.

Alcina Dimitrescu, the imposing mistress of the castle, wielded her authority with a regal elegance. Her presence, however, cast a shadow over the bustling kitchen. Y/N, though proficient in her duties, felt the weight of Alcina's scrutiny like a looming storm.

One evening, as the kitchen bustled with activity, a misplaced plate triggered an unexpected tempest. Alcina, her patience thin, descended upon the chaotic scene like a thunderous force. "Y/N!" she called out, her voice carrying a dangerous undercurrent that sent a shiver down the spines of the kitchen staff.

Y/N, ever composed, approached Alcina with a respectful bow. "Mistress, how may I assist you?"

Alcina's gaze, stern and unforgiving, locked onto Y/N. "This incompetence in my kitchen is unacceptable. You will be held accountable for this."

The accusation hung heavy in the air, a dark cloud that threatened to engulf Y/N. As Alcina berated her, the weight of each word carved deep wounds in Y/N's pride. The kitchen staff, aware of the brewing storm, exchanged uneasy glances.

The tirade continued, Alcina's words a relentless assault on Y/N's competence and dedication. The head maid, struggling to maintain her composure, bit back the tears that threatened to spill. She had prided herself on her abilities, but under Alcina's disapproving gaze, her confidence crumbled like a fragile facade.

Finally, as Alcina dismissed her with a wave of her hand, Y/N retreated from the kitchen, her steps heavy with the burden of failure. Alone in her quarters, the walls seemed to close in, suffocating her with a sense of inadequacy that cut deeper than any physical wound.

Days turned into a monotonous blur, each moment tainted by the lingering echoes of that fateful evening. Y/N, once the beacon of efficiency, withdrew into a shell of self-doubt. The kitchen, once her domain, became a haunting reminder of her perceived failure.

Alcina, unaware of the internal turmoil she had unleashed, moved about the castle with the same regal grace. The chasm between mistress and maid, however, widened with each passing day, leaving a void that seemed insurmountable.

In the grandeur of Castle Dimitrescu, where secrets whispered in the shadows, Y/N navigated the labyrinth of emotions stirred by an unintended rift between a mistress and her head maid. The echoes of that anguished night lingered, casting a melancholic pallor over the once vibrant corridors of their tangled existence.

Days turned into weeks, and the once bustling kitchen became a silent witness to Y/N's internal struggle. The routine tasks that once brought her joy now felt like burdens, each moment fraught with the fear of further disappointment. Alcina's presence, though commanding, seemed to cast a long shadow that eclipsed the warmth that once permeated the castle.

One evening, as Y/N moved mechanically through the kitchen, her mind wandered to the fateful night of reprimand. The words, like cruel echoes, replayed in her mind, a haunting refrain that fueled her self-doubt. A sudden clatter echoed through the kitchen, drawing Y/N back to the present. Her hands trembled as she struggled to regain control.

Alcina, appearing at the scene like an unexpected storm, fixed her sharp gaze on Y/N. "Another mistake, I presume?" The words, laced with sarcasm, cut through the air like a bitter wind.

Y/N, unable to meet Alcina's gaze, nodded silently. The mistress's expression darkened, disappointment etched in the lines of her regal features. "You are becoming a liability, Y/N," she declared, her voice a cold decree that reverberated through the kitchen.

The weight of those words bore down on Y/N's shoulders, the burden almost too much to bear. In that moment, the kitchen became a prison, and Alcina's words were the chains that bound her to a perceived failure.

As the days wore on, the rift between mistress and maid deepened. Alcina, though unaware of the turmoil she had caused, continued to wield her authority with an unyielding hand. Y/N, trapped in the cycle of self-recrimination, withdrew further into her own thoughts.

One night, as Y/N navigated the castle's dimly lit corridors, a chance encounter with Alcina brought their strained dynamic to the forefront. "Mistress, I..." Y/N began, the words catching in her throat.

Alcina, a formidable figure in the moonlit corridor, turned her gaze upon Y/N. "Save your excuses. I have little patience left for incompetence," she declared, her tone cutting through the air.

Y/N, her eyes betraying the pain she harbored, tried to speak again, but Alcina, without a second glance, continued down the corridor, leaving Y/N standing alone in the suffocating silence.

The castle, once a haven, now echoed with the hollowness of fractured connections. In the dance between mistress and maid, the music had soured, leaving behind a dissonant melody that reverberated through the haunted halls of Castle Dimitrescu.

As the days wore on, the weight of perceived failure bore down on Y/N, wrapping her in a suffocating shroud of darkness. The castle's once vibrant energy felt like a distant memory, replaced by the oppressive silence that accompanied Y/N's descent into the depths of her own despair.

Y/N's duties in the kitchen became mechanical, her once meticulous work marred by the fog that clouded her thoughts. The vibrancy that defined her spirit flickered like a dying ember, leaving behind a mere shell of the head maid she used to be.

Unbeknownst to Y/N, the maids who once worked alongside her in harmony began to notice the change. Hushed whispers echoed through the servant corridors, where gossip became a bitter companion to the pervasive atmosphere of discontent. The maids, ignorant of the internal battles Y/N fought, speculated on the cause of her apparent downfall.

"She's not the same anymore," one maid whispered to another, their voices laced with judgment.

"Probably can't handle the pressure. It's not easy being the head maid in this castle," another responded, her tone carrying a cruel edge.

The words, like venomous arrows, found their way to Y/N's ears, further intensifying the isolation that had become her constant companion. Unaware of the extent of Y/N's struggles, the maids allowed gossip to weave a narrative that cast her as a weak link in the intricate web of Castle Dimitrescu.

One day, as the maids gathered in a secluded corner to share their speculative musings, Alcina, a towering figure in the doorway, overheard their conversation. The cold intensity of her gaze bore into the group, and the maids, realizing they were no longer alone, fell into an uneasy silence.

"What is the meaning of this?" Alcina demanded, her voice a stern command that cut through the awkward stillness.

The maids, caught off guard, exchanged nervous glances. "We were just talking, Mistress. Just... sharing observations," one of them stammered.

Alcina's gaze, sharp and unyielding, settled on each maid in turn. "Observations? Enlighten me."

The maids, hesitating, reluctantly shared their opinions on Y/N's perceived decline. The words, fueled by speculation and ignorance, painted a bleak picture of the head maid's capabilities.

Alcina's features hardened as she listened, her disappointment palpable. "You presume to judge her without understanding the true weight of her burden," she asserted, her voice carrying a gravity that demanded respect.

The maids, now realizing the gravity of their words, exchanged uneasy glances. Alcina continued, her gaze piercing through their uncertainty. "Y/N may be facing challenges you cannot comprehend. Before you pass judgment, consider the consequences of your words. Now, return to your duties, and remember the importance of loyalty among those who serve in this castle."

With those words, Alcina left the maids to contemplate the repercussions of their gossip. The castle, already steeped in shadows, became an even more somber backdrop for the internal struggles that unfolded within its walls.

The atmosphere in Castle Dimitrescu had grown increasingly tense, mirroring the inner turmoil that festered within its walls. Another few weeks passed, and the weight of secrets and unspoken grievances bore down on Y/N and Lady Dimitrescu alike.

Alcina, returning from a meeting with Mother Miranda, was seething with a barely contained rage. The maids scurried out of her path, recognizing the storm that had descended upon their mistress. Y/N, with a sense of trepidation, prepared to serve dinner to Lady Dimitrescu and her daughters.

As the meal was presented, Alcina's simmering anger reached its boiling point. A minor mishap, a dish slightly out of place, triggered an unexpected outburst. "Is it too much to ask for competence in this castle?" Alcina's voice, a thunderous roar, reverberated through the dining room.

Y/N, caught in the crossfire, struggled to maintain her composure. "Mistress, I apologize. It won't happen again," she stammered, her eyes downcast.

But Alcina, in the grip of her own frustration, lashed out without mercy. "Incompetence breeds incompetence. You're a blight in my castle, Y/N. I should have replaced you long ago."

The words, like a blade, sliced through Y/N's defenses. She felt the familiar weight of failure settling upon her shoulders, threatening to crush the last remnants of her resolve. Blinking back tears, Y/N excused herself, retreating from the dining room with a heavy heart.

In the solitude of her quarters, Y/N, with trembling hands, penned a letter to Lady Dimitrescu—a letter that revealed the depths of her despair and the toll Alcina's words had taken on her fragile soul.

Lady Dimitrescu,

I write to you with a heavy heart, burdened by the weight of my perceived failures. The shadows that linger within this castle have grown too dark for me to bear. Your disappointment, Mistress, is a wound that cuts deep. I cannot endure it any longer.

I beg for your forgiveness, though I know it will never be enough to repair the damage I have done. My time in this castle has come to an end, and I release you from the burden of my incompetence. I am truly sorry.

Yours faithfully,

Y/N

As Y/N sealed the letter, the specter of desperation loomed. With a vial of poison in hand, she took a deep breath, the room spinning as she drank its contents. The darkness closed in, and Y/N, overcome by dizziness, succumbed to unconsciousness.

Meanwhile, in the dining room, Bela, the eldest of Lady Dimitrescu's daughters, witnessed the exchange between her mother and Y/N. Concern etched her features, and once Y/N left, Bela spoke up.

"Mother, you shouldn't have lashed out at Y/N like that. She's been through enough," Bela asserted, her voice carrying a rare defiance.

Lady Dimitrescu, momentarily taken aback, considered Bela's words. The realization of her own harshness settled in, and a flicker of regret crossed her eyes. Bela, determined to bridge the growing divide, continued, "You should go apologize to her. She's loyal and doesn't deserve such treatment."

In the corridors of Castle Dimitrescu, a delicate dance of regret and despair unfolded, leaving behind a trail of consequences that would echo through the haunted halls of their existence.

Lady Dimitrescu, her heart heavy with regret, hurried through the corridors of Castle Dimitrescu, guided by the weight of Bela's words. As she approached Y/N's room, a foreboding sense of urgency gripped her. The door, when opened, revealed a scene that froze the blood in her veins.

Y/N lay unconscious on the bed, the pallor of her skin accentuating the haunting stillness of her form. Lady Dimitrescu, a tremor in her hands, tried to wake her. "Y/N, wake up," she implored, her voice a desperate plea.

Beside Y/N, Lady Dimitrescu noticed a folded piece of paper. As she unfolded it, the words of Y/N's farewell letter became a painful reality. The weight of her own actions, the harshness of her words, pressed upon Lady Dimitrescu with an unbearable force. Tears welled in her eyes as she read the despairing words that echoed Y/N's internal struggle.

In a frantic search for answers, Lady Dimitrescu discovered the vial of poison. Panic gripped her, and without a moment's hesitation, she called for her daughters. "Bela! Cassandra! Daniela!"

The three daughters rushed into the room, their expressions shifting from concern to shock as they took in the scene. "What happened, Mother?" Bela asked, her voice filled with worry.

Lady Dimitrescu, her voice strained, directed their attention to Y/N's lifeless form. "Call Mother Miranda. Tell her we need her assistance immediately."

As her daughters hurried to carry out her orders, Lady Dimitrescu remained at Y/N's side, a complex mix of emotions swirling within her. Guilt, regret, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility weighed heavily on her shoulders. In the stillness of Y/N's room, the consequences of actions unfolded, painting a stark portrait of the fragility that existed within the walls of the castle.

Mother Miranda arrived swiftly, her ethereal presence commanding the room as her daughters anxiously stepped aside. Lady Dimitrescu, her eyes filled with a mix of desperation and guilt, approached Mother Miranda with a trembling urgency.

"Mother Miranda, we need your help," Lady Dimitrescu implored, her voice cracking with emotion. "Y/N... she's taken something. We found her unconscious with this vial." Lady Dimitrescu extended the vial toward Miranda, the contents a mysterious shadow that now threatened Y/N's very existence.

Miranda, her gaze steady, took the vial from Lady Dimitrescu's hand and inspected it closely. The label revealed a dark truth that cast a chilling pallor over the room. Miranda's eyes widened in recognition, and a grave realization settled upon her features.

"What is it, Mother Miranda? Can you save her?" Lady Dimitrescu's voice betrayed a desperation that mirrored the gravity of the situation.

Miranda, after a moment of solemn contemplation, met Alcina's gaze. "This is a poison with no known antidote," she revealed, the weight of those words hanging heavy in the air.

Lady Dimitrescu, her composure slipping, sought clarification. "No antidote? But there must be something you can do. She can't—" Her words caught in her throat, choked by the fear of an impending loss.

Miranda, her expression a mask of somber understanding, nodded. "I will do what I can, but understand, Alcina, the situation is dire. The nature of this poison is beyond our conventional means of healing."

As Miranda began her examination of Y/N's unconscious form, Lady Dimitrescu, her heart heavy with guilt, watched with bated breath. The corridors of Castle Dimitrescu, once cloaked in mystery, now echoed with the urgency of a life hanging in the balance. In the face of a poison with no known cure, the very foundation of their existence trembled, leaving the fates of Y/N and those entwined in her story hanging by the thinnest of threads.

As Mother Miranda worked tirelessly to counteract the effects of the insidious poison, Alcina, her daughters, and the weight of the castle's somber atmosphere lingered outside Y/N's room. The passing hours were marked by a haunting silence, each tick of the clock echoing the collective anxiety that gripped their hearts.

After what felt like an eternity, the door finally creaked open, revealing Mother Miranda with a somber expression. Alcina, her eyes desperate for reassurance, stepped forward. "Is she alright? Is Y/N going to be okay?" Alcina's voice wavered, the vulnerability beneath her regal exterior laid bare.

Miranda, her gaze heavy with the weight of the truth, met Alcina's eyes. "I did everything I could," she began, her words weighed down by the solemn reality that awaited them. "But the poison was too strong. I'm sorry, Alcina."

The news struck Alcina like a blow, leaving her momentarily speechless. Daniela, overcome by grief, began to cry, and Bela, though grateful for Miranda's efforts, guided her towards the door with a silent nod of acknowledgment.

Alcina, left standing in the corridor, felt a profound emptiness settle within her. The walls of Castle Dimitrescu, once a fortress of strength, now seemed to close in on her, trapping her in a reality she couldn't comprehend.

Without uttering a word, Alcina entered Y/N's room. The air within was heavy with sorrow, and the sight of Y/N, now pallid and still, struck Alcina to the core. She approached the bedside, her hand trembling as she gently brushed Y/N's cheek.

"I'm sorry, Y/N," Alcina whispered, her voice choked with regret. "I never meant for this to happen. I failed you, and I can never forgive myself."

The room, once a sanctuary, now bore witness to a silent lamentation. In the quiet depths of grief, Alcina, a towering figure reduced to a shattered soul, grappled with the irrevocable consequences of a tragedy that had unfolded within the walls of Castle Dimitrescu.

The air in the cemetery hung heavy with the weight of grief as Alcina made her way to the final resting place of Y/N. The sky, once a canvas of endless possibilities, now seemed to mirror the somber hues that colored the landscape beneath.

Beneath the sweeping branches of a willow tree, Alcina found Y/N's resting place. The gravestone, a stark reminder of a life extinguished too soon, bore Y/N's name like an epitaph etched in stone. Alcina, despite the regality she exuded, knelt before the marker with a profound sense of loss.

"I never thought I would lose you like this," Alcina whispered, her voice carrying the echoes of a grief too deep to articulate. The wind rustled through the willow's leaves, as if nature itself mourned the tragedy that had befallen Y/N.

Alcina traced the engraved letters of Y/N's name, her fingers trembling with the weight of remorse. Tears welled in her eyes, and with each droplet that fell, the chasm of emptiness within her seemed to deepen.

"I miss your presence in the castle. The corridors feel hollow without you, and the silence is a haunting reminder of the laughter we shared," Alcina confessed, her words breaking with the rawness of unfiltered sorrow.

She spoke of the day-to-day occurrences, the mundane details that now held a profound significance. The memory of Y/N's laughter, the way she meticulously managed the chaos of the castle, and the simple moments they had shared together became fragments of a past forever lost.

Alcina, overcome by the weight of her emotions, bowed her head in silent lamentation. "I failed you, Y/N. My words, my actions—they led us here. If only I could turn back time, if only I could undo the pain I caused."

The willow tree, its branches cascading like a cascade of tears, seemed to offer a sympathetic embrace as Alcina wept for a future that would never be. The echoes of her sorrow mingled with the rustle of leaves, creating a mournful symphony that transcended the boundaries of the living and the departed.

In that quiet corner of the cemetery, beneath the willow's weeping boughs, Alcina grieved for a love lost, for a soul departed, and for the irreparable wounds that marked the legacy of Castle Dimitrescu.

#lady dimitrescu #alcina x reader #alcina dimitrescu #lady alcina #re8 alcina #resident evil alcina #mother miranda #resident evil village

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yujeong · 1 month

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i spotted some talk of ace vegas 👀 please continue if you want.

there's a lot of demi pete acknowledgement, but i can totally get why vegas would be a service top as an ace person

Hey there, anon! Thank you so much for sending me this! I'd love to expand on my thoughts actually, since I'm pretty sure I haven't stumbled across any posts that delve into this headcanon about Vegas. However, before saying more, I'd like to give 2 important disclaimers: 1. I'm not ace, or at least I don't think I am (sexuality has been a fraught topic to me for the past couple of years, I try not to think about it), so everything I'm about to say should be taken with a grain of salt - as well as be corrected if I say sth stupid or inaccurate, 2. The "ace Vegas" headcanon isn't an original thought of mine. A former fandom friend had mentioned it once in a server I used to be a part of, and it intrigued me. Now, on to the topic at hand. Apologies in advance, because this ended up being super long: Vegas' sexuality and how he expresses it has been a very interesting topic to me due to how much emphasis is put on it throughout the show. From the way he flirts with Porsche (horribly) to the way his room is decorated or the way he dresses and acts, the man oozes sexual appeal, so much so that he rivals Kinn, aka the horniest man on planet Earth. But the more we get exposed to it, the more it makes me wonder: is Vegas really a "sex freak" or is he using it as a weapon to win against Kinn? Because if Vegas copies other things Kinn does in order to win against him - the suits, the boyfriends, the mafia tactics - why wouldn't he copy his (presumed) sex life? Why wouldn't he try spicing up his image as this scary sadist with the cuffs and the whips and the XL vegan condoms, in order to rival his cousin? Adding the ace aspect here, it could also be a way for him to cope with the fact that he hasn't experienced sexual attraction towards anyone in comparison to Kinn (because it is of vital importance to me that everything Vegas thinks about himself is because of Kinn). He can see how Kinn stares at the men he fucks, he can see the hunger; it's sth he lacks. He feels inferior to Kinn due to this, he feels like a freak - as he told Pete, I'll expand upon that line later - so, he overcompensates for it.... ...which brings me to the mirror scene. Yes, that mirror scene. I'd say it's one of two scenes that could discourage someone from having the "ace Vegas" headcanon, due to how Vegas is alone and fantasizes about Porsche while (I assume) touching himself, BUT I have two counter-arguments to that: 1. Vegas is so deep into this facade he's put on that he's trying to persuade himself to feel powerful for managing to incapacitate Porsche, even though he eventually failed to do what he had wanted to, 2. Vegas isn't fantasizing about Porsche himself, but rather the thing he did to him, the act. He managed for a little while to have the upper hand on him, and that power makes him feel good (aka horny). Is it a stretch? Maybe. Since a lot of fans love Vegas being a hardcore sadist who practices BDSM (something I'm in the minority of), perhaps ace Vegas doesn't sound believable - even though a LOT of ace people practice BDSM, as is known. Now, let's examine VegasPete in this context:

Vegas hadn't shown any interest to Pete pre-spying shenanigans, and even then, he mostly taunts the poor man. Condoms and ass grabs and merits, that's the most he does to Pete up until ep10, when he has him tied up in his basement and tortures him. I do love how most of the torturing he does to Pete is sexual or has sexual implications (RIP Pete's balls). It emphasizes how Vegas uses sex as a weapon to achieve his goals, whatever those may be - which, in Pete's case, are just him trying to redirect his intense anger from his failure onto someone else. Vegas knows how powerful sex is - it's why he used it to drive Pete's attention away from his issues after they buried the hedgehog and Pete told him he shouldn't hit himself. And being ace, he's more detached to it (by not being attracted to the person he's using his tactics against), so he's better at it. He excels at it, it gives him a perverted sense of self-confidence. Now, their NC scene is one of my favorites exactly because of what anon mentioned: Vegas reads so much as a service top in it. He is 100% focused on Pete and how good he's making him feel. His own orgasm can very well be considered an afterthought and it's perfect. With all of this, I can't help but see the possibility of him being ace. The last 2 things I want to mention are from the next scene, because they're also arguments that could be used against this headcanon: 1) "Do you know how sexy you are?" and 2) "I thought I was a freak, until now" Ok, so, a question: if we take into consideration the idea of Vegas being ace - a Vegas who compares himself to Kinn, a Vegas who uses sex as a tool, a Vegas who thinks of himself as an unlovable monster, a Vegas who hates himself to the point of being suicidal - then what's the most probable outcome of him having the first actual good sexual experience in his life? Answer: he'll get hella confused lol What I mean by this, is that Vegas didn't suddenly become allosexual from this experience with Pete. Vegas simply... fell in love. (or, more accurately, the feeling that had been building up inside him since the pill kiss cemented itself in his heart after they had sex) And what do some people do when they have a similar experience? They confuse romantic love with sexual attraction, thinking they experienced one thing when they did the other. That's what I believe happened with Vegas. He thought he's not a freak because he figured he's sexually attracted to Pete, when in reality the poor fucker loves Pete romantically. If we can accept the fact that Vegas knows shit all about proper BDSM practices (Pete isn't even looking that up lmao), then he sure af doesn't know about the differences between sexual and romantic attraction. Hence, what he told Pete. I think that's all I wanted to say, which is a lot already haha, but in order to properly expand upon this issue, I needed to write an essay of a post. I'm sorry if it was tiring and thank you again anon for your ask ❤️❤️

#idk if I covered everything I wanted to #but my main goal here is throwing all these thoughts out there and hoping people might be interested in checking them out #and also starting a conversation about this too because it's *so* interesting to me #I know most of the fandom doesn't have this image of Vegas in mind #but still #it's fun to think about #I really hope I didn't say anything inaccurate about asexuality though #if so pls let me know #now if I wanted to really spice things up I'd argue Pete is aromant-*[gunshots]*#kinnporche the series #vegas theerapanyakul #vegaspete #asks

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iboatedhere · 5 months

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Thanks @liminalmemories21 for the tag.

I have a bunch of holiday themed fics from my Check Please era.

Cookies And Conversations - Jack and Bitty spend Christmas in Georgia.

Down On The Waterfront- The waterfront is packed. Jack has never seen this many people along the bank of the river. He didn’t even know there was this many people in Providence.

You Can Count On Me-“Hey, Bits. You’re probably still asleep. It’s quarter after five here so that means it’s what….seven-fifteen in Rhode Island? The time differences have been screwing me up all week but I’m pretty sure that’s right. You’ve definitely hit the snooze buttons a few times at least. Anyways, I’m just calling because I’m still at the airport. There’s a snowstorm coming into Denver and they’ve delayed a ton of flights. It sucks but I promise I’m going to make it in time, okay? You don’t need to worry about it. A promise is a promise and I’ll be there even if I have to Trains, Planes, and Automobiles my way home…….shit. They just delayed us again. But I’ll be there. I love you. Both of you. I’ll call you when we start to board. See you soon.”

Let Your Heart Be Light -“Jack. Sweetheart. If these cookies don’t work out,” he drops his voice to a whisper, “I’m going to have to bring store bought cookies to holiday parties.” “I won’t let that happen.” He pats Bitty’s butt and tells him to get going.

Christmas In The Air-Snowflakes swirl around them as Jack follows Bitty through the maze of trees.

Mistletoe Kisses -Shitty hangs the mistletoe in the entryway to the kitchen and it feels like a personal attack.

Snowmen and Snowball Fights- Shitty flings his bag towards the porch and dives into the snow. “C’mon Jack. The kids grow up so fast.” He points at Bitty and Bitty gasps in offence. “We have to enjoy the time we have with them.”

Do You See What I See?- Jack might have one eye on Tater but the other is on Eric Bittle, Head of Public Relations, who is standing very close to him and smells very good. Like vanilla and sugar and the spice of the mulled cider that he’s ladling into his cup.

Beneath The Winter Moon- Bitty has checked his phone every two minutes for the past hour and the only thing that ever changes on it is the time. There’s never a new text or a missed call that he didn’t hear over the sound joyful sounds of kids and adults laughing and singing as they skate around the ice. The minutes tick by, there’s no stopping them. There’s no stopping the feeling in the pit of his stomach either. He got stood up. There’s no way around it.

Love And All The Other Intangibles- Eric Bittle's fraught and opaque relationship with Christmas.

Warm Your Bones By The Light Of My Fire -Jack heads out to check on the team in the middle of a blizzard. Bitty stress bakes.

Every Time A Bell Rings- Jack gets injured during a game and when he wakes up in the hospital he's pretty sure he's looking at an angel.

#check please #check please fic #zimbits #zimbits fic #this was a good fandom #it was good to me

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heartofstanding · 7 months

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Seeing your views on Margaret of Anjou, I was told that Margaret of Anjou was firm, brave, but too radical, revengeful to the enemy and extreme political measures, which led to her failure. I want to know your views on the reasons for her failure?

Hi, sorry this took so long! I've been busy and this got very long. The short answer to all three, however, is that she had a shit-ton of bad luck.

The slightly extended version of is:

The Treaty of Tours which brought her to England had terrible terms for the English and thus terribly unpopular. As the face of the treaty, she was unfairly blamed for.

England was losing the Hundred Years War, badly. Her marriage was meant to bring peace but the only peace to be gained was through defeat and capitulation. Margaret was blamed for failing to live up to unrealistic expectations.

There was something of a succession crisis, the long wait for Margaret to conceive and give birth to an heir did nothing to easeit and only added to her unpopularity.

The long wait for an heir meant there was fertile ground for rumours and gossip, specifically the idea that she was an adulteress and Edward of Lancaster a bastard.

Henry VI's sudden mental breakdown, (probable) limited recovery and imprisonment left Margaret as the figurehead of Lancastrian rule and resistance. It made her the target for Yorkist propaganda attacks.

Following the Battle of Towton, the Lancastrians were in a weak position to negotiate with potential allies, meaning they made great concessions that were then seized upon by Yorkists to turn the general public against the Lancastrian side.

Severe weather hampered the Lancastrians on at least three occasions: Towton, Barnet and Margaret's return to England in 1471.

She lost. Yorkist rule continued to denigrate her and the Tudors weren't interested in challenging that idea.

Want more detail?

The Problem of Determining Personality

To start with, we don't know a whole lot about Margaret's personality. We don't know a whole lot about any medieval individual's personality, the evidence simply isn't there to tell us about their personal thoughts beyond brief flashes of insight. It's a fraught issue, as Rosemary Horrox points out, with reference to Margaret herself.

We also have to contend with the layers and layers of propagandistic narratives. Again, this is true for almost every figure in medieval history (cf. A. J. Pollard on Elizabeth Woodville). When we shift through the Lancastrian, French, Yorkist, Tudor and more narratives about Margaret, how do we know which one is telling the truth? The virago Yorkist writers derided is unlikely to be the true Margaret but that doesn't mean that the tireless heroine of French writers is the "true Margaret" either. Both images are stereotypes, both come from biased sources. Nor does acknowledging that the image of Margaret as the virago was a propagandistic creation that served Yorkist interests mean that Margaret must have been the exact opposite and she was really sugar, spice and all things nice.

These type of stereotypes are attractive to historians and historical fiction writers alike. They're simple but dramatic. They work well with other stereotyped figures, with "accepted" versions of history that are accepted because they've been repeated so often that they now seem true even if the evidence isn't there or doesn't tell us the things we think we know. It produces a simple, coherent narrative which confirms our own biases. The image of Margaret as radical, revenge-seeking and extreme is often tied to the narrative of Richard, Duke of York as a noble, hard-working and good man who was forced to rebel against his king (who is not rightful king, of course, because that's York) due to the plots and schemes of Margaret and her cronies. Margaret's inability and unwillingness to acknowledge and accept York's greatness becomes the reason for her defeat. She's just too petty and self-serving. She brings it upon herself. She could have been safe - but she unfairly and evilly attacked York and he was simply forced by her actions to rebel.

I don't find that view of York convincing. I don't find that view of Margaret convincing. It's too simplistic, too much of a children's tale where the good guys are so good and the bad guys so bad that the bad guy forces the good guy into any acts that are morally dubious. There's more than a little misogyny in it too, blaming a woman for the actions of a man.

"The Bad Queen" and Queenship

Margaret has long been seen as the "bad queen", a woman who abjectly failed as queenship and was the reason why the Wars of the Roses broke out. I've already discussed some of the issues with that view but I want to talk about a couple of other points.

One: the Lancastrians lost, which cemented Margaret's reputation. As Katherine J. Lewis has pointed out, if the Lancastrians had been successful, Margaret would have likely been celebrated for her bravery and steadfast loyalty that saw the restoration of her husband and son. Instead, they lost and the Yorkist narrative about her became the norm.

Two: Margaret appears to have behaved as a conventional queen for as long as possible. She did not arrive in England and immediately begin she-wolfing it up and instead tried to behave in a way that lived up to gender expectations, even when she was forced to move beyond them (cf. Helen Maurer's comment here).

Three: when we talk about the ideals of queenship, we have to realise that while these were kind of a job description, they were subjective and often based in misogynistic "ideals" of womanhood. e.g. "motherhood" reduces the queen to her reproductive ability and this was something she had little to no control over. An infertile queen is often deemed to have "failed" at the "most vital" aspect of queenship by modern historians and commentators (for an alternate view, see Kristen Geaman on Anne of Bohemia) but very rarely is there an acknowledgement of how misogynistic this standard is.

Margaret was not a popular queen before the Wars of the Roses began. She became queen in a situation where she was set up to inevitably fail. She arrived in England to pageants hailing her as a bringer of peace, as the figure to end the war with France, but the terms of the treaty that included her marriage contract ensured that any benefits she could bring were minimal. There was a short, 21-month peace, a paltry dowry, the outlay of considerable expense to bring her to England, and her father had little to no influence with Charles VII of France to be able to help any future negotiations.

Another factor was that the surrender of Maine and Anjou came to be widely associated with her marriage. It wasn't an official condition of the marriage but it does appear to have been promised at the same time. It was disastrously unpopular in England and it very likely inflamed tensions within the nobility. Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset held large amounts of territory in Maine and Anjou and was made Lieutenant of France to make up for these losses, which offended his predecessor in the role, Richard, Duke of York. It has been argued, though I'm not convinced, that York continuing in the role would have at least maintained, if not improved, the English position in France instead of the massive decline that followed.

None of this was Margaret's fault. She was 14 years old when her marriage was negotiated. She had no role in negotiations beyond the symbolic. There is also some thought that the English side was hamstrung by Henry VI's instructions to make a peace at any and all cost. We don't know how she felt about marrying Henry or about the surrender of Maine and Anjou beyond speculation based on preconceived ideas of what she was "like". We don't know what she was really like to guess how she felt about these things. And even if she was in favour of the surrender of Maine and Anjou, she was still a teenager when it happened. Are we really saying that a bunch of experienced adult men fell over themselves to do exactly what a teenage girl wanted even though it was disastrously bad for England?

Margaret had basically walked into a scenario where she had very little chance of being the peace-bringer she was expected to be and her popularity suffered as a result. She wasn't the one making choices - at best, she might have influenced others to make choices, but most of the problems with France that she was blamed for began before she set foot in England.

The Succession Crisis

Margaret also walked into a succession crisis.

Typically, the succession crisis tends to be talked about as occurring from after the death of Henry's last paternal uncle and his heir, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, in 1447 but I would suggest that there was an underlying anxiety about the succession that predated Gloucester's death. Since 1435, Henry VI's one and only heir had been his ageing and childless uncle Gloucester (before 1435, Gloucester's elder brother, also childless, had been the heir), who was not terribly popular with Henry and his court. On one hand, Henry and his favourites did not want Gloucester to become king because they disliked him and his policies. From another perspective, Gloucester was getting on in years, childless, unmarried and possibly in poor health, so if he became king, he wouldn't be expected to reign long and if he managed to produce an heir before his death, the chance are this heir would still be in single digits when he succeeded the throne. If there was no child, the question of the succession was wide open. As it was, Gloucester died two years after Margaret's arrival and there was no longer a clear heir.

I know that you're probably thinking, "York, though. It's York." Well, yes and no. York probably had the claim with the least complications. He was Henry's closest male relative who had not descended through the female line or through a legitimised bastard line. But there were were two other lines that had viable claims to the throne: Somerset and Exeter.

Exeter's claim derived from from Elizabeth of Lancaster, the daughter of John of Gaunt and his first wife, Blanche of Lancaster, making her the full sister of Henry IV. Somerset's claim was derived from John Beaufort, Earl of Somerset who was the eldest son of Gaunt and his third wife, Katherine Swynford. The Beauforts had been born bastards but legitimised by both the Pope and by Richard II. This legitimisation did not contain any clauses barring them the throne (this was done under Letters Patent in Henry IV's reign), quite possibly because Richard appears to have chronically avoided making any pronouncements on the succession and quite possibly because the there was little reason to imagine the Beauforts in contention for the throne.

Somerset was probably Henry's preferred heir. Since Exeter derived his claim through the female line, naming him heir meant that the female line counted in the succession and if it did, York had a better claim to the throne than Exeter and Henry, as he was descended from Lionel of Antwerp (Gaunt's elder brother) through the female line. It risked exposing the weakness at the centre of the Lancastrian claim to the throne which would in turn would reveal the reigns of Henry's father and grandfather were illegitimate. York seems to have never been particularly close to Henry; as Michael Bennett pointed out about Richard II (who, like Henry, faced a similarly uncertain and difficult succession), it's hard to love your winding cloth. But Somerset was a favourite, a Lancastrian from a cadet line and Henry's closest living paternal relative who was of legitimate birth.

These competing claims and the uncertainty about who would succeed caused anxiety. If Henry died childless, who would become king? How would these claims be settled? Would there be civil war and strife? What would it mean if the Lancastrian dynasty came to an end and a new one began?

So it's easy to imagine the pressure on Margaret to conceive and bear a child was almost certainly immediate on her arrival to England. Bearing a child would help ease these anxieties considerably, continuing the Lancastrian dynasty, putting to rest any civil discord caused by competing claim and ensuring a peaceful succession. In view of the unpopularity of the marriage to Margaret, it would also be seen as having a legitimising the marriage.

The Long Wait For An Heir

Unfortunately, that didn't happen. It was eight years between Margaret's arrival in England and the birth of Edward of Lancaster.

We don't know why it took so long. There's speculation of course - a delay in consummating the marriage due to Margaret's youth, the stress and pressure of the situation, Henry being too pious for sex, Margaret undergoing rigorous fasting as part of religious devotion, Henry requiring a sex coach, Henry being the medieval equivalent of asexual and/or sex repulsed, or there being some subfertility issue. There's no real evidence, one way or the other.

Henry VI's sexuality and piety are one of those sort of myths of the Wars of the Roses, embedded in the narrative as a "truth" but lacking contemporary evidence (as Bertram Wolffe points out, there is little direct, contemporary evidence for Henry's piety, most appears in retrospect as part of an explanation for his failed kingship and part propaganda for the (Tudor-sponsored) efforts to canonise him as a saint). The evidence of a sex coach is based a historian failing to understand how a medieval king's bedrooms worked and going, "we don't know that these people in attendance on the king at night in his bedroom left when he had sex with his wife so... sex coach? Please buy my book!" We don't know that there was a delay in consummation or that Margaret was considered too young for sex (for comparison's sake, Henry's grandmother, Mary de Bohun, conceived her first son - Henry V - around her 15th birthday). Margaret herself complained of poor health caused by rigorous fasting during times of "many sufferings and tribulations" but we don't know that she was fasting throughout these early years. We don't have anything like medical records for Margaret (or Henry) to know how she tried to manage this childlessness.

But we generally don't know why a medieval couple was childless. Where we do have evidence, it's often speculative (e.g. Kristen Geaman's work on Anne of Bohemia suggests Anne suffered at least one miscarriage based on a letter she dictated).

What we do know is that Henry and Margaret never attempted to promote the image of having a chaste marriage, even though it would have provided a bulwark against criticism of their childless state - they were choosing the holy, pious option. The birth of Edward of Lancaster and Henry VI's joyous reaction to the news of Margaret's pregnancy also suggest that they were trying for a baby. I think this suggests there was some kind of uncontrollable issue, possibly medical, causing their childlessness than it being a deliberate choice to assign "blame" for. It was, in short, just bad luck.

The long wait for an heir meant the anxieties around the succession and continuation of the Lancastrian were not quickly eased. In some ways, they might have been exacerbated. Before his marriage to Margaret, there was no reason to believe that Henry would struggle to have children when he married (or at least, there is no evidence this was the case). Once married, though, Henry's continued childlessness began to appear to be an issue that couldn't be easily or quickly resolved, perhaps even being a permanent issue.

We know, too, that their childlessness was used to criticise them from as early as 1446, and Margaret was the chief target of this criticism. An example of this comes from 1448, where one felon in Canterbury gaol accused his neighbour in the isle of Thanet of saying:

oure quene was non abyl to be Quene of Inglond but and he were a pere of or a lord of this ream he woulde be on thaym that shuld hepe putte her doun for because that sche bereth no child and because that we have pryns in this land

There does seem to have been some view that in marrying Margaret, Henry had betrayed his promise to marry a daughter of the Count of Armagnac and the lack of children from their marriage could be seen as a sign of God's disapproval. It would have added to the unpopularity Margaret was already facing.

While the news of Margaret's pregnancy does seem to have been greeted with joy, the long wait for such news had exposed Margaret to ample criticism and hatred. It made it easy for the allegations of Margaret's adultery and Edward of Lancaster's illegitimacy to take root. It meant that when Henry VI had his breakdown, there was no son who could serve even nominally as a regent for him and the question of who was to govern while Henry was incapable exposed the conflicts between York and Henry and York and Somerset.

Conflict with York

A lot of the conflict between York and Lancaster began with York's quarrel with Edmund Beaufort, Duke of Somerset. Somerset was considered a favourite of Henry VI and Margaret but we don't know how much Margaret was responsible for his position in comparison to Henry or how much York's quarrel with him was really him quarrelling with the crown without openly doing so and risking a charge of treason. It does seem likely, imo, that Margaret had sympathies with Somerset given her husband evidently trusted him, but we don't know if that's true and even if it is, it was Henry VI who ostensibly promoted Somerset.

Despite the retrospective reading we put on the events leading up to the outbreak of war with the First Battle of St. Albans, we lack surviving evidence for Margaret and York being in direct hostility to each other. As Helen Maurer says:

If there is no concrete evidence of hostility between Margaret prior to the crisis of 1453-54, there is some indication that they were on reasonably good terms. York's recent biographer, P.A. Johnson goes so far to characterise Margaret as a 'politically neutral figure', whose attitude prior to January 1454 was 'if anything sympathetic to York'.

There is no evidence that York opposed Margaret's marriage to Henry. We have evidence of Margaret intervening in a property dispute in York's favour and giving York and his servants' generous New Year's gifts. The gifts to his servants in 1453 were of the same value as she gave the to the servants of Somerset and Cardinal Kemp so there was no deliberate slight there. In 1447, they were higher than the gifts she gave the Duke of Gloucester's servants (although alienated from Henry VI, Gloucester did outrank York so you'd expect his servants to get the more valuable gifts), the archbishop of Canterbury and duchesses of Bedford and Buckingham. Maurer speculates this was to reassure York in the face of his appointment to the lieutenancy of Ireland. We also have evidence of an outwardly cordial relationship between Margaret and Cecily in the early 1450s. It is not enough to suggest Margaret and Cecily were friends or what they really felt about each other but it does suggest they were both invested in keeping up at least the facade of cordiality.

The relationship between Margaret and York did sour some point. It's impossible to know what was the fatal blow was or who was the first to turn hostile. It may have been Margaret's attempt to claim the regency when Henry VI suffered his breakdown, it may have been York's imprisonment of Somerset during his protectorship, it may have been when York lost the protectorship, it may have been the rumours of York's involvement in William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk's murder in 1450.

Maurer notes that Margaret probably viewed the First Battle of St. Albans as an alarming attack on Henry's royal authority by York. She would not be wrong to do so. York may have felt justified and may have been justified in taking action to remove the individual he saw as a threat to his own authority - Somerset - but he raised his banners and fought a battle against his king. A battle where the king, Margaret's husband, had been injured. Regardless of whether or not York was "justified" or whether or not Henry pardoned him, his behaviour was, actually, treasonous (and it is likely he was only pardoned because Henry felt forced into it).

We can argue about the semantics and justifications for York's behaviour but it doesn't really matter when it comes to Margaret's reaction. York had raised an army against his sovereign and fought against his sovereign's own forces in a battle where his sovereign was wounded in the neck. There is no world in which Margaret would not see York as a threat to her family after this. If we argue that York was justified in this action because he perceived (correctly or not) that Somerset was a threat to him, then we must also accept that Margaret had every justification in viewing York as a threat to her family.

I tend to get the feeling that by 1456, Margaret and York were both in the same position. They were at a point where they viewed each other as a threat to the safety of their position and family. Whether one was more justified than the other is impossible to say. It's likely, though, that York held considerably more responsibility that the myth of him as the noble-hearted man forced to rebel to save himself.

The Problem of Henry VI

Another factor in "who do we blame for the Wars of the Roses" is Henry VI himself. We don't know when he began ruling in his own right and what periods, if any, he was unable to rule beyond the breakdown of 1453-54. We don't really know if the criticisms of his favourites, i.e. Suffolk and Somerset, were really criticisms of individuals who were ruling for him or if they were more in line with the attacks on the favourites of Edward II and Richard II. In the case of Richard II, the Lords Appellant maintained the image of loyally serving Richard while purging his household, threatening him with deposition, executing his friends, and placing themselves in positions of power by claiming that they were merely rescuing the king from the influence and bad advice of his evil councillors. This doesn't mean they didn't also have a grudge against the king's favourites, that their attack on them didn't really matter (after all, they killed a lot of them), but by focusing on the favourites, they maintained the image of loyalty to the king which helped them sidestep a charge of treason (though they also forced Richard to pardon them) and maintain popular support.

All of that is just to say that this may very well have been the case with Henry VI. York's attacks on Somerset (and maybe Suffolk, since he was rumoured to be involved in Suffolk's downfall and murder) may have simply been an attack on Somerset, perhaps justified or not, but York may have also been using Somerset as a proxy for Henry.

If he did, his quarrel could, at its core, actually be with Henry. It also raises the possibility that, after Somerset's death at the First Battle of St Albans, Margaret was simply the last one standing between York and Henry and so became the proxy for his attacks on Henry. This only intensified once York gained custody of Henry, and Margaret, with Edward of Lancaster, was out of reach and leading Lancastrian resistance.

We know that Tudor efforts to rehabilitate and canonise Henry tended to place more blame onto Margaret to absolve Henry of blame. All of this means that in terms of "how responsible, really, was Margaret for the policy decisions that alienated York?", we simply don't know. She may have served as a receptacle for blame (though personally I think she was more involved than not) or been the prime actor but we can't negate the possibility that some of the things she was blamed for were actually Henry's fault.

On the subject of Henry's mental illness... obviously, neither he or anyone else are to blame for it. Certainly, no one wakes up and goes "I know, now I shall have a deliberating mental illness that will ruin the kingdom, I totally want and will this to happen". But it did make things... very difficult. The medieval monarchy just wasn't set up to deal with a king with a severe, incapacitating mental illness (this was also the case with Charles VI of France). It tended to aggravate factionalism as nobles jostled against each other for power and influence. It placed the queen in an unenviable position of trying to protect her family and govern for the king while also appearing politically neutral, above factionalism and still living up to the ideals of queenship and only wielding soft power. Even if Margaret had managed to be appointed as regent for Henry, the case of Isabeau of Bavaria who had been regent for Charles VI suggests she wouldn't have fared much better.

On top of that, Henry's breakdown came at a bad time. He was unable to recognise Edward of Lancaster as his son upon his birth, which may well have provided some of the initial fodder for the rumours of Edward's illegitimacy. Once again: none of this was Henry's fault but it all had an impact on how much Margaret was viewed and blamed for Lancastrian failures.

Military Defeat

Margaret was widely regarded as the head of the Lancastrians and very likely this was true during the times when Henry VI was unable to rule (i.e. due to mental illness or breakdown, during his imprisonment by Edward IV). However, she was not a military commander and there is no evidence she ever donned armour or was present at any battle (we know she was in Scotland at the Battle of Wakefield, not personally overseeing any indignities heaped on Richard, Duke of York's corpse, for example). When she was travelling with the army when a battle took place, she probably stayed nearby in reasonably secure locations, such as a castle or abbey, a short distance away from the battlefield.

Responsibility for the Lancastrians' military defeats should be laid at the feet of those who actually commanded the Lancastrian forces, not Margaret. We don't know if the Lancastrians had better commanders to say that was Margaret's fault for not appointing better ones (and given the position was often granted to those of high rank, this seems likely - to appoint a man of greater ability but lesser rank risked disaster, as the narratives about the French defeat at Agincourt tells us). This is something more down to misfortune than any choice Margaret could have made. We know that Margaret had wanted to return to France following the news of the Earl of Warwick's defeat and death at the Battle of Barnet but was overruled or convinced otherwise by other Lancastrians. Had she gotten her way, the Lancastrians may never have gotten another chance (or at least a better chance) to challenge Edward IV but they probably would have survived.

There were also elements of bad luck in the Lancastrians' military defeats. The Lancastrian forces at Towton were blinded by the snow and their arrows ineffective against the wind. At Barnet, a heavy fog caused confusion amongst the troops. Storms delayed Margaret and Edward of Lancaster's return to England in 1471; had they arrived earlier they might have been able to take a better position or unite with Jasper Tudor's forces and won the Battle of Tewkesbury. Had the weather been against Edward IV and the Yorkist forces at Towton or at Barnet, had Edward IV's return been delayed by storms - well, the Lancastrians might have won.

This isn't to say that nothing was Margaret's fault. Margaret's delay at returning to England during the readeption was also partially credited to her own mistrust of the situation (a fair if ultimately fatal judgement, given the risk involved to her son and Warwick's untrustworthiness as an ally). The delay meant that Warwick struggled to muster forces under his own authority to deal with Yorkist resistance. This situation wasn't all her fault, though. Her delay was also caused by Louis XII of France, who had refused to let her leave until he got guarantees from Warwick about English support against Burgundy and the storms mentioned above. Another factor is that Warwick was simply reaping what he had sowed - very few Lancastrians had reason to trust the man who had been the chief ally of York against Henry VI, who had put Edward IV on the throne, then attempted to crown George, Duke of Clarence before allying himself with Margaret. He also seems to have been heavily involved in the creation and promotion of the stories slandering Margaret and her son.

We should also be wary of suggesting, as B. M. Cron does, that Margaret of Anjou was partly to blame for her son's defeat and death at Tewkesbury because she didn't let him fight in battle before Tewkesbury. For a start, Lancastrian hopes rested on Edward's survival. He was the viable alternative to Yorkist rule, the figure around whom opposition could gather, and the future of the dynasty. Putting him at risk was a very bad decision. His death meant the end of Lancastrian hopes.

Secondly, Tewkesbury was the first major battle he was actually of an age to fight at. Was he supposed to fight at Towton when he was 8? Hedgeley Moor or Hexham when he was 11? Thirdly, from the few accounts of his time in exile, we know he was military-minded and dedicated to martial exercises so it seems he was prepared as much as was safely possible. Finally, it is unclear whether Edward engaged in the battle proper or whether he was killed attempting to escape when it became clear the Lancastrians had lost.

Summing Up

In short, there were a lot of factors in Margaret's failure and a lot of them compounded on other. Her initial unpopularity only grew as the the English position in France weakened and as the years went by with no sign of an heir. As unrest broke out and Henry was incapable of responding or ruling, Margaret became the de facto head of the Lancastrian court and the focal point for anger at the way things were being governed. Yorkist and later Tudor propaganda built on all these factors, depicting her as the central flaw in Lancastrian rule, the one reason for its failure.

We simply don't know what Margaret was really like. The image of her as a radical, extreme figure bent on revenge fits into narratives that imagines Richard, Duke of York was faultless in his actions, that she had pushed him to an extreme and he reacted in order to save his own life. The idea that Margaret could have felt similarly threatened by York's actions is never once considered, yet she had every reason to fear him.

Do I think Margaret was entirely the innocent in the Wars of the Roses? No. Of course not. But she probably was at fault for far less than is typically attributed to her.

#asks #anon #i think more than anything that we need to be far more sceptical of yorkist narratives than we are #margaret and edward of lancaster were living figures who served as a focal point for resistance against yorkist rule #of course the yorkists were going to use propaganda to denigrate them and try to manage the problem #margaret of anjou

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