Summary: The great warlord stumbling over himself in the presence of a wine shop owner while his two housemates make it worse.
Word count: 1,604
Note: This was requested as a "short story". I clearly do not acknowledge the word "short" in any way.
The single lightbulb flickering above the mirror is beginning to irritate Dracule Mihawk. He stands above the sink, calloused hands gripping the sides, while he scrutinizes every one of his features. He double checks his hat is straightened, his long open coat sitting just right on his broad shoulders, and that his beard was groomed better than usual that morning. He adjusts Yoru, takes a step back, and moves the feather on his hat one inch to the left. He knows Zoro and Perona are impatiently waiting outside the front doors for him to join them, however he can’t bring himself to care. He has to look absolutely impeccable or this will all be for nothing.
It's ten minutes when he finally steps out of the bar, his protégé and their ghostlike counterpart following behind him until they come upon a shop next door, the storefront colored tastefully with gold and black. He takes a particularly deep breath and he can almost hear Perona beginning to smile behind him. ‘Why on Earth did I bring them?’ This is something he would much rather do alone, but alas, he couldn’t trust them not to burn down the estate in his absence. As he ascends the two steps, he considers abandoning them on this island. Once the door is open, he’s immediately welcomed with the scent of wood and herbs. If you asked him, he would say it’s his favorite smell in the world, right after a certain someone’s perfume. ‘Speaking of which’, he thinks. The wooden floors beneath him groan as he moves toward the counter to tap a call bell resting on top. Bottles behind him clink and he knows his companions have begun choosing what they’re going to bring home.
Just as every other time prior, he’s rendered speechless upon sight of her when she appears from the back. The woman, magnificent to behold and perfect in every way, smiles and his hands twitch with the desire to grab her by the shoulders and kiss her until she can no longer breathe. She hasn’t changed since the day he met her and he hopes she feels the same way about him. He’s always been very partial to that day in particular.
It was two years ago when he was stopping for supplies. He decided he should replenish their wine cellar, but none of the larger stores had his favorites in stock (truly a curse for a connoisseur such as himself). After speaking with a few locals, he was directed to a small shop on the outskirts of town. As soon as he entered and saw the selection, he knew he was home. Soon after, the most gorgeous woman showed him to a shelf of wines that were so rare, he had only ever heard rumors and not seen them. After giving her expertise and allowing him samples, he walked out of there buzzed and with plans to visit at least once a month. To this day, he believes that was an ascension into Heaven.
“And where have you three been? I’ve waited day in and day out for my favorite customers and for what? Two months of absolutely nothing?” Perona is the one to answer and an irrational part of Mihawk is angry he didn’t get to speak to her first. “Sorry, [Y/N]. We’ve been training non-stop for the past couple of weeks and haven’t been able to make it out here. We probably still wouldn’t have made it if our entire cellar didn’t run out of wine. Mr. Grumpy here has been sulking for days. We’re beginning to think he has an alcohol problem.”
He wants to kill Perona over and over again.
“Well, you’re in the right place for it then.” [Y/N] responds. Her gaze returns to the group’s leader (the group’s father, more like). She speaks in a low tone and Mihawk believes it is an attempt to spare any teasing from his companions. “For what it’s worth, I do wish you would come more often. I’ve missed watching you swing Yoru around on the shore.” Mihawk swears his heart palpitates for a moment. He longs to rip it straight out of his chest and hand it to her while frantically screaming “I want to spend every lifetime with you!” Unfortunately, no one will ever catch the warlord acting so out of character. “Thank you for your kind words. We have missed you as well.” Perona snickers and Mihawk quickly says, “Your wine, I might clarify. We have missed your wine.” [Y/N] giggles and it’s a sound Mihawk sears into his memory for the lonely days ahead of him. “I must say I’m disappointed it’s only my wine you miss.” She claps her hands together as his throat goes dry. “Alright then!” [Y/N] says loudly. “Let me show you what’s new!”
The two meander the aisles for an hour until they stand once more at the counter. [Y/N] is telling a story about a disgruntled customer from last week. “And then, do you know what he said to me? And I know you would have absolutely killed him, Mihawk. He said to me, ‘Well, don’t you think you’re on a bit too high of a horse to be such a bitch about liquor?’ As if I haven’t spent the last decade gathering the rarest and highest quality wines!” She’s correct. He would have indeed taken that man’s life. How dare someone speak to any woman, much less this one, like that? “Not everyone can appreciate the finer things in this life such as ourselves.” [Y/N] smiles and leans forward, resting her elbows on the countertop. “That’s why I’ve always been fond of you, Mihawk. You always hold your head high no matter what anyone says about you.”
The only thing he heard was “I’ve always been fond of you.”
And so it seems did Perona and Zoro. He feels a breeze as they rush to flank him on either side. “Say, [Y/N].” Perona starts. “What do you think about coming for dinner sometime? We’d love to have you.” Mihawk’s eye minutely twitches. “Yeah,” Zoro chimes in with a smirk. “I’m sure Mihawk wouldn’t mind. Quite the opposite actually. We’ve seen him writing a lot lately. Perona found a notebook where he talked about this beautiful woman who unknowingly has his entire heart. Not to mention how he yearns for her at night when-” The warlord raises his foot and slams it onto Zoro’s as hard as he possibly can. The younger man yells a “Hey!”. It makes [Y/N] laugh and Mihawk swears there has never been a sweeter sound. “Forgive him, [Y/N]. He’s been delirious the past couple of weeks because of illness. He does not know what he’s talking about.” The words are hurried and red creeps into his cheeks.
[Y/N]’s smile falters just a bit. “Oh, if you don’t want me to come, that’s okay. I-“ “No!” Perona and Zoro stare wide-eyed at his unusual outburst. His resolve is crumbling. “Of course we would love to have you for dinner. I- We don’t want to impose, is all. I know you mentioned not having a ship of your own.” [Y/N] tries to hide her smile by pressing her lips together. A beat passes. “Not to say that is an issue. Of course we could come get you, but then your shop would be closed for at least a day, you would lose income, and it could be foreclosed-“ “Mihawk.” [Y/N] places her hand on top of one of his that’s resting on the counter. “I would love to come, if you’d have me.”
The world stops. Perona and Zoro no longer exist and it is just he and [Y/N] holding each other’s hand. A blush explodes across his neck and he stares open-mouthed at her. She holds a soft smile and his skin burns where hers is touching. He can’t bring himself to speak so she does. “Do you have availability this weekend?” The man nods. “Good.” [Y/N] releases his hand and Mihawk wants to cry out for it like a child. “I’ll be at the docks at six.” He’s able to pick up enough scraps of his dignity to recollect himself in front of her. “We will see you then. Today has been a pleasure.”
The bell above the door chimes as Zoro and Perona exit. [Y/N] walks Mihawk to the door and they pause before it. “I meant it when I said you’re my favorite customers.” Now that they’re completely alone, he allows his lips to pull into a small, embarrassed smile. “I must admit, we have grown very fond of you as well.” He turns and opens the door. He begins his descent down the two steps. “Then do me a favor and lose the kids this weekend.” His body halts immediately. “I beg your pardon?” He turns to her while she stands in the doorway, his brows furrowed in silent question. “You heard me. Come on, Mihawk. All this talk of fondness, not to mention the only women you’re close to are Perona and me, so you journal entry could only be about me.” Mihawk’s mouth falls open and for the first time in his life, he begins stuttering.
“Besides,” she teases with a grin. “You’ve been here for the past hour and forgot to buy anything.”
Mihawk goes pale.
“Safe travels!” She shuts the door and he watches her figure disappear into the back of her shop. He hears cackling from behind him and as much as he wants to punish Zoro and Perona for it, he can’t bring himself to.
The only thing filling his head are wedding plans.
Note: Admittedly, I'm not super proud of the end result, but I thoroughly enjoyed writing it. It was hard to fight my personal headcanon that Mihawk wouldn't outwardly show his nervousness, but I now think it's a very humanizing trait for him to do so.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, dejection, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: The reader attempts to move past her ruination, but is reminded of her tarnish conscience at every turn. (Regency AU, tall!reader)
Character: Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson
Note: Here we are. The sequel but not the end.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)
Love you like I love coffee and that’s a lot and probably unhealthy. Take care. 💖
The string of the glove’s seam trails loosely from the thumb. You twist the thread, playing with it, but doing little to mend it. Even with a needle in hand, you have no whim to darn. There are many things in life that cannot be repaired no matter how you try. Occurrences which cannot be taken back.
You pull at the seam until a hole forms in it. You poke your finger through with no heed for the glove’s integrity. You detest that pair anyhow. The very same you wore… that day.
Albina lays at the foot of the bed, her head bent back over the edge as she peruses one of her novellas. Hannah and Cora disappeared ages ago and you only just heard them through the windows. They are likely causing chaos in the gardens. You hope your mother finds them and issues a reprimand for their immaturity.
The autumn thins the air as it creeps in around the window frame and you smell that discerning scent of dirt and leaves. Only a week and it feels as if the whole world has changed seasons. Your world has transformed irrevocably.
There’s a clatter and you glance over as Albina rolls onto her side. She’s always hated to be disturbed amid her stories. She huffs and falls onto her back to begin again, but the door bursts open, your two other sisters tromping through with excitement.
Albina shuts her book loudly and sighs as she sits up. You go back to your exploration of the glove, watching the thread stretch along the seam as you tug. If only that were Cora. If only you could rent her pretty hair from her pretty head. Or in the least, swat the smug grin from her lips.
You can’t even look at her. It just makes you think of him. Of how stupid you’d been. You believed his promises were meant for you but it’s only as you relive that haunting episode every night that you realise, he never proclaimed his intent for you, only alluded to a vague offer. Another mean trick.
“Lord Rogers has sent a gift,” Cora trills as she stands at the vanity, shuffling something unseen before her. Hannah stands at her side, bouncing with anticipation.
“Oh, what do you think it is?” Hannah chimes.
“Could you not unveil it in the sunroom, where there is no one reading?” Albina says as she drags herself to the edge of the bed, resting her book on her skirts.
“Could you not get your head out of those ridiculous fancies,” Cora retorts over her shoulder, “if you ever do for long enough, you might just find a husband too.”
You don’t look up. You refuse to give her the satisfaction. You haven’t missed her wandering glances, how she taunts you without even a word. She turns back to her gift and rustles beneath the thick paper.
“Oh, heavens,” she swoons and spins, “isn’t it beautiful?”
“Are those rubies?” Hannah preens.
“I think.”
“Garnet?” Albina suggests.
“No, no, surely they are rubies,” Cora insists. “Do you see?” She swirls around the room closer to you, “I must find the perfect gown to wear with this. Oh, he would fawn to see me in his ribbon, wouldn’t he, sister?”
You grip the glove tight as her figure looms over you. With your other hand, you clutch the needle, letting it jab into your palm until your eyes prick. You nod, “very beautiful.”
You stand the moment you get the words free of your dry throat. You try to smile but can only muster a strained grimace. You try to step past Cora but she moves with you.
“You’ve not even looked,” she says, “how would know how beautiful it is?”
“Cora, please.”
“No, no, have a look. It’s so elegant, isn’t it?”
You clamp your lips together. Your insides tangle painfully. Even as the tenderness leaves the bruises in your thighs, you swear they hurt just as much as the day after. You sniff.
“Please, move out of my way,” you beg.
“Oh, sister, why must you be so dour? Is that jealousy I sense?”
“No,” you snarl. Jealousy. Oh, something much deeper, something agonizing. “I said move.”
“Move? Well, it looks like I am the first to wear a title so it is me who should be issuing the orders, don’t you think?”
“Oh, Cor, you are not duchess yet,” Albina reproaches, “let her pass.”
The heat rises up your back and crawls onto your neck. You feel like you’re suffocating. You feel like the walls are closer together, as if the world is hewn in fire. It is all burning down around you.
“She is being a sour little brat about it, Al,” Cora snaps, “it isn’t fair of her to ruin my engagement. I don’t know where she ever got the idea that Lord Rogers had any mind for h–”
You don’t think. You need to get out of here. You shove Cora out of your way and stomp past her as she gasps. You drop the glove as the needle sinks further into your palm. You sweep out of the door and hurry down the corridor. You hear her, whining pitifully as you flee.
“She shoved me! She–”
“Oh, you did goad her,” Albina’s quiet scolding follows you to the stairs, “put that ribbon away, you’ll only ruin it.”
Ruin…
The word clings to you as you barrel down the stairs, as if running from your own shame and anger. You love your sister, you would never wish anything horrid on her, but you can’t help that small whisper in your mind that suggests that Lord Rogers may just treat her as cruelly as he has done you.
💙
The autumn continues its slow advance, nipping in the air and at the foliage alike. You smell the crispness as it wafts through the open window of the carriage, cooling the cluster of bodies within. Your father rides with the driver, guffawing loudly with the clop of hooves. Your mother fans herself as she needles away with her relentless critique.
…Albina, push your shoulders back; Hannah, keep your lips shut tight, you don’t need horseflies wandering in; You, fix your bonnet, it is dipping at the front; Oh, Cora, isn’t that a lovely ribbon…
You try not to mope. The more you do, the more pleasure Cora takes in her victory. You will forget it, you will go on as you’ve ever done. Dejected. You fold one hand around the other, your palm tender from the bite of the needle still wrought into your flesh.
You look up as the carriage slows. The lush green of the promenade tinges with edges of russet and patches of goldenrod. Lords and ladies stroll along the brickwork walkway, skirts swishing around languid steps, arms hooked in one another, others perched upon benches or huddled around the grand fountain at the center.
Your father climbs down as the driver unlatches the door. Your mother emerges first, her fan clapping shut sharply and knocking against the frame. Cora is second, then Albina, Hannah, and yourself. You come out behind them and feel your height all the more. You hunch and grip your wrist tight.
“Do not slouch,” your mother looks back and raps your arm with her fan, “no lord wants to walk alongside a hobbling giant.”
“Yes, mother,” you correct yourself and let your vision drift off into a vacant blur.
“Ladies,” a familiar timbre approaches with a pair of footsteps, “you’ve arrived.”
You refuse to look at Lord Rogers as he stands just along your peripheral. He greets your mother with a cordial bow of his head and shakes your father’s hand. At last, he addresses his betrothed as she wiggles in her skirts and nearly squeaks.
“Lord Rogers,” she drawls, “I wore the rubies.”
“Beautiful,” he praises, “my lady, might I request a stroll upon the promenade?”
“Aye, you may,” your father answers, volunteering himself as escort.
“Sir,” Rogers accepts elegantly and offers his arm to Cora, “and perhaps a few more daughters might care to join us?”
“They will remain with me,” your mother insists, “we would like to see the roses.”
You wait until they’ve departed to dare a peek at them. Lord Rogers struts away confidently with his arm through Cora’s. Your father trails them with his brass-tipped cane. Your ribs rack as if they might collapse in on themselves.
“Come girls, the autumn will wilt away the roses,” your mother declares, “let us make our rounds, perhaps we might have two engagements this season, hm?”
You linger behind the others. You keep your head down as you watch the toes of your boots poke out from beneath your skirts with each step. Your led by the hem of your sisters ahead of you.
As you approach the hoop of rose bushes, there is an unexpected furor. Voices trill and flutter, a booming laugh that rolls like thunder. You raise your eyes and see a blond head above a cluster of hats. You don't recognise the lord amid the clan of amused men.
"How rowdy," your mother remarks in her curmudgeon way.
She ignores the pluck of glee for the thorny tangles. Hannah and Albina give longing looks to the uproar but dutifully accompany your mother to the hedges. The eldest of your quartet pets the paling pink petals and grieves the browning at the edges.
The dullness of that moment feels like a promise. This is how life will always be for someone like you. You will never know excitement, you will only ever be a witness, a scrap of collateral left to squander.
You pretend to admire the greenery. The colours are faded and worn. Just like everything since that night. As you are.
You smell the leaves and the pollen and you're taken back to that moonlit moment. The cool air on your skin, the friction of his figure, his weight trapping you on the stone.
The leaves mesh together in a tapestry of swirling hues. You quickly dab your eyes before your tears can spill over. Those bouts come suddenly and dry up just as soon. You cannot let it take you here.
An emptiness enshrines you and you peer over to find yourself all alone. Your sisters and your mother have left you, forgotten you. Not such an unexpected plight but painful nonetheless. You turn in search of them and nearly collide with another.
You press yourself to the bushes behind you and swallow a gasp, creaking out an apology.
"Apologies, my lord, I did not see you–"
"Lady," the man greets with a courteous dip of his chin, looking down at you. Down! He is even taller than you.
The same lord with the blond hair who had a crowd raucous. You do not know him. He is rather older than any courtly debut.
"You mustn't catch yourself," he reaches around you delicately and untangles a fold of your skirt from the thorny vines, "it is too fine a dress to tarnish."
"Thank you, sir, it seems I am a bit obtuse at the moment," you force a smile.
He is very handsome. He eyes a brighter shade than even Lord Rogers and his hair even more golden. That comparison urges you back to the ground. You are still you and you cannot be so foolish as to let yourself believe contrary ever again.
"Might I–"
"I spy–"
You speak at the same time and both correct yourself. You defer and touch your lips in embarrassment, "apologies, once more, I keep treading on your toes."
"I have tough toes," he japes, "I meant to ask if I might have your name."
"Oh, yes, sir," you give him your name, "I admit I am ignorant of your own identity."
"Ah, yes, I have come from far," he grins, "Lord Thor Odinson, of Asgard."
"Asgard, why that is very far," you comment, "well, sir, it was a delight to meet you. Welcome to our homeland."
"A privilege," he returns, "if I might be so forward, as I am a stranger to this land, I would extend to you an invitation to dinner as I acquaint myself with your country. Would that be too improper?"
"Sir," you flutter your fingers at your side as you stand awkwardly before him, "I would needs ask my father."
"Yes, certainly you would, as you are unwed," he says as if untwining a riddle, "I do hope you will be permitted."
"My lord," you bow your head, "my mother…"
You look past him to your mother's fan as she beckons to you with it. Lord Odinson steps aside and extends his arm in gallant dismissal. You shift to move past him.
"Thank you, my lord."
"Allow me to thank you, lady, for entertaining my tedious conversation," he counters and you quickly flit away.
You near your mother as your other sisters crowd her. She is jibbering behind her fan, "...an ambassador," she says and snaps together the folds, "I hope you did not spoil our welcome."
"Mother?" You look at her in confusion, your cheek hot and tingling still.
"With that Lord, he did invite us to a dinner," she explains, "it would be very important for your father."
You shake your head. You don't argue. Ah, but the invitation was extended to all. Are you so foolish to think otherwise? You must shield yourself in the harsh lesson you've been taught. You are not and can never be special.
💙
The night of Lord Odinson's dinner arrives. You wear a gown of black patterned with deep green vines. Plain attire in contrast to Cora's shining scarlet silk, Alvina's buoyant blue bodice, and Hannah's deep rose sleeves. You add a simple beaded ribbon around your head, and a string of pearls around your neck.
"Dour," your mother remarks as she emerges in a tangerine satin, "ah, Cora, my darling, you look splendid. And to think, now that your engagement is public, you will be a pretty ornament on Lord Rogers' arm."
"Mother," she preens, averting her eyes in feigned modesty.
You clutch your reticule tight and glance over as you hear the approach of hooves. It is Lord Rogers' coach. The vehicle bustles towards the gates, open in expectation of him, and you look away. You can hardly bear the sight of red paint that decorates the doors.
His driver slows and breaks in the dirt. He greets your father as ever, gallant and proper. You put your teeth over your lower lip and peek up, catching the glint of Rogers' sapphire irises. His cheek dimples as his brows twitch. You swiftly rescind your gaze, favouring the dust on your slippers to him. He is as handsome as ever but to you, he is a vile cad. A demon clothed in cravat and vest.
He helps your mother first into the coach, then Cora, Hannah, Alvina, and finally yourself. He extends his gloved hand to you and you stare at his palm with disgust. You put your hand in his and step up into the vehicle. He squeezes before he lets go, a subtle tug on your skirt as you duck inside.
You sit on the bench between Albina and Hannah. You play with the strap of your reticule, focusing on it as you coil it like a snake. You only need to survive the journey to lord's manor. You've survived worse, and all at his hand.
💙
The manor is called The Nine Pillars, a rather strange name for a house, but referenced by the columns set into the stone walls. Each is topped with the facsimile of a different beast's head; a lion, a boar, a bear, a wolf, a falcon, a stallion, a bull, a viper, and an elephant. You lean over Albina to take it in, only to be nudged back to the middle.
You sigh and trail the part from the court. Attendants await your arrival at the broad steps of the manor house, the style much unlike that of the other courtly homes. The peak of the house resembles a warship overturned and the walls are without the typical white wash. It is very antiquated yet refined.
You enter the glowing hall, the glass lamps hung from the walls lit in an illuminating speckle. Voices carry from the drawing room where other guests gather and the bustle of the house staff flutters around the corridors and clamours from the kitchen. Your stole is taken by a groom and you nod in acknowledgement at his diligence. Your stomach swirls nervously.
The drawing room is a cluster of swishing skirts, flapping fans, and waggling coat tails. Your mother and father greet another older couple as your sisters disperse; Cora to show off her betrothed, Albina to whisper to Maria about her novels, and Hannah to gossip about the newest debuts. You find yourself lost before the sea of elegant figures.
You wade towards them, weaving between the bodies, looking around for any sense of welcome. Those who do see you, turn away quickly, as others pretend not to notice your towering form. You will find a place on the wall as you ever do.
"Lady," a deep voice calls but you don't bother to hear it. It cannot possibly be directed at you. It calls again, several times, before pronouncing your name. You spin to face Lord Odinson before you can retreat to your setinel against the wallpaper.
"My Lord," you greet him, "pardon me, there is much going on, I mustn't have heard you calling."
"Ah, but forgive me, it is rather uncouth to be shouting," he stops before you, "my mother always said I did blow in like a storm."
"Oh," you nod politely. You're not used to someone looking you in the eye, not without having to awkwardly contort your posture.
"She would like you, very much, I think."
"Why would you think that, my lord? You hardly know me."
"But I see you, a strong woman, built like a valkyrie. You are resilient and might I so forwardly say, resplendent."
"Sir?" You peer around, looking for an audience, for someone in collusion taking amusement from his false interest. It is always a trick.
"Again, I am the tempest, I cannot be subtle, not with a lady so stunning. Awe-inspiring. If I am the storm, you must be the sky," he remarks boldly.
You face him, a frown.
"Lady, it is a compliment," his face turns sober, "I hope I didn't overstep--"
"It is a joke. Who do you make laugh? For who am I the farce tonight?"
"Joke? Not at all. Never," he glances around the room. He is quiet as he takes in those around him. As he sees their elusive eyes and cold shoulders. "They cannot see what is right in front of them. A goddess--"
"No," you nearly sob, "no. I am not goddess." You bow your head, as you hear that same word from enough, a memory; Athena. "No sir," you put your chin up defiantly, "I will not be fooled by you."
"Fooled, my lady--"
"Excuse me," you shuffle away from him, "I need air..."
"Lady," he calls again but you elude him, delving into the crowd, marching away with head and shoulders down.
As you near the door, you hear a familiar laugh. You look to find Lord Rogers with Cora on his arm, his golden hair shining, her locks perfectly spiraled and set. He tilts his head towards her, "I call her my Athena," he says loudly, as if he knows you are listening, "for I worship her."
His eyes flick up and meet yours. You recoil and spin on your heel. Scalded, you flee into the hall and huddle into an alcove. No one would notice if you stayed out here all night.
💙
You sit among the guests at the table. The women chatter as the men speak in low voices about their business or some writ tabled in session that morning. You do neither as you're isolated in the fervor. As sherry and wine flows generously, you partake only of lemon water and loneliness.
You peer down the table and find yourself drawn to a pair of eyes. Lord Odinson. Where you expect tension or disappointment, you find only an amiable smile. He is almost dreamy as he watches you. You turn in your seat and look at Albina next to you, she's bent so far toward Hannah in her whispering that he likely cannot even see you.
You keep your gaze on the table. You will not encourage him. Lord Rogers taught you caution, he taught you your worth and not to think yourself above it. You feel suddenly sick, as if you could spew onto the table.
There is the clink of glass and someone clears their throat. The buzz around you hushes and all turn to the head of the table. You look over reluctantly. It is Lord Odinson, the host, about to make his toast. He stands, a crystal glass in hand.
"Welcome and thank you all for attending. You've all made me feel rather at home," he raises his glass and the guests mirror him. You lift yours a few seconds too late. He sets down the flute and continues, "and while you've all ingratiated me so kindly, I hope you might tolerate a little piece of my homeland."
He pauses and gestures to someone you can't see. A servant comes forward, holding a wooden box carved with symbols you don't recognise. Runes, perhaps.
"In my faith, there are the Valkyrie. They are the embodiment of female power and prestige and thus they are the keeper of our culture, of our ways. They are fertile and beautiful. So it is that each season, one lady is crowned as Valkyrie. I understand that I've come late but I am honoured to spend the season here, in your society. Thus, tonight has been more than a dinner..."
He stops as the servant opens the box. He takes out a crown of daisies wrought in gold and silver. He presents it to the room with a smile.
Cora leans forward as her eyes round in greed and the other women sit up, admiring the piece of jewelry and peeking at each other. You don't move, you stare at the wall and wait. You wonder who it will be. Maybe Cora or Maybelle and her doe eyes.
There is another lull, swollen with anticipation and intrigue. Lord Odinson gives a soft chuckle before he declares his valkyrie. No one speaks, none says a word. You blink. He speaks again.
You feel a nudge on your elbow as Albina leans towards you and whispers, "it's you."
You glance at her, then along the table. Cora's eyes are narrowed at you and Lord Rogers looks like he's chewing his own tongue. You turn your attention to Lord Odinson, trapped in surprise and disbelief.
"Yes, lady, please, come and claim your crown."
You grasp the arms of the chair and push it out as you rise. You walk stiffly, keenly aware of those watching you. You stride down the long table and near Lord Odinson. He faces you and hovers the crown over your head. You bow and he lowers it on, wiggling it to be sure it's firmly in place.
"It is I who shoulder defer to you, sweet lady," he lowers himself to a knee and bows his head, "our valkyrie."
The silence looms. You refuse to look back. You feel the stare, the disapproval, and disappointment. There's a clap and you flinch. Then another, and slowly the applause build.
Lord Odinson stands again and takes your hand, placing a kiss on your fingers. You meet his eyes, so intense you could melt.
"As I said," he keeps his timbre low, "it was not a joke."
💙
"Can I see it?" Albina asks as you go to set the crown on the narrow table.
"Oh, certainly," you turn to her. You're still burning with excitement. It's only one night, it doesn't mean anything, but it is a good night.
You hand her the crown and she takes it, admiring the craftwork with aw and showing it to Hannah as she nears. She places it on her head and rocks her shoulders.
"I am the valkyrie," she japes.
"No, I am the valkyrie," Hannah snatches the crown and dawns it.
"You are both children," Cora sneers as she shoves her ribbon of rubies into her jewelry box, "please, that lord is only here to pander to our king on his family's behalf. Nothing else."
"You're only jealous," Hannah rebukes.
"Am not," Cora stomps up and swipes the crown of daisies, "what would I need with a meaningless thing like this. Queen of what? The chimera? You don't even know what a valkyrie is."
"Nor do you," Hannah retorts.
"I do," Albina asserts, "they are an army of female warriors who lead the dead--"
"I do not give a fig," Cora flings the crown so it hits the bedframe and bounces off, "we don't believe in them here. That man is a fool."
"Oh, I saw you fawning over him, Cor," Albina goads, "don't lie. Rogers himself looked concerned."
"Fawning? Don't be silly."
You don't say a word as you go to fetch the crown from where it's fallen. You notice that one of the petals is bent out of shape. Oh, no.
"It's fine. She's right, it's just a silly crown."
"You all need to grow up," Cora insists, "as a woman soon to be married, I can see now how juvenile you lot are."
"Not married yet," Hannah snaps, "sooner the better if it means you're off."
"Charming, Hannah, I wonder why you've not had a proposal yet?"
Hannah waves her off with her hand and goes to Albina, "I'm tired. Help me out of my dress."
You turn away and set the crown on top of your own jewelry box. You take your time undoing the ribbon on your head and unclasping your pearls. You peel off your gloves and as you face the bed, you see Cora's hot glare.
"You'll see. That Lord Odinson will leave you behind and next season, you'll be on your way to a convent."
You swallow down her bitter words. Deep down, you don't doubt it. She is likely right but less than clairvoyant. You know better than any what your fate will be.
💙
You watch from the window as Cora walks in the gardens with Lord Rogers. Albina is in bed, moaning and rubbing her pelvis, as Hannah is downstairs with your mother stitching at her frame. The winds of autumn rattle the window frame and you back away, nervous to be caught observing.
You sit on the mattress and lean back against the pillow. Albina curls up on her side and faces you. You offer your hand and she latches on, squeezing. Her cramps have struck and she's already stained several shifts. Her blood has her in agony.
You don't mind keeping her company. Your own was due a week ago. You know because you've not stopped counting the days since... since Lord Rogers' proposal.
"I should hate to miss the promenade..." she mourns.
"You shouldn't miss very much," you assure her.
"Yes, but it will be cold soon. Too cold and it will snow and I will hate to go," she utters, "will you go?"
"Perhaps," you answer.
"And walk with Lord Odinson again?"
"If he wishes."
"I am certain he does. He is very friendly. Last night, when he told us of his families stronghold. About the mountains and the crossing rivers..."
"He has many stories," you agree, "and he tells them well."
"Oh, he does. He tells them for you."
"Pardon?" You nearly laugh.
"Sister, don't act clueless. He gave you his crown--"
"It was only a game."
"I do not think he plays."
"Why..."
"He always finds us on the promenade, doesn't he?"
"He is polite."
"Oh, you are stubborn."
You puff but don't argue further. She's wrong but she can't realise she is. She doesn't know what's happened, how you know for certain that he has no true intentions. That he cannot be any different than Lord Rogers.
💙
The hedges along the promenade are thinning. The roses have wilted away and the greenery curls and recedes. You wear a pair of lambskin gloves and an unlined cloak. It isn’t cold enough yet for fur.
As he does most days, Lord Rogers approaches to greet your family. Your mother and father bow to him briefly and bid their best before strolling off to meet with their peers. The betrothed couple will lead the way, as you walk behind with Hannah. Albina remains abed at home, her presence sorely missed as Hannah yawns and makes faces at the duke and his engaged.
You resist the urge to look around, to search for the man who crowned you valkyrie, the same who appeared at your side nearly every day. You restrained yourself from depending on his presence, from longing for it. He is a fleeting acquaintance, destined to return to Asgard one day. You shouldn't think so much of him.
“I wish we could have a summer wedding,” Lord Rogers declares, his voice raised loud enough for you to hear.
“But, my lord, that is so far away,” Cora protests, “so long as we wed before the snows, I will be content.”
“You, content. I am not mistaken, I know the sort of wife I’ve chosen,” he chides, “you only relish in that you might wear velvet.”
“Not at all my lord. I relish that I should marry you,” she preens, her arm hooked in his firmly.
You stare at the linking of their bodies. You remember the way he held you down, the way he cooed and coaxed, how he so softly coerced you. You should fear for your own sister, yet their misconceptions may be mutual.
“My ladies,” Lord Odinson’s voice precedes him and he steps up beside you, “and my lord. You are ashen, does the cold not agree with you?”
Lord Rogers glances over his shoulder, an edge in his jaw, “I handle it finely.”
You don’t mention he was only just longing for the summer. It isn’t any of your concern and you don’t very much care. Or you try not to.
“In Asgard, the winters, ah, they are splendid,” Odinson begins vibrantly, “there are days when the snow builds walls on its own and the next, they blow over to rippling oceans of frost. Endless and powdery.”
“Oh, we do not get so much snow here,” Hannah comments, “I don’t think I would survive such winters.”
You nod, listening intently as you picture the swirling snow and white dunes. It reminds you of a fairytale or a scene from one of Albina’s novels. Otherworldly and fantastical. Something entirely new and wonderful, but terrifying.
“And you, my valkyrie, would you face the blizzards?” Odinson challenges.
You hum thoughtfully. You know he is looking at you but you are too shy, too wary to return his gaze.
“I suppose with the proper cloak and a thick pair of boots, I might make it through, sir.”
“A coach and a horse, and any lady would say the same,” Rogers scoffs back at you, “girls hardly know the truth in matters of spirit. They can be overly presumptuous upon their own abilities.”
Odinson pushes his jacket back, hooking his finger in the pocket of his vest, “women are strong in ways men can never be. They carry lives, they bear the burden of the world, they maintain a grace lost on most men.”
“And the demure to the strength of men, to the wisdom they can never possess,” Rogers snaps back, laughing cruelly, “it is in the vows they take, is it not?”
“Only the strongest man can see the strength of women,” Odinson dismisses calmly, “my own mother keeps a pack of snow wolves. She goes out in the winter storms and reins her own sleigh. All while my father sits warm before his hearth. Her victories are not his losses.”
“Sounds rather quaint, Lord Odinson,” Rogers clucks, “your country strikes me as lacking civility.”
“Uncivil is a boring way of saying lively, and I promise, my home is much and more,” Odinson affirms, “but I think that fate has a way of placing us all where we belong, wouldn’t you agree?”
Rogers is quiet for a moment, his steps heavy as he strides on. He turns his head, his eye flicking between Odinson and yourself. He snorts and turns forward again.
“We must all take as we earn, accept what we do and do not get,” he says tritely, speaking animatedly with his hand in the air, “more often than not, we have only ourselves to thank… or blame.”
As cryptic as his words are, they are plain to you. That night with him was not unearned. Your foolishness bought your destruction. You must now live out your sentence of watching him walk arm in arm with another woman, your sister, everyday. You must accept that what he took can never be reclaimed.
💙
You sit in the garden, wrapped in a shawl as autumn breezes around the table. Your mother has a fur on her shoulders and your sisters chatter their teeth as they sip their tea. You rub your hands together, your gloves doing little against the crisp air. You suspect the days of dining without are close to done.
As you watch a leaf drift down from a branch, the hinges whine, and your father emerges from within. He gives an emphatic shiver as he claps his hands together. He seems rather pleases as he has his shoulders pushed back and his hat on a tilt.
"Daughters, my lovely wife, it is a beautiful day, is it not?"
You wonder at his uncharacteristic glee. Your father is ever practical and serious, on all matters. More so, he confounds as through the mutter of responses, he looks to you. You nod and agree with his sentiment softly.
"My daughter, my eldest, you... have a visitor."
You blink and withhold a grimace. He hates when you make faces. You force a smile and your voice crackles as you muster your voice.
"A visitor, father?"
"He is inside, he cannot have his tea alone," he says as if you should know who he alludes to.
You stand as Cora rolls her eyes, "who could be here for her?"
You notice how Albina and Hannah share a look. You cannot determine whether it is at your expense or Cora's.
"Daughter," your father drawls, "do not be sour that your betrothed eludes you."
"He does not--"
"So be happy for your sister and enjoy your tea."
She huffs and reaches for her cup. You step around her chair and approach your father. He smiles and as you near, he puts his hands on your arms. He is smiling. Genuinely.
"He has my blessing, of course, I will need accompany you to maintain propriety," he speaks quietly, "come."
You dip your chin down and meekly follow him inside. A servant pulls the door closed behind you. Your steps echo down the corridor as your father leads you to the sunroom. As you enter, there is some rustling and a subtle creak.
You peek up to find Lord Odinson standing with a hand on his vest. He bows to you and your father. You stop in the archway.
Your father proceeds, unaffected, and sits in the cushioned chair nearest the fireplace. He slaps his thighs as he splays his legs and grunts.
"Well, then, get on with it," your father grumbles.
Lord Odinson straightens his posture and gulps. He reaches up and toys with his cravat, the starch fabric already askew. He smiles, his cheeks reddening. He sways and looks between your father and yourself.
"I thought it very difficult to put this in ink but now I am here, I find the same is true of words," he says, laughing at his own joke, "so, lady, I trust this isn't very surprising to you. I've made my intentions clear and I've made your father a proposal, which he has graciously approved. Thus I put to you the question..." he twists his cravat, stops himself, then grips his jacket lapel, "would I be a fair husband to you? Er, or rather, would you... would you... honour me as a wife?"
The air stills and the chill that trailed you in dissipates. You blink dumbly and let your mouth fall open. You glance at your father. You understand his happiness now and yet you cannot believe it.
Your stomach churns and you clamp your mouth shut. The silence turns unbearable. You notice how Lord Odinson's cheek spasms and his complexion drains.
"Yes, sir, I... suppose... rather, I would..." you feel as if you're choking, "is it true? A marriage?"
"You wouldn't have to leave your homeland forever. I have some months ahead of me and my holdings here. We could visit--"
"Yes, yes, I will marry you," you murmur.
You hold your breath. Waiting. For one of them to break. For a peel of laughter between them. For it all to be another trick.
"Glory," Odinson exclaims as he proffers his hand, "shall we sit for tea, then, my valkyrie?"
You nod, unable to speak for fear of croaking. It is real. This man is real but you worry, his attention may yet prove false.
every live performance of graceless by the national is crazy because it begins with matt berninger singing graceless with poise and precision and ends with him screaming grace into the microphone at five thousand decibels with something between incredible anger and joy
Ok, let's see, I'll start with two of my new fav books ever, both written by Debra Flores:
1. One Day You'll Leave Me
Karen is an ordinary woman living an ordinary life in the year 2010. Until the day she hears an unfamiliar song that moves her in a way she cannot understand or explain.
Judy Paige was also an ordinary young woman, who lived an ordinary life, up until the day she sang one of her songs at a show in the year 1964.
When Karen's curiosity about the song turns into an obsession about the woman who sang it, she's drawn to the town in which Judy Paige was born and raised.
It's there that Karen is approached by a man who asks Karen a simple question. "Would you like to meet her?" The question is simple, but the answer is not.
2. The Library by the River
It was an ordinary day in March of 1985, the day Beth walked in to a library and met Sarah, the woman that would change her life forever.
At a time when the AIDS epidemic was well underway, when society still labeled homosexuality as an illness, something to be hidden away, whispered about, but not talked about aloud, there were certainly obstacles in their way.
Even so, obstacles or not, Beth is twenty and Sarah is twenty-eight, they're young, and in love, they can handle whatever comes their way. Or so they think. The one thing they may not be able to overcome is Kim. Beth's jealous best friend. She doesn't see Sarah the way Beth does, far from it, she sees her as nothing more than a problem that needs to be taken care of. An impediment to the relationship she knows she and Beth are meant to have. Volatile and hot-headed, yes, but is Kim actually capable of tearing them apart? And at what cost?
Kiss of Seduction by Rawnie Sabor
Evie is trapped. Held captive by the vampiric Court of Night, she has experienced nothing but pain and terror for over a year.
Natalya is the second-in-command of the Chicago-based Court of Chains. She is among a succubus. A being of pure Sin, whose touch is agony and whose kiss is a death sentence.
This book is an emotionally charged, sapphic love story of healing through trauma, reclaiming yourself after tragedy, and trusting another to catch you when you fall.
Meet me in Berlin by Samantha L. Valentine
"If we lose each other, then we’ll come back to this spot, on this day, at this time, every year until we find each other."
But how do you find someone from the other side of the world when you only know their first name, and the only plan you made to reunite was to meet in a Berlin park in late August at 6 pm, eleven years ago?
The Ride of Her Life by Jennifer Dugan
Molly dreams of starting her own wedding planning company when she inherits a run-down, struggling horse barn, courtesy of her late aunt.
But maybe — if she can sell the land, the profits could be the small-business seed money miracle she’s been waiting for.
The real snag in her plan is Shani. Judgmental, grouchy Shani, who thinks she’s so morally superior because she hasn’t given up on the crumbling barn while Molly wants to “destroy” everything her aunt built; who’s really good with the horses, and always comes whenever Molly calls her in a panic; and is actually kind of thoughtful, and obnoxiously hot, and has Shani become an entirely different kind of problem? One Molly can’t possibly solve, no matter how much her heart wants to?
For Love or Scandal by J.J. Arias
Laney Menendez, a once-celebrated Hollywood director, has a chance at a comeback. The catch? She must first marry her brother’s soap-star boyfriend to stop him from being outed by a tabloid.
For Laney, the lavish fake wedding is meant to be all business, until she meets the wedding planner, Jennifer Acosta.
Their attraction is instant and undeniable. As Laney and Jennifer work closely planning the wedding, stolen moments stoke the flames of a passion too powerful to resist.
Immerse yourself in this steamy tale where fantasy and reality entwine. Love makes its own rules, and for Laney and Jennifer, the fake wedding of the year may just be the start of something real.
Before You Were Mine by Heidi Lowe
After the intercity bus she's traveling on crashes into a bridge, Abigail wakes up in a hospital in Utah with no memory of who she is.
Unsure of when, or even if, her memory will return, she settles into her new life in Oakwood, where she meets Tiffany, a nurse she befriends while hospitalized. Abby knows it would be unwise to get involved with someone while her past is still a blur, so she tries to ignore her growing feelings for the beautiful woman. But as the two grow closer, and things get serious between them, Abby is finally ready to put her unknown past to bed... Which might be a problem for James, her husband of two years.
Graceless by Ruby Landers (book Two of the Grace Notes Trilogy)
Savannah Grace is on top of the world when her younger sister Cassidy shows up on her doorstep with one plan and one plan only: for her sister to turn her into a star.
Savannah’s nanny Lane has grown all the way up, from a cute punk kid to a classic handsome heartbreaker, a long trail of short flings in their wake. They don’t have a second to waste on Cassidy, after all she’s rude, ignorant, hot-tempered and kind of a brat. It’s just… does their boss’s little sister have to be so hot? Of course things could always get worse.
Of course, Sarah Waters' books:
1. Fingersmith
Sue Trinder is an orphan, left as an infant in the care of Mrs. Sucksby, a "baby farmer," who raised her with unusual tenderness, as if Sue were her own.
Mrs. Sucksby’s household, with its fussy babies calmed with doses of gin, also hosts a transient family of petty thieves—fingersmiths—for whom this house in the heart of a mean London slum is home.
One day, the most beloved thief of all arrives—Gentleman carries with him an enticing proposition for Sue: If she wins a position as the maid to Maud Lilly, a naïve gentlewoman, and aids Gentleman in her seduction, then they will all share in Maud’s vast inheritance. Once the inheritance is secured, Maud will be disposed of—passed off as mad, and made to live out the rest of her days in a lunatic asylum.
With dreams of paying back the kindness of her adopted family, Sue agrees to the plan. Once in, however, Sue begins to pity her helpless mark and care for Maud Lilly in unexpected ways...But no one and nothing is as it seems in this Dickensian novel of thrills and reversals.
2. The paying guests
It is 1922 and in South London, in a genteel Camberwell villa—a large, silent house now bereft of brothers, husband, and even servants—life is about to be transformed, as impoverished widow Mrs. Wray and her spinster daughter, Frances, are obliged to take in lodgers.
With the arrival of Lilian and Leonard Barber, a modern young couple of the “clerk class,” the routines of the house will be shaken up in unexpected ways. Little do the Wrays know just how profoundly their new tenants will alter the course of Frances’s life—or, as passions mount and frustration gathers, how far-reaching, and how devastating, the disturbances will be
3. Affinity
An upper-class woman recovering from a suicide attempt, Margaret Prior has begun visiting the women’s ward of Millbank prison as part of her rehabilitative charity work. Amongst Millbank’s murderers and common thieves, Margaret finds herself increasingly fascinated by an apparently innocent inmate, the enigmatic spiritualist Selina Dawes. Selina was imprisoned after a séance she was conducting went horribly awry, leaving an elderly matron dead and a young woman deeply disturbed.
Margaret is soon drawn into a twilight world of ghosts and shadows, unruly spirits and unseemly passions, until she is at last driven to concoct a desperate plot to secure Selina’s freedom, and her own.
4. Tipping the velvet
Nan King is captivated by the music hall phenomenon Kitty Butler, a male impersonator extraordinaire treading the boards in Canterbury. Through a friend at the box office, Nan manages to visit all her shows and finally meet her heroine. Soon after, she becomes Kitty's dresser and the two head for the bright lights of Leicester Square where they begin a glittering career as music-hall stars in an all-singing and dancing double act.
At the same time, behind closed doors, they admit their attraction to each other and their affair begins.
Turbulence by E. J. Noyes
Stockbroker Isabelle Rhodes has a lot of money, a lot of trust issues, and a whole lot of reasons to believe her ex-girlfriend was right when she said that Isabelle sucked at relationships. With that accusation stuck in her head, Isabelle throws caution to the wind and dives into her first one-night stand. Checking that off her bucket list should be something to celebrate—except it turns out that the woman she just spent an earth-shattering night with is actually her newly hired company pilot, Audrey Graham.
Concerned about the stigma of workplace dalliances, Isabelle vows it can’t go further than the one night. Good plan—if not for an insistent libido and an even more persistent Audrey who conspires to break Isabelle’s resolve. Soon their no strings arrangement starts to feel a lot like dating, and Isabelle finds herself wanting more than just casual nights together
Fear Of Falling by Georgia Beers
Since she was fourteen, singer Sophie James has been an international superstar. With her career (and life) directed by her manager, Ray, she hasn’t had to worry about a thing for more than a decade. But when Ray has a heart attack, Sophie is left without the only real father figure she’s ever known and questioning everything she believes about what’s important to her.
Enter Dana Landon, the new manager sent by Sophie’s record company. Dana is gorgeous, sophisticated, and ready to do her job keeping Sophie’s career on track and making the record company money. Dana captures Sophie’s attention in ways Sophie never expected--and isn't ready for, but after so many years of being told what to do, Sophie’s ready to shake things up with some ideas of her own.
