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#nothing is written that cannot be unwritten

libbee · 11 months

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Feeling Powerless in the 8th House?

Power is a strange thing. At first, it provokes the images of government, corporates, police, institutions, leaders in mind. On a personal level, it provokes images of parents, partner, inter-human relationships, schools, and even social media. Likes, reblogs, followers, public engagement give a sense of "power".

Power is not even a bad thing. It gives you competence, strength to get things done, self defence, self preservation and to live in society, you need power. Power is the child of socialization, how else will you get things done? How else will one survive in this world?

But where we do feel powerless is in the 8th house. "You are not in control of your life", this sentence alone is enough to create crisis in mind. That your relationships, goals, desires, personality, actions, intentions, thoughts, looks, luck, life story, fortune and misfortune, nothing is your own is a scary thing to realize. I cannot even afford to lose this tumblr account, let alone lose my identity, possessions and ego, then how can I happily surrender my power to the forces of the 8th house? If I don't have any power then I am as good as a dead body.

Ego v/s Powerlessness

8th house is like the reverse of everything you have been told by the society. Ever since my confrontation with this house, I feel like everything that is visible, written, told is a lie and only that is truth which is invisible, unwritten and untold. As soon as something is brought outside in the surface, it loses its truthfulness. No amount of spirituality and mysticism can explain the truth because it will not remain truth if it is brought to the surface. Everything that is brought to the surface is immediately influenced by the ego, vanity, narcissism, arrogance of the outside word. Bring a fish out of the ocean and it immediately dies. Its real place is inside the ocean. What belongs to the ocean be left in its original place. Then how do we know that the fish exist? We know because we "feel". 8th house is one of intuition (gut feelings and hunches) and feelings (that thing in your body that eats you alive). We "feel" love but as soon as try to describe that love it loses its truthfulness. You are now looking for the words, language, sentences to express your love and then you look for appreciation, acknowledgement, reciprocation and acceptance of your love. All this is vanity in a micro level.

Humility and Detachment

Okay guys, I am a humble person because I am self aware and talk about humility, so I am a down to earth and nice person, ok? But isn't it .... self-contradictory? 8th house teaches you real humility, the real thing that is not about self expression and preaching, it is about hiding yourself in the closet because you are really feeling humble. Ironically, we are a society that thrives on goals, aspirations and advancement then the 8th house is like the party pooper that tries to make you humble when all the other kids are being cool and dancing around. Not fair, sir, I hate such schools that don't treat all students equally and fairly. But 8th house is the teacher that chooses few students and teaches them real humility and brings them back to the track every time they go astray. This humility is strange because it is not in the words or performance or poetries; real humility is a thing that you know inside and then keep your lips closed because those who know don't need understanding and preaching, while those who are not there yet look for all kind of guidance and tuition. 8th house chooses its own students and they don't even know they are the chosen ones because there are no regular classes. Some days, everything seems normal, life is fine and then 8th house will summon you for emergency classes because you let something go to your head, you were vain and dishonest, you were selfish and acted against your conscience, so the teacher will call you back to the classroom and teach you real humility once again. 8th also has no notes and lessons, you are your own teacher, you will be just made to face your feelings, memories, behaviours, sometimes in isolation all alone for days or weeks, until you understand the pattern and interconnectedness of everything and change your behaviours for the future.

A Nobody in Nowhere

Even in the occult community, we have people who are egoistic, narcissists and vain, so why call out "others" when it is the humanity itself that is deeply entangled in the dirt of vanity. The other end of vanity is that you are a nobody in nowhere. If I completely surrender all my vanity then I close this account and never share my opinion on anything because conversations are impossible without some layers of ego. When two people sit and talk, they see each other's ego. Every time they open their mouths, it is their ego that speaks. It is just impossible to live a life without some ego, even if a thin layer of it. Writing this post is "my" assertion of "my" ego. And the silliest thing is that this enlightenment comes and goes, one minute one feels like they are finally enlightened and the next minute they are again confused. I think it is because there are 12 houses in a birth chart and there is more to life than what happens in 8th house alone. Whereas your 8th house may want you to surrender your ego, but your 1st house placements may want you to become a poster boy in your workplace. Two conflicting desires - To be somebody and To not be somebody. This is why self awareness and deep insights into your feelings will keep you sane here. It is a scary house when you are a newbie, but with enough training and understanding, it becomes the door to even greater understanding of 9th, 10th, 11th and 12th houses. These are the houses of the collective, greater, bigger than life and larger than an individual.

Still Feeling Powerless?

Me too. But I guess this is the challenge, to find a personal power deep within and to preserve it. Perhaps this is the reason why these natives sometimes get really spiritual, celibate and mystical. Because they preserve and protect their personal power against the world. To stand in the face of uncertainty and yet trust the patterns. To stare into the darkness and yet have scotopic vision. To get things done and yet surrender your power attitude. 8th house is like living in the dark nights when you were accustomed to living in the bright mornings and sunny afternoons. The only problem is to let go of the bitterness, resentment and frustration that comes with seeing other people still consumed in their illusions. But if we are to accept our own ignorance then we have to be tolerant with others as well, because knowledge itself is ignorance as they say. Perhaps the language of the unconscious is "silence" because the moment we start speaking all the demons and dangers of mind are summoned.

The journey to this realization comes in many ways. For me, it came from healing my childhood traumas and family inheritances of behaviours, thoughts, attitudes and emotions. "Dysfunctional family" but it turns out that there was this deeper meaning underneath all the dysfunction. Perhaps there is no such thing as "functional and healthy". Of course I am not romanticizing abuse at all. But it is surprising to see how healing childhood trauma leads to the point of spiritual path, it leads you to realize that the society as a whole is pretty dysfunctional and the only functional place is the underworld.

#astrology #astro community #astro observations #astrology observations #astroblr #astro notes #astro tumblr #astrology blog #astrology notes #8th house

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wordsinhaled · 2 years

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Have you considered the unwritten extremely affectionate letters that regency Hob has unwittingly left in Lucienne’s library?

oh god—anon, no, i had not previously considered this but now i can think of nothing else

how many letters did hob actually write and destroy and are they there too? are they written in faded crimson ink that made hob think of his stranger’s ruby when he saw it in the shop?

in lucienne’s library are the letters bound in a book or are they a little bundle of actual parchment letters still folded into squares and tied together with a ribbon?

i die

can you fucking imagine!!!!

Dearest My own

Dear nameless Stranger:

First, I must endeavor to impress upon you how wretched I feel in the very writing of this Letter, for it is true that we have never before uttered such words as these to each other, and indeed I have but little cause to hope that the wholly untoward affections herein expressed shall ever be returned by you. I am consoled only in the knowledge that I will soon fling this paper onto the fire presently burning in my study, banishing my sentiments once again to the realm of Fantasy where they rightfully belong...

It is seventy-two years to the day until our next meeting, dear Stranger, and I have sustained myself all these long years since our last with the most earnest and fanciful hope that I might one day yet unburden myself to you and be absolved of this monstruous longing. I am a different man; I am certain you shall not recognize me; for I walk in the world, yes, but as one walks in a dream.

I think it will amuse you to learn how insistently this officious summer society dotes on me. Wherever it is you remove to when we are not together, let it be a more pleasant place than this! In a fortnight I return early to London, and the day cannot come quickly enough for my liking. For months I have endured covetous glances, suffered in airless ballrooms, all the while my mind fixed, steadfastly and ceaselessly, on you...

How this present society wearies me, my friend

My friend!—No, I do not fear your reproach; I shall not. I pray you will allow me, within the sanctuary of this Letter, and perhaps without, to attach this word to you, in all its manifold complexities of meaning, for in my most private heart it is how I think of you. And is it not true? Are we not friends? For what is a Friend, if not one’s dearest counterpart, that mirror of one’s soul, who abides with one in constancy through all the dreadful and glorious seasons of one’s life? You are all this to me, and more...

Here I end, lest I reveal more of myself and turn you from me for ever. Though it is all I would deserve, I ask that you withhold too harsh a judgment on me, for I am always, most ardently and humbly,

yours in friendship,

#just fuck me up #the sandman #dreamling #HE LOVES HIM YOUR HONOR #regency epistolary dreamling

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normalonline · 4 months

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Do you want to live forever forever forever

What's in a name? What's in a life? What would one assign to themselves the characteristics that these things necessitate? Nothing of course. Think about the existence of a rock. The material that comprises any rock is tens or hundreds of thousands of years old. Longer than any person or bloodline of consequence has been on Earth, longer than any life has lived. Imagine staring at this unmoving rock for a year straight, never looking away. The thought of it in a moment, what you might look like, what the rock looks like, your surroundings, the weather, whatever, this is a moment, it's meaningless. How many moments are there in a year? Uncounted. A year is the lowest value of time that has lasting consequence, we date in years. One can conceptualize this moment, one could also live through this year of vigil, but this year cannot be understood in forethought.

Consider eternal life. Consider what it would mean to live in this world in your body forever. How long before you would go insane? A year, this can only exist in our understanding with our relation to it. A year exists in a window of maybe 80 of them, often times less. How many things are there in a life, not many. To live forever is to forever be a slave. We're all slaves to time, some are also slaves to history, men of consequence being the latter. Time is not the invention of death. They share nothing. Death frees you from time but exacts an unpayable price. The common understanding of life is seen in snapshots of television and movies. You will never know it, you'll see the tourist shit for it, which is ironic because you will always exist inside it for as long as you can't understand it. The best servant is he who knows not the plans of his master. Our fate is written and unwritten. Everything that will happen to you will happen but it won't until it does.

Consider infinite reoccurrence. This life will be repeated forever, just as it was before. Every pain every joy will always be known. But again and again these things will be made new. To live forever is to never know the greatest things in life but once. Beauty can only exist on a flat plane, in the finite. Most things will be ugly, it must be this way because beauty can only be born from casting off the shackles of those lesser things. Adversity is the birth of victory, the victory of the self over the world. One cannot live forever because it would make one inhuman, it would be the most excruciating torture. You will always be who you are, you will always become who you are.

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kateofthecanals · 10 months

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I like to check my FYP every couple of days because it can often yield some generally interesting content which I might have otherwise missed on my (very carefully curated) dashboard. But on the other hand, it's a slippery slope to encountering some of the most breathtakingly bizarre and demented takes from certain dank, dark corners of the ASOIAF fandom, istg...

It's not even a matter of "have we even read the same books?" -- These people have basically RE-written the books entirely in their heads in order to conform to their own unhinged biases. And the saddest part is, it's usually in service to their ship of choice (more often than not, a non-canon ship). They are SO determined to justify why their ship is the "correct" one that they have completely warped and twisted the canon characteristics of any character that threatens their ship. And not only that, they have also INVENTED all of these perceived fandom slights against the characters they stan THAT JUST DO NOT EXIST!!! (Ex: Arya stans angrily claiming that D&D so "obviously" preferred Sansa over Arya.... lmao WHAT??)

And the worst part of it is how easy it is to spot which characters an OP stans just by who they're bashing, and how. Like it's become some unwritten rule that if you love X character, then you HAVE to hate Y and Z characters. And fans of Y and Z characters hate X character, and there's no nuance allowed. (i.e.: if you ship J*nerys, Sansa is basically the worst human who ever existed, period... even though Sansa has NOTHING TO DO WITH THAT SHIP, but because she is deemed a threat to that ship by a Certain Other Fandom, congrats, you are now obligated to build endless hate campaigns against her. You are also an Arya stan now too btw.)

And look, I'll be the first to admit that I have SanSan Tunnel Vision™, but it hasn't completely blinded me to the nuances of other characters and story aspects, lol. I cannot say the same for other stans, for whom ASOIAF is only about one or two characters and all others simply do not exist, and they will just casually assign traits to their faves that not only aren't a thing but actually ARE a thing, canonically, of other characters!!! I just sit and stare in disbelief.

And honestly? This won't end when/if TWOW comes out. These people's headcanons and delusions are so calcified by this point that anything George has to say will be met with mariah_carey_i_can't_read_suddenly.gif....

#end of rant #sorry i'm just flabbergasted lol #asoiaf #and the weirdos who claim to love it #(are ya sure about that?)

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we-return-in-waves · 1 year

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What stories are you writing right now? (Hi I adore you and would like to talk)

dkjgdhgkd you are always welcome to talk to me everyone who knows me also knows i simply cannot shut the fuck up amen

i hop around in my wips constantly but i can sort them into two categories:

actively being written (2): one is a fluffy little oneshot about dancing set shortly after the war, and the other is the most deranged omegaverse peen i've ever written that's been a background task for six months courtesy of a very unhinged discord conversation back in like... may lmao. the former is half done and i think it will be 7-10k, the latter is sitting at 27k and counting although the draft is nearly done. can't believe i'm gonna have to chapter my pwp, who am i lmao

plotted but unwritten (6): a modern AU pwp where gaara's a lawyer and lee's the hot client from hell, a canonverse fluff fic told from tons of POVs where i casually shit on almost all the canon endgame relationships ay lmao, another self-indulgent metal origin theory fic, a comedy 5+1 things about drunken shenanigans, a fluffy 5+1 things about sleep, and the rest of from these bones, untethered which was/is my gaalee horrorfest 2022 fic

i am also slowly putting together the worldbuilding and character information for an enemies to lovers sort-of-political-longfic based around the plot of my favourite video game!

and then there's 10 other ideas that i've done nothing with yet sjdbgkdfhgbfdg

#asks #answered #i love talking seriously i will not ever shut up #ey greyson and skuun happy holeidays you godless heathens #writing gronp hours #fanfiction #gaalee #tagging for the fic link lmao #wolfsban

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kamreadsandrecs · 8 months

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No question is more dreadfully pretentious than “What is art?” except possibly “Can you come see my one-person show?” Yet I’ve accepted that at some point in the course of a life, both will need to be answered. Because I’m a writer facing the advent of ChatGPT, the time for the first question is now.

Most people (including some writers themselves) forget that creative writing is an art form. I suspect that this is because, unlike music or painting or sculpture or dance—for which rare natural aptitude straightaway separates practitioners from appreciators—writing is something that everyone does and that many people believe they do well.

I have been at parties with friends who are dancers, comedians, visual artists, and musicians, and I have never witnessed anyone say to them, “I’ve always wanted to do that.” Yet I can scarcely meet a stranger without hearing about how they have “always wanted to write a novel.” Their novel is unwritten, they seem to believe, not for lack of talent or honed skill, but simply for lack of time. But just as most people can’t dance on pointe, most people can’t write a novel. They forget that writing is art.

Read: The college essay is dead

Art plumbs the depths of human experience and distills the emotions found there. That’s hard work, which inherently—and perhaps conveniently for me—can be done only by a human. This doesn’t mean that all art humans make is effective or good, nor does it mean that a computer cannot generate content that might entertain or inform. A computer alone can’t make art. But it can, I expect, make “good writing.”

The rise of ChatGPT forces us to think about this distinction between art and good writing—or “craft,” as we’re taught to call it. For most writers, the path to publishing involves writing-preparatory programs—workshops and private writing classes and M.F.A. programs—that are structured around the mastery of writing as a craft. But if we want human writing to survive as an art (and as a profession), these programs need to reassess their priorities because they are facing an existential crisis.

I was 41 when I took my first intensive writing course during a week-long summer workshop. Its structure, I’d come to learn, was largely based on the same pedagogical model as most M.F.A. programs: an instructor-led workshop, where we would evaluate one another’s stories, supplemented by craft talks. I found my writing so improved by the course that I wanted more. By the following year, I was enrolled in a master’s-of-fine-arts program.

I loved graduate school. I had instructors who changed how I thought about writing and my art and who I could be as an artist. But I found myself occasionally frustrated, and one particular incident from my last semester sticks in my mind.

It was the pandemic, and we were workshopping a classmate’s story that, we all agreed, wasn’t “working.” On the Zoom, we danced around the reason, but privately, in a smaller chat, some of us were more frank: The author was evading the real reason their character seemed so distressed. In other words, the story was a well-written pile of emotional bullshit.

Encountering this in a story feels the same as hearing a well phrased but feeble excuse in real life: You might accept it, but you’re not buying it. Yet the professor’s advice was all about cleaning up the point of view and adding more action. In short, mechanical fixes for an emotional problem.

Maybe the endless Zooming had finally gotten to me, or maybe it was the impatience that has struck me post-40, but suddenly I unmuted and blurted out: “I’m sorry, is this a master’s in fine arts or a master’s in fine mechanics? The sentences could be perfect, but it won’t fix the fact that the story isn’t being honest.”

To which my professor replied, “What’s wrong with being a good mechanic?”

The answer, of course, is nothing. Writing beautiful, clear sentences that string together into gorgeous paragraphs that assemble into elegantly constructed narratives requires discipline and discernment and technical understanding. My work as a novelist has absolutely benefited from the improvement of my technical skills. But literary art is not about the mechanics of sentences. It’s about how those sentences support emotional honesty.

You can dissect great writing without ever analyzing or even discussing the emotions involved or evoked, and walk away with some craft strategies to deploy in your own work. But a machine can do that too. It can read—it has read—the same great writers I have read. It can (and is beginning to) learn all of the clever lessons of craft. It will almost certainly become capable of producing what many M.F.A. classes would consider “good writing.”

But if that’s the case, maybe that “good writing” isn’t so good after all. If this new technology makes such writing ubiquitous, that writing may as well be obsolete.

If we want to push the art of writing out of a computer’s reach, the questions posed in writing workshops should go past “How could this piece work better?” to “How could this piece be more honest? More emotionally effective? More resonant?”

These are tougher questions, not only because they’re more subjective, but because they require skills that go beyond the command of language: insights into human nature, imagination, innovation, creativity, a mastery of pathos, ethos, and logos. These are harder things to teach. But we can try.

Some of the problem may lie in the tendency of literary-fiction writers to disregard what mass-market novels can teach us. These books are not always masterfully written, but—if the videos of readers weeping on BookTok are evidence—they are clearly tapping into human experience and making readers feel. A hell of a lot, apparently.

Consider Colleen Hoover, who self-published for years before readers drove her romance and young-adult novels to best-seller status. A lot of her books admittedly rely on “trauma narratives”—a critique that’s lately been wielded against some literary fiction as well. But readers keep reading her because they connect to her stories of women finding love while on the brink of financial collapse or seeking to break patterns of domestic violence. Say what you will about her sentences, but no Colleen Hoover fan thinks that ChatGPT can replace her.

To be fair, the best writing teachers were already pushing students to write with emotional honesty long before AI was breathing down their neck. The greatest lesson I ever got in the art of memoir was to write the story you felt, not a recounting of what was actually lived. A course in science fiction taught me that the complex emotions of humanity can sometimes best be conveyed outside the realm of reality. A novel workshop gave me the idea of the author as a maestro, conducting the reader through an emotional journey that should have many movements and variations.

And yet despite all of this, I’m not sure I actually believe that writing as art can be taught at all. One can certainly improve and gain greater mastery over the form. But the magic stuff that makes the great literary artists what they are cannot be manufactured and replicated. At least, not in a classroom. Only, possibly, out there in the wild world, by living and observing.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to see a one-woman show.

#books #publishing #writing #internet #technology #leechware #artificial intelligence #ai

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kammartinez · 8 months

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Read: The college essay is dead

To which my professor replied, “What’s wrong with being a good mechanic?”

But if that’s the case, maybe that “good writing” isn’t so good after all. If this new technology makes such writing ubiquitous, that writing may as well be obsolete.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to see a one-woman show.

#writing #books #publishing #leechware #artificial intelligence #ai #education

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halflingkima · 2 years

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First Chapter Test

Love After the End by Various Authors: An sci-fi Indigiqueer anthology written as a follow up to Love Beyond Body, Space, & Time, this time skewed toward the utopian.

I don’t know why but I cannot seem to get into this first story. I’ve started it about four separate times, and there’s nothing wrong with it that I can identify. I think I’m in a poor mood (hence this chapter test), and this first story (about an AI rat trying to escape the moon Io) is just not really making me want to read. 2/10

The Romantic Agenda by Clare Kann: Inspired by My Best Friend’s Wedding with an asexual twist, a sort of fake dating love square that may or may not involve a vacation trip?

k, so things kick off real damn fast, and i did not expect that her best friend would also be her boss. there’s a weird office place energy going on that i didn’t expect. also a smidgeon melodramatic right off the bat, part of the fast start that hints at strange pacing. 3/10

Beautiful World Where Are You by Sally Rooney: a quartet of millennials struggle against capitalist ennui.

her writing style is apparent, and I still love it. it starts out with what seems like a dating app meetup, so that’s put me off just a little. the narration flows easily though, and I think i may be able to get into it if I settle in. 5/10

The Archive of the Forgotten by AJ Hackwith: sequel to Library of the Unwritten, dealing with the fallout of the final battle – and new strange happenings coming to light afterward.

the writing is easily readable, but i gave up about a page in. i feel like i might have to reread the first book before diving into this one. there’s also already some worldbuilding refreshment that my brain just is not ready to deal with. 4/10

The Seep by Chana Porter: a gentle alien invasion manifests as making any imagined thing possible, and Trina’s wife decides she wants to be reborn as a baby.

Oh this is beautiful. It’s beautifully written, and less uhh high-brow than I expected. I put it off because I’m worried about the subject matter and how difficult (emotionally) a read it will be, but the opening is beautiful and literary while remaining excessively readable, and given that it’s the shortest, with very comfortable formatting, i may actually make progress in this one.

#honestly it may be audiobook time #but i feel bad for not making progress on library books so i should at least get a taste for them #maddy's reads #but ya i think i need a listen or two to break this lil slump and get back in a literary mood

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manuscripts-dontburn · 2 years

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The best books I read in 2021

The Tsar of Love and Techno

It seems to be, at first sight, a collection of short stories. But the further you read the more you realize this is actually a tapestry of lives that intersect, sometimes briefly, but always in a way which can turn aour whole existence around. A stunning piece of literature!

The Golem and the Jinni

Lush, beautiful writing that swallows you whole as you wander from desolate Polish village to 19th century New York and all the way to the Middle-Eastern desert. It draws upon various mythologies and treats them all with much love and respect, creating something new and fresh itself.

Thomas Cromwell trilogy (Wolfhall, Bring Up the Bodies, The Mirror and the Light)

One life story in three volumes, that could be quite taxing for anyone with no previous knowledge about this particular historical period, but is utterly brilliant in every other way. The research, the psychological portrait, the language and even the non-linear narrative, it all produces an unforgettable impression.

The Library of the Unwritten

A sheer delight! This one is both clever and genuinely funny. In fact I am stunned more people are not talking about this book. It has so many elements that deserve attention, from distinctively original premise, characters one cannot help but love and even the popular found-family trope. The second book in the series is really solid as well!

Jonathan Strange and Mr Norell

While this one may not be for everybody due to its considerable lenght and very slow pacing, I found it a perfect companion for rainy February evenings, while nursing a cup of hot tea. How might it have looked if magic was real and used during the Napoleonic wars? Here is your answer! It also talks a lot about grumbling old men, vain exhibitionists and mischievous fairy-folk. I found it a perfect mix of historical novel and a fairy-tale.

Alias Grace

Thrilling, sad and keeping you guessing until the very end. Did she or did she not kill those people? Was she a victim? Was she the murderer? Do we love her? Do we fear her? Margaret Atwood put this one together in a way that puts any “who-dun-it” TV show to shame.

To Be Taught If Fortunate

A very short story which is, however, packed with a lot of stuff that makes you think, hope and also despair a litt.e Becky Chambers is currently the only writer who makes me care for the sci-fi genre.

Love and Fury

We all know Mary Shelley and most of us know she was the daughter of a famous mother. This is the story of that mother, from her childhood to the days her daughter was born and she herself could no longer live because of that. Historically accurate and in many ways almost unbelievable, this is a portrait that is worth discovering.

Do Not Say We Have Nothing

Generational saga set in the Mao´s China, that is extremely painful to read. Definitely not something for the weary of spirit. I would still recommend it, both because it is fantastically written and because it dares to point out wounds which, for many, remain unhealed.

Other titles I very much enjoyed:

My Cousin Rachel

Vita Nostra

The Forsyte Saga

Worlds of Ink and Shadow

Bodies of Water

The Spirit Engineer

Circus of Wonders

Under the Whispering Door

Ariadne

The Children of Jocasta

#booklr #2021 in review

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chatonnoir · 2 years

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Your post about Marinette almost made me cry djsvdudgd it just made me so happy because you are right and you said is so well<3

But then I have also been seeing...people saying that I am implying that ADHD people can't be empathetic and have basic "CoMmOn SeNsE" and so on just to defend a fictional character and it is making me so mad ugh

I’m really happy so many other people felt seen by it and have been sharing how they actually relate to Marinette’s struggles with relationships

I just cannot believe the ignorance and casual ableism in those comments (no I totally can believe it). I’m sorry you had to read that bs and I’m glad I haven’t seen anyone saying idiotic things like that on my dash. Guess what: low empathy is actually a thing a lot of neurodivergent people have! Would love for these people to explain why they seem to have a problem with that? And nothing is “cOmMoN sEnSe” when you struggle with unwritten social cues/expectations! The very fact that they’re spewing this idiocy though just really solidifies that Marinette is neurodivergent because that’s the kind of shit we hear all the time, people assuming we’re uncaring or saying things are “cOmMoN sEnSe” when we apparently missed the memo on where these “”””“common sense””””” social expectations were written down.

If we’re apparently using “cOmMoN sEnSe” as a valid argument now, then I would think it would be “common sense” that you have to directly tell people how you’re feeling and what you need for them to know what you need from them, but apparently it’s not. Once again, the saddest thing here is that I really expected Adrien stans of all people to be capable of more understanding, lol. But no, instead a lot of them are proving they’re on the same level or even worse than the insensitive salters who invalidate Adrien’s abuse. No one is inventing these things about ADHD to defend a fictional character, we’re saying this is literally what this fucking disability is like to live with and the constant assumptions and insensitive comments are just as hurtful as those that invalidate Adrien’s abuse

It’s ableism, plain and simple.

#petition to start telling these people that understanding neurodivergence should be 'cOmMoN sEnSe' every time they say something ignorant #ml fandom salt #answers

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thunderheadfred · 3 years

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🐈‍Aizawa HC’s🐈‍

I dunno if people will care for this; I suspect my HC's for Aizawa are a little off the fandom norm. Still. I tried. Things get approximately NSFW under the cut. Minors do not interact.

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General

He has like, one discernible change of clothes per season. There is no distinction between hero outfit, casual wear, and pajamas. That fabric used to be black. It is now an exhausted shade of ‘please stop washing me.’ If you suggest that he buy new clothes, he will stare you down like you have three heads, and none of those heads have a brain.

This man does not spend money. He has a mind-blowing amount of savings, but no one will ever know until he dies and wills it all to a random animal shelter in the middle of nowhere. Has a secret scholarship fund for UA students. Again, this is completely anonymous. Only the principal knows.

He's a startlingly competent sketch artist. Nothing fancy, and he never took an art class in his life, but his quirk innately lends itself to spacial reasoning and feature recognition. He has sketch books brimming with sloppy but pin-point accurate life drawings. He can capture your soul in three strokes of a dried-up ballpoint pen. It's eerie.

Given his schedule, you’d expect him to prioritze convenience first, but junk food makes him cross-eyed. His body is a temple and he eats like a fucking monk.

He’s a wine snob. Well, a liquor snob generally. He knows the name of every regional sake-maker in Japan, and can tell you exactly which bottle is the best, down the the month of production. Assumes everyone possesses such laser-focused knowledge.

Tea drinker. Yeah, he has encyclopedic knowledge about that too. Apparently everything this man drinks comes with a bibliography.

Technically he’s supposed to live in the UA dorms part of the time. He sleeps poorly there, and goes home whenever he has the opportunity.

His house is old, but not valuable. Probably inherited. Traditional style with very few modern updates. He keeps it meticulously clean and does repairs as needed, but the age is still obvious. Everything creaks. You swear the place is haunted but won’t dare admit it aloud - he WILL laugh you out of the house.

There’s a garden but he doesn’t have time to keep it up. He has a lot of memories of the plants in full bloom. Letting it go to seed upsets him more than he lets on.

He has zero personal possessions aside from household appliances, which he meticulously researches and keeps in perfect condition.

Reads an insane amount of books. These mostly come from the library. There’s always a stack near his bed. You have no idea how he finishes them, because every time you see him with a book, he’s asleep with it on his face.

He doesn’t adopt cats so much as just leaves his doors open and lets them freely colonize the place. It’s not his house, it’s theirs. Somehow there's not a single cat hair on anything.

Most of these cats are cuddly little angels; you've never met nicer. But there’s a few beasts in the mix, with battle scars and three legs and a craving for human meat; these are Aizawa’s special favorites.

- - - - -

Dating

Falls for you when he stumbles across you taking care of one of the hideous strays he usually feeds on his route. Doesn’t approach you at first (definitely tries to hide) but the cat is like "mrrr?" and brings you over to him, giving the game away. Traitor.

Will make you pay for your half of everything, down to the last yen. So what if you’ve been together for ten years? You have your own income.

One exception to the above: he’ll never buy you presents but he WILL treat you to lavish meals in dark restaurants with hand-written menus. Don’t mistake this for romance, he just likes the quiet atmosphere and excellent service.

He cleans every day; there’s an unwritten five-dimensional schedule and that schedule is EXACT. Zero time wasted. He’ll never actually ask you to help with any of it. He’ll never directly thank you, either. But if you learn how to take over certain chores and do the daily upkeep while he’s away, he’ll love you forever.

Not the type to talk about his day; he’d rather sit with you outside. He values silence. Not because he doesn’t want to talk to you, but a lot of the time he doesn’t have the energy to give you his full conversational attention. Physical contact is easier, and more comforting besides. Just... hold his hand a while.

His scalp gets tingly and sore from overusing his quirk. If you run your fingers through his hair he will pass out instantly.

He will cozy trap you. He’s touch-starved and was definitely a cat in a past life. Will hang all over you if you don't give him enough attention and constantly falls sleep in your lap. Hope you don’t need to get up anytime soon; he’s not moving.

You don’t exactly ‘move in’ with him. He never wants to spend a night without you, but his living space is already exactly how he likes it. He will never move out of that old house, but he’ll give you some rooms to yourself. Your stuff and his... complete absence of stuff... stay pretty much separate. Do NOT clutter up the bedroom.

The kitchen is the exception. That's a warm and cozy shared spot, the heart of the home. You’ll always be stepping around a cat.

He LOVES when you cook for him (so that he doesn't have to take the time). Will shower you with praise and encourage you to make huge earthenware vats of old-timey tsukemono that the two of you cannot possibly eat by yourselves. He’ll help with food prep and knows his way around, but he insists you’re the better cook (even if you aren’t).

Big on actions over words. Makes an effort to be present with you as much as he can.

Will stare into your eyes until you look away. When you look back, he's still staring with a rare warm smile on his face.

God, he loves you. You will never, ever know how much. He doesn't tell you often, but he shows you every day.

- - - - -

Somnophilia???.........

ACE ACE ACE ACE

This man is A-fucking-sexual. He’s not sex repulsed in any way, he’s just not personally invested.

Aromantic too. Deadass doesn’t get the hype. You are the most important person in his life and he’s deeply commited to and comforted by you. Just don’t expect to be seduced; it will literally never happen.

If you are allosexual, he will still be devoted to your sexual well-being. At first, that means buying you a DELUXE toy and encouraging you to use it on your own.

His voice is too damn sexy, even when he isn’t trying. He’ll give you all the phone sex you want; he thinks it’s sweet how you unravel for him. Edging you for ages is a fun little power play, but he’s definitely grading papers while he does it. Don’t be offended. Toshinori has overheard some THINGS.

When your relationship gets sufficiently serious, he’ll help out with his hands. He’s VERY SKILLED AT IT. He likes to lay down next to you and whisper encouragement in your ear. Eventually he gets possessive about your orgasms, and will make you ask for permission.

Sometimes the stars align, but his arousal is a rare bird. He'll take a whole afternoon to prepare. It’s love-making, full stop. Always slow and intensely emotional. He'll cherish every inch of you but might not cum at all; you can’t force it.

#aizawa shouta #aizawa sensei #aizawa x reader #aizawa x you #aizawa x y/n #gender neutral #aizawa headcanons #bnha #mha #bnha headcanons #mha headcanons #fred writes

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todaysdocument · 2 years

Photo

Memorial of American Equal Rights Association to the Congress of the United States, 1/3/1867

File Unit: Petitions and Memorials, Resolutions of State Legislatures, and Related Documents Which Were Referred to the Committee on the Judiciary during the 39th Congress, 1865 - 1867

Series: Petitions and Memorials, 1813 - 1968

Record Group 233: Records of the U.S. House of Representatives, 1789 - 2015

Transcription:

Memorial of the American Equal Rights Association to the Congress of the United States

The undersigned, Officers and Representatives of the American Equal Rights Association, respectfully but earnestly protest against any change in the Constitution of the United States, or legislation by Congress, which shall longer violate the principle of Republican government, by proscriptive distinctions in rights of suffrage and citizenship, on account of color or sex.

Your Memorialists would respectfully represent, that neither the colored man's loyalty, bravery on the battle field and general good conduct, not woman's heroic devotion to liberty and her country, in peace and war, have yet availed to admit them to equal citizenship, even in this enlightened and republican nation.

We believe humanity is one in all those intellectual, moral and spiritual attributes, out of which grow human responsibilities. The scripture declaration is, "so God created man in his own image: make and female created he them." And all divine legislation throughout the realm of nature recognizes the perfect equality of the two conditions. For male and female are but different conditions.

Neither color nor sex is ever discharged from obedience to law, natural or moral; written or unwritten. The commands, thou shalt not steal, nor kill, nor commit adultery, know nothing of sex in their demands; nothing in their penalty. And hence we believe that all human legislation which is at variance with the divine code, is essentially unrighteous and unjust.

Woman and the colored man are taxed to support many literary and human institutions, into which they never come, except in the poorly paid capacity of menial servants. Woman has been fined, whipped, branded with red hot irons, imprisoned and hung; but when was woman ever tried by a jury of her peers?

Though the nation declared from the beginning that "all just governments derive their powers from the consent of the governed," the consent of women was never asked to a single statute, however nearly it affected her dearest womanly interests or happiness. In the despotisms of the old world, of ancient and modern times, woman, profligate, prostitute, weak, cruel, tyranical, or otherwise, from Semiramis and Messaline, to Catharine of Russia and Margaret of Anjou, have swayed, unchallenged, imperial sceptres; while in this republican and Christian land in the nineteenth century, woman, intelligent, refined in ever ennobling gift and grace, may not even note on the appropriation of her own property, or the disposal and destiny of her own children. Literally she has no rights which man is bound to respect; and her civil privileges she holds only by sufferance. For the power that gave, can take away, and of that power she is no part. In most States, these unjust distinctions apply to woman, and to the colored man alike.

Your Memorialists fully believe that the time has come when such injustice should cease.

Woman and the colored man are loyal, patriotic, property-holding, tax-paying, liberty-loving citizens; and we cannot believe that sex or complexion should be any ground for civil or political degradation. In our Government, one-half the citizens and disfranchised by their sex, and about one-eighth by the color of their skin; and thus a large majority have no voice in enacting or executing the laws they are taxed to support and compelled to obey, with the same fidelity as the more favored class, whose usurped prerogative it is to rule.

Against such outrages on the very name of republican freedom, your memorialists do and must ever protest. And is not our protest pre-eminently as just against the tyranny of "taxation without representation," as was that thundered from Bunker Hill, when our revolutionary fathers fired the shot that shook the world?

And your Memorialists especially remember at this time, that our country is still reeling under the shock of a terrible civil war, the legitimate result and righteous retribution of the vilest slave system ever suffered among men. And in restoring the foundations of our nationality, your memorialists most respectfully and earnestly pray that all discriminations on account of sex or race may be removed; and that our Government may be republican in fact as well as form; A GOVERNMENT BY THE PEOPLE, AND THE WHOLE PEOPLE; FOR THE PEOPLE AND THE WHOLE PEOPLE.

In behalf of the American Equal Rights Association,

Lucretia Mott, President.

Theodore Tilton,

Frederick Douglass,

Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Vice Presidents.

Susan B. Anthony, Secretary.

#archivesgov #January 3 #1867 #1800s #equal rights #women's history #Black history #African American history #voting #voting rights #representation

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cornacopicimagines · 4 years

Text

A Rose Blooms │t.h

pairing: prince!tom holland x princess!reader

words: 8.4k (WHOOPS)

warnings: arranged marriage, SMUT (we been knew), slight praise kink and 10000% breeding kink, therefore unprotected sex, swearing, slight cockwarming & good lord there is so much

summary: Perhaps God does have a sick sense of humour. To allow such misguided souls to one another. Souls that shouldn't be allowed to feel the sense of happiness he can provide, that should accept their dire situations. The Prince of Wales and his new bride can attest to the quite well.

a/n: what do y'all mean a historical prince au!tom holland with major smut and breeding kink is not a thing. i know the sluts want it, even if they never ask for it. i must provide it.

masterlist

━━★✼☆｡

y/n of Burgundy was a splendid piece of artwork. A sweet and humble French Princess with a huge dowry and a bright future. It was as if DaVinci had casted the girl from Venus's shadow and gifted the baby to displeased parents. Parents who so wished for a boy, that the arrival of a healthy girl is so overlooked that the girl is better off dead. The sadness is heard across not only France but the entirety of Europe. Poor y/n of Burgundy! The Unlucky Princess of Burgundy! It's all she hears; she is deemed a tragedy before her life is even written. Perhaps that is her greatest misdeed in this life, that because she is born the wrong sex to what is expected she is casted to the side as a woman destined for slight and anguish for her entire life. Even if this is the case, y/n wished to think of herself as unwritten for the moment being. A woman waiting for a calling no matter how big or small. A woman who's only current wish to sit atop this windowsill, letting the cool September French breeze kiss her flushed cheeks. Alas, even this is stripped from her.

"Get off the window, y/n!" her mother's shrill voice shrieks as The Duchess yanks y/n to the floor. It's harsh and frantic, as if an arrow is to fly through and hit her. Her tightly coiled chest hit's the wooden floor hard. It knocks the only wind y/n really has left, a wasteful shame.

"I am sorry mama," y/n responds quietly, her hands desperately pat to find a piece of wood that will not cut up into her as she attempts to regain her balance. Though her room is filled with four maids not a single one offers their own hand to help her. She knows it is because of her mother's cowl. If they dare so move in a direction towards her, The Duchess will become a Fury of Hell himself.

"The breeze is so sweet at this time of afternoon." Finally, y/n does place her feet back on the floor with a small clack of her heels. She takes a moment to take in the state of her gown. While she has countless others, something about the pure white of the satin being destroyed by the inevitable dust that has collected is disheartening even to her. The pattern of bright red roses now looks more of a dull blood grey than a true flower.

"The breeze is something so frivolous my dear," The Duchess is suddenly content with her surroundings. "Busy yourself with something more intelligent, it makes for a much better bride."

"Thank you for the wise advice mother," y/n snaps, her fingers gripping the ruined material of her gown. "I'll be sure to not engage myself in something that gives me the slightest bit of freedom in the lifeless castle," it was no louder than a whisper. Her braided hair still muffling the sounds.

As if her words seemed to not even reach her, The Duchess mumbles in agreement before taking her leave. The door shutting loudly behind her, the air was finally safe to breathe. The maids immediately begin to swarm her. Like flies to honey; they grapple her, prod at her and pinch her. It was too much. It was as if a million ants had swarmed her body, nipping at any piece of flesh they could just because it was what they were meant to do. An instinctive need to draw more blood than necessary, it was overwhelming. They inspected her perfectly capable hands, wondering if their incompetence has cost them their heads because y/n of Brittany split her blood and The Duchess refused to let them help. She was suffocating.

She didn't mean for it to slip, it just did. Her voice raised, "Get out." It was softer at first. "Get out," they still didn't move, still abusing her. "I said get out!" Everything stopped for a moment, the air her mother had ensued had now come back. The maids all took a single step away from her. y/n felt the tears threaten her, warning by dancing across her lower lashes. "Do none of you listen, get out for Christ’s sake!" That's all it took, in a matter of seconds y/n was finally alone. She could hear the faint song of the trees whispering to her, it was calm, but she couldn't appreciate it. She dropped to her knees and began to softly weep into her palms. The groans muffled by the skin of her hands and the tears halted from falling by her fingers. In this moment and forever ahead of her, she was desolate.

But like all things, even this bleak minute of sorrow was cut to an end by the deafening sound of her father's boots storming down the hallways towards her room.

━━★✼☆｡

Tom spectated as the pole shattered into a thousand pieces. The splinters hitting ever edge of the arena. He watched as the knight fell limp and as his horse rode on through the chaos. The young prince roared out of his seat, his knees hitting the harsh wood of the royal box. His name echoed on the young knight's medallion above his breast. He had picked the winning side and rightfully so, Sir Harrison had never been defeated. For a moment, Tom turned around to face his beaming mother. A woman who loved the games, Tom always relied on his mother to accompany him to these festivities but his father. The Prince would always ask graciously but was refused every time. Constantly belittled for the consul of old men with a working cock between them, it was a joke. The King had many failed efforts to rile the English people to cause, Tom had offered a large gathering to help inspire the people. The King told his son this would cause nothing but useless panic and many painful deaths. Scoffing, Tom waltzed back to his seat. It was uncomfortable, it felt as if ants hand made their nets below the seat's support. He wished to ride alongside them.

"You cannot and you will not," The Queen smiled at him, waving to squires as they led the horses away. Tom's head swivelled around to meet his mother's. "I refuse it my son."

"I had said nothing mother," Tom replied quietly, he too doing his duty to the lower noble men who had come out today. Each one sweatier than the last. "Perhaps you are hearing things, 10 childbirths can change a woman's mind," Tom stifled a laugh, too which he received a slap on the arm for.

"Don't play smart with me son," The Queen spoke coolly, her countless rings clanged as she rose from her seat. Tom followed suit, allowing a hand for his now middle-aged mother for gracious help down the impossibly large stairs. "I almost lost your father to one of these silly little cock shows, I will not go through it with you my boy."

Tom raised an eyebrow, watching his mother's golden trim become bleaker by the stain of the grass. "I had half a mind to believe you enjoyed these silly little cock shows," Tom played. The Queen peered up at his through hooded lids. It was dangerous waters even for him, a man who has seen the blood of war. He allowed his mother and her ladies to return to Windsor, watching as if to wait for the shark to disappear.

"Your Royal Highness, if I may have a word," a soft voice called out from below the podium. Tom paced to the edge and stared down. Constance, he thought to himself as he smiled wickedly. She was a short and mildly plump woman, with wild unruly hair that had to be constantly shoved out of her face. He remembers her name because of how sweet his name sounded dripping from her tongue. Countless nights spent in the throes of passion, wearing moonlight as cloth. Tom knew he had dishonoured her just by bedding her, but he couldn't help himself. She was the first woman who really took an interest in him. Still, he had to come to her aid on multiple occasions. While he likes the way, she grips at his biceps, he however, doesn't like when her father comes storming into court demanding his daughter's honour back because Tom had prayed on her. Perhaps, it was the odd lack of ladies that would flock to his side or maybe it was simply because he wanted a little bit of fun before the inevitable.

"You may, my Lady," Tom smiled widely making his way to her side. He could tell the mud was ruining the polished leather of his boots, he completely forgot about his favourite riding boots he had put on in hopes that he may indulge himself in the sports. Still, he pushed the though deep down at met her eyes. He not an unusually tall man but the way he almost dwarfed her was delectable. As he watched her squirm, he wondered as to why she would speak with him where anyone could see. There was no danger for him, but the world's eyes were on her.

She played with the small ring on her pinkie finger, riding it up and down the skin. "Why did you not tell me," she whispered, refusing to look up at him. Tears began to well.

"What on earth do you mean?" He queered, genuinely curious as to what had got her all worked up. His hands went to stroke her cheek gently, but she abruptly pulled away from him. This time her eyes did meet his, the salty liquid glossed over her eyes.

"It is bad enough that I am called the Prince's Whore but now they are cursing my name because I have ruined the royal couple!" she cried out, her deep green dress swallowing the mud below. "That a stupid maid slut has stolen you away from the beautiful French Princess!"

Tom saw nothing but red. Not because of Constance but because of what she said to him. He had begged his parents to let him choose his own wife. If he was to rule England after his father's passing, he wished to at least have a woman whom he truly loved by his side. He said nothing to her as he stormed away. The small drizzle of rain hitting his skin as he picked up his speed. He knew that his father was in a council meeting alongside his mother. Perfect opportunity to unleash his rage. He faintly heard her calling after him, that was muffled by the buzzing in his ears.

He had been told who he was meant to be and what he was meant to be from the moment he was born. Hardly ever seeing his mother or younger brothers because he was eldest, never knowing true companionship because he would be constantly cooped up listening to his advisors and tutors as they taught him the art of war and foreign policies. This was his one chance to spend his life with a woman who understood him and would grow a loving family much in contrast to what he had.

His hands pushed the heavy wooden doors, they hit the walls with a large smack. The entire council stood for the Prince, with the exception of his mother and sickly father. He walked past them with ease and took his seat at the opposite end of table. His eyes focused solely on his father as he absently noted the appearance of his son.

"Wonderful of you to finally join us," The Duke of Essex smiled weakly, in any attempt to deflect the tension elsewhere.

"When were you going to tell me?" Tom spoke, his voice barely above a whisper and laced with venom. His elbows digging into the cool wood of granite of the table. He watched his father finally face him; the man was a wreck. His greying hair stuck to his hair with copious amounts of sweat, his brown eyes had sunk deadly back into the sockets and his skin was pale and filled with wrinkles. "When were you going to tell me father?"

"You were spending too much time with that scullery maid," The King respond calmly, still flipping through royal documents. Tom was on the verge of an explosion. If the Prince was known for something, it was his anger. Much like Mount Vesuvius, he didn't get angry often, he hated how it affect those around him. The times he is pushed to the breaking point however, he was destroy everything in his path. "We had to put an end to it."

"We?" Tom pushed.

"Your mother made the arrangements; she is being brought here as we speak." Once more, the King had no interest with the devastated look on the Prince's face. Too caught up in an attempt to stile a cough.

"You promised me my own choice of bride," Tom seethed. He faced his mother, if the King wouldn't listen perhaps the Queen would.

His mother sighed; the silk of her sleeves draped over the arms of the chair. "That was before you had instinctively made the choice, we hoped that perhaps you would have fallen for the daughter of a Duke or at worst an Earl. You were going to marry that girl, after everything her family has done against the court. We couldn't allow it."

Tom jaw clicked. "Who is she?" He was done arguing, done protesting.

"You'll marry the granddaughter of the French King; y/n of Burgundy," his father spoke up before his mother could sugar coat it. "The family sent a portrait of the girl as the first payment of her dowry; it has already been placed in your room. Hopefully, you can find the slightest bit of attraction for your new bride before the wedding."

"Will I get to meet her beforehand?" He at least hoped to see the girl with his own eyes before calling her his wife. Finally, the King met his eyes. He dropped the quill on the desk as locked his eyes, leaning towards him.

"Did you really think you'd get that luxury?"

━━★✼☆｡

The sea breeze prickled at y/n skin as she sat atop the deck. She could tell they were getting closer. The wind went from a soft tone to a howling scream, something her great aunt had told her all about. English weather could go from a perfect sunny day to god's worst mood. In all honesty, she preferred it to French. It was wild and unpredictable, something she so desperately needed.

She remembered how she got into this predicament as she lay down a 9 ace on the table. Waiting for the ship to land.

"You'll leave tomorrow, it will take you a good couple of days to get there." Her father exclaimed, picking a raspberry from the plate and eating the sweet fruit. y/n stood in silence, still reeling her tears back into her eyes. She refused to weep in front of the Duke. She moved around the large room, in order to hear his words. "You'll make a fine queen," he smiled, placing his hands atop her cheeks. y/n smiled warmly before raising a concern.

"How do you know this will be different than the last?" she asked quietly, staring down at her shoes. Her father sighs before picked his coat up from the chair.

y/n placed her bets, her hand is exquisite. Three queen and a pair of Kings. If she doesn't win, it's as if God is going against her. The men that sit beside her raise their brows in confusion. She's not backing down.

"Because, you know their language and their culture from Great Aunt Mary. You were her favourite after all," her father tells her, the memory of the old lady teaching her English brings a curve to her lips. That was not the answer she was looking for, however. Her father knows it as well, he knows the answer she wants but he cannot give it to her. "Trust me pumpkin," the endearment is wonderful. Unlike her mother, y/n's father has always been kind to her. She doesn't know if it because she is his eldest daughter or because her brother is a lousy boy and she is the only child with a head still attached to her shoulder blades.

She releases her tension; she knows whatever comes out of this she must go along with it. She must accept whatever situation is handed to her and accept her duty as a future queen and mother to the English Throne.

y/n squeals, her hand's won. The rest of the chips are placed in her corner, she is asking if they want to go another round but instead, they all huff and walk away from her. y/n feels her heart sink into her stomach. Perhaps the English wind has turned their moods sour. Soon enough her worries are washed away as the boat docks into Brighton and y/n hears the cheers for her. She can't exactly make out what they are saying. Sadly, she doesn't get a chance to even greet her new subjects as her new English ladies are gently pushing her towards the carriage. The only thing she can do is wave and smile at them, hoping to instil a fraction of hope for the new royal couple. As she steps into the carriage, a huge white dress follows her. The abundance of ladies and herself are stuck in the cramped space for a little over an hour before they start agreeing to change her dress into the one being coddled.

"Why? This is dress is perfect as it is," y/n laughed gently, her fingers playing with the pearls that lace the neckline.

"Forgive me, my lady, but His Majesty; The King has requested that you wear a white gown." One of the younger girls pipes up. Sighing, y/n nods her head to agree and goes to stop the carriage.

While they don't completely undress her, she knows that the smock under her dress is shear and leave nothing to the imagination. Quickly they strip her of the current dress, even unlacing the corset before adding another one. As they place the soft silk of her veil over her head, she can hear the ringing bells at Westminster. It hasn't completely dawned on her what she is exactly going through. Marrying a man she has never met. Marrying a man for all she knows could be a tyrant. She's heard quite a few English Monarchs fall under that said category. Her heart started to jump now; she could fell the beat thump against her vocal box.

The people began to line the city. Countless bodies waved at her as she strolled through the city of London. The abbey somehow seemed ten times bigger in person. White rose petals fell through the air as the coachman opened the door for her. The walkway was paved with red velvet. Her heels felt as though she was ruining the beautiful material as she walked.

Tom can physically hear her pounding heartbeat from where he stands. He can't exactly make out her face, but he can see the white gown strutting towards him. It's the same patterns as the dress his mother wore more than 20 years ago. He's seen it in countless paintings, his mother scowling as she attempts to salvage any positive thing out of such tremendous pain. Harrison lays a hand on his shoulder; the contact makes him jump.

"I heard she looks like a siren," he joked, dusting a small particle of fluff off Tom's shoulder. "Perhaps she'll sound like one too," the comment was enough to grant the knight a hard whack on his arm from the Prince. He truly did wonder if she would as beautiful as the painting which depicted her. A small red rose for his house in her fingertips as she grinned softly. It was as if she was staring into his soul.

Tom reached out to allow her aid in getting up the stairs. She graciously accepted muttering a small thank you as her other hand lifted the countless layers of fabric to mend her steps. Her touch was soft, something he wasn't used to. The gentle touch of a noble woman, even if it was only upon his fingers. The entirety of Westminster Abbey went silent as the faced each other.

y/n could barely hear anything over her rampant anxiety. Though she was eased slightly as she blindly grasped at his fingers, she was afraid she gripped a little too tightly. Finally, she stood in front of him. The gown dipping down the stairs to end in her ladies' hands. She wondered what she looked like to him. Wondering if it was a glorious sight to witness a new bride waltzing towards him. Or if it was one of dread, to be in holy matrimony with someone you've just met for the first time. She's still trying to decide between the two.

The ceremony was beautiful. A simply yet elegant affair, as two young royals wed. She knows that she is marrying the Prince of Wales, a worthy husband for any noble woman. Yet she can't help the dread that builds as the Archbishop drones on. The hymns falling deaf ears. She tries to pay attention, but she can’t, all she can hear is the drumming of her heartbeat. It pounds against her ribs, creating echoes in her head. Before she knows it, his hands reach for hers. There was no strength in his grip unlike beforehand, it was soft and gentle. As if she was a beautiful yet delicate doll, that she would completely shatter if he pressed just that bit too hard. Their fingertips locked; her skin fell into the ridges of his knuckles.

“I proclaim thee, y/n of Burgundy to be my lawfully wedded wife from now until the end of my days,” he hesitated. She could hear it in his voice. “She shall sit beside me as I rule the kingdom.” The ring passes down her skin, the metal biting at her finger.

She repeats him. “I proclaim thee, Thomas – Prince of Wales to be my lawfully wedded husband from now until the end of my days. I shall sit beside him as he rules this beautiful country.” She smiles at the end, though she never intends to. y/n thanks her ladies that they cover her grinning face behind the thick white lace of her veil.

The entirety of Westminster Abbey is silent, no one dares even breathe as Prince Thomas coils his fingers around the tipping of the lace. He lifts it over his now wife’s face. He taken aback slightly. The painter wasn’t paid enough, clearly. She was even more beautiful standing in front of him. The same clear complexion now glistening in the soft sunlight of England. He doesn’t pry of course; it would be rude of him. Just to stare at his bride, as if they were the only people in the hall. Good lord, does he wish it was.

His hands reach her cheeks. Tender once more, he brings her forward. She shifts on her feet as they meet. A quaint and soft kiss, unlike anything either of them has felt ever. He can’t remember the last time, it was this – well, gentle. Thomas doubts he has ever kissed a woman of such luxury in his entire life up to this point. y/n is the first to pull away, her fingers resting lightly on his raised wrists. Their eyes meet for a moment, a short moment.

Westminster Abbey erupts into celebration. Red rose petals fall from the ceiling and music begins to flood the area.

As she stared around, y/n began to think to herself. I do not know what will come out of this, but I already can see that joy my presence brings to these people. I shall not let them down.

Prince Thomas of England, Heir to The English Throne and y/n of Burgundy, Granddaughter of The French King had been wed. They were now locked in holy matrimony, a feeling unlike any other. Both horrendous and hospitable.

━━★✼☆｡

The Hall is a grand party. Laughing and singing is heard from every corner, mugs of beer and wine are flung across tables and scraps of food are being thrown to the dogs. y/n has never seen such a scene unfold. Too contained by the prudish French court. The most scandalous thing she has seen is a risqué dance meant to be for a married lover.

That is what she always despised about the French Nobility. Their secrets. Whispers and Rumours spread faster than fire. If you had committed some heinous act, the entirety of France will hear about it by the end of the week. Perhaps that is another reason why she felt so trapped in Burgundy. y/n could never do a single task on her own before her ladies’ loose tongue would find their way back to her mother. A delicate little flower, such a waste of potential.

Tom noticed her prodding, her fork twirling the few peas left on her plate. He hadn’t said a word to her all night and yet he looks at her if she’s unwillingly to speak. Does she know any basic English? Perhaps not.

“How are you liking the food,” Tom asked her, leaning into her. She smiled up at him, he spoke to her in French. It made her heart swell for a second. y/n turns to face him, smiling warmly. Tom wishes he could keep that smile forever.

“It’s is very well Your Grace,” y/n replies to him. Her flawless English rolling off her tongue with a petite French accent. It’s like heaven to his ears and he’s taken aback. “My Great Aunt was an English Countess, I loved her very much. I was fluent in English before I was 8.” She explained, almost as if she had read his mind.

“You need not call me Your Grace,” he teased, it was somewhat natural for him.

“Then what shall I call you?” y/n queered.

“I am your husband now, whatever pleases you pleases me,” Tom replied, turning back to his empty plate in an effort to hide the rising red flush on his face. y/n knew she should leave it at that, so she turned her attention elsewhere.

“Are royal weddings usually this,” she paused, “loud?”

Tom laughed quietly, he too turned to face the ruckus crowd. Men laying in the laps of maids, dogs feasting over food that had been flung across the floor. Loud chants to the beat of the music filled the hall. He would have been completely embarrassed by the state of his people in front of his new bride, if he hadn’t seen the amused look on her face. “Not usually, I have only been to one other wedding and that was extremely sombre.”

“How so?” she asked, sipping from the freshly poured wine.

“I went to my uncle’s wedding a few months ago. He had also married a noble woman like yourself, but the poor thing was only 11. My uncle was 35 and counting.” He wishes it was different but like all things in this world, he is powerless to the wills of those who think they are higher than others.

He peered at her; y/n was already looking at him. An eyebrow and a lip raised in disgust. It was quaint.

“I wish I could be more repulsed by that,” Tom wondered if she was joking or if she was serious. He couldn’t tell just by the use of her tone. He did however note her wit. Something he so longed for. They talked for hours, sitting by one another and discussing anything that arrived at the conversation. Tom can’t decide whether it’s her honey-like voice or her banter but it’s making him feel things no one should for someone they are being forced to wed.

Just while they are comparing the contrasting jousting techniques, the joyful music suddenly stops. It’s a quick snap and the entire hall is now dead quiet. The Earl of Salisbury mounts himself on one of the tables. His cheeks red with drunkenness.

The Earl points directly at y/n and Tom as they sit in confusion. “The final tradition, an honour for any noble man. The Great Bedding!”

y/n turns to Tom, clinging slightly to his sleeve. He takes immediate notice. “Thomas, what is The Great Bedding?” There was great concern in her voice as she watched all of the men rush towards them. He didn’t get to answer as the women abruptly hauled him out of his seat and down the hall, away from her.

y/n didn’t fear too well either. At least a dozen grimy hands placed themselves all over her body, pulling harshly as they brought her into the air. Dancing her down the halls. She constantly whacked their hands, to no avail of course. They only dropped her once they got to a dimly lit room.

It was already buzzing with people. Hustling around a single bed, covered by finely woven silk. The men dropped her gently, placing her feet against the ground. y/n tried to turn around to give them a piece of her mind but was stopped as her corset began to become loose around her waist. Incredibly uncomfortable, y/n looked up to distract herself in any regard and found Tom at the other side. The maid’s hands undoing every buckle of his coat, tiny fingers unthreading the lavish ropes across his body. y/n blushed at the sight.

Tom was trying his hardest not to look at her, not to stare as countless men of the court undressing her. He could hear the bulky wedding dress hit the floor of the room, he could feel her eyes on him, and he could see the variety of unknown nobles swarming them in any hopes to achieve the right to gossip tomorrow morning. It was despicable.

He climbed in first, the cotton of the blankets itching his skin as he settled. The only comfort he found was in the softness in his unkempt hair. Not restricted by the gel he was forced to wear.

y/n slowly followed his lead, it was dead silent. No one dared breathed as the new Princess of Wales found her spot next to The Prince. All the while, the exact same priest Archbishop chanted away, and priests flung holy water at the bed. Some of the liquid found itself on her skin. Finally, the crowd bowed to the couple and began to take their leave.

Tom watched in peace; he would be alone. He closed his eyes and let out a soft sigh, perhaps he would be able to get some well needed sleep. That seemed achievable until he felt a cold grasp around his wrist. His eyes shot open to find his father’s glare directly at him. “Don’t let the spring pass, I hope to see a grandson in the next few months,” The King spat.

It had been hours since the quarry of guests had left the room but the the monarch’s words etched themselves into his mind. Echoing nonstop, getting wilder as Tom felt y/n settle herself next to him. The mere presence of her alongside the duty he had to fulfil was too much for him. Tom shot up and quickly gathered his things, hauling his boots and clothes. He couldn’t be near her for another moment, too afraid of what he might do if she was subject to this sort of cruel punishment. Tom quickly decided he was sleep next door, just far away to have the thoughts no longer plague his mind but not too far that he would impose the wrong meaning on her. He reached for the door when she chimed in.

“Where are you going?”

He halted instantly. He wished that they could have gotten along like most royal couples should. A cold and initially distant meeting, then hopefully something would blossom over the years. Instead they had gotten along quite well, too well in fact. He was used to going slowly, taking his time in bedding a girl. A constant glaze over the court every few days, then promiscuous banter and in the span of months he would have her melt in his hand with a simple word. Now, he was feeling flustered and out of control and all of it was happening over a single night. Tom pressed his forehead against the wood, taking a deep breath. He turned to look at her, just like a painting coming to life. Her hair was down, unlike anything he had ever seen. Not grimed with sweat and dirt nor was it pinned underneath a headdress or away from her face. This time, the soft curls framed it. The nightgown clung to her shoulders; the fabric dangerously close to falling off. It made his life that much more difficult.

“I am sorry. You are a beautiful woman, but I just cannot fulfil the expectations that are placed upon me tonight. I will be sleeping in the room next door if you need me,” Tom blurted out. He waited for a response before he could speed out. She sat there, like a perfectly sculpted statue. It was torture.

y/n sighed, “nothing has to happen tonight.”

“But they will ask, they will pry like they always will,” he countered.

“Who says we have to tell the truth?” y/n giggled. God, it was a symphony to him. Tom watched her leave the bed, waltzing around to meet with him at the door. He wanted the tell her to stay exactly where she is, not to move even an inch closer but with ever step she took, his breath hitched higher in his throat. “I would prefer to spend the first night of my marriage with my husband, whether something happens or not.”

He swallowed thickly, “you are incredibly calm.” He now met her, his full attention on y/n as she chuckled in delight.

“I am filled to the brim with anxiety, just not that same fear that you are feeling,” she told him as she sat down the small longue in the middle of the room. She took the wine from the table and poured each of them a glass. Tom was hesitant at first, still wishing to flee the room and into the safety of his own solitary. Still, he found himself pacing towards her. Taking soft and flinching steps until he sat beside her.

“Then what is the fear?” He took the other glass, quickly chugging the alcohol. y/n said nothing but just stared at him in confusion. “The fear you feel, why?”

It was now her turn to become flustered. He looked genuinely curious as to why she was feeling doubtful, but she was unsure if he truly wanted to know the answer. Her father made her promise never to speak of it to anyone, a shameful secret that would ruin her future if it was released. But Tom was now her husband. They were bonded by law, a thought she really didn’t wish to dwell on. Surely, whatever she told him wouldn’t cause them any stress? Still, it would be rude of her not to tell him the reason after he had just clearly demonstrated his own fears in the commitment. “You must promise not to become angry.”

Tom nodded his head gently, even more intrigued then he was before.

y/n quietly exhaled, avoiding looking at Tom. “I was married once before, he passed from the sickness 3 months into our matrimony. Perhaps it was God way of guiding me to a better future, but it ruined almost everything. His death caused create strain for my family as they attempt to rebuild myself as if I was not capable of it myself. I am terrified that I am cursed, that I shall find myself falling in love with you only to be weeping over your coffin months later.” She had poured her soul out, shared such a personal section of her life. She was ashamed to see his face. Too afraid that pure anger and disgust would paint his face.

“Who was he? The man whom you had married?” Tom asked her again. His voice calling out as she stared directly at the purple velvet beneath her dress.

“The Prince of Spain,” y/n squeaked.

“That inbred!” Tom joked, suddenly becoming relaxed by the mere mention of the Spanish Royal Family. “I am surprised you got three months and not three days, that kid was on death doors for his entire life,” Tom was now in a fit of laughter. It wasn’t directed to her but more that they allowed such a beautiful woman to be the wife of such a dull man. y/n peered up, thoroughly embarrassed as she gave him a light whack. Tom finally came down from his laughing fit, staring directly at her. “You are cursed Princess; you are just coddled. Forced into a life clearly not meant for someone like yourself.”

The mere mention of the cradling of her life got y/n riled up, “that’s another thing! The Spanish constantly treated me as if I was some porcelain doll ready to shatter if they dared even look at me! I felt like a child trapped in a woman’s body and he touched me like that as well. God, I was finally ready to truly live my life and then he just was too soft, I wanted something much mor-” Oh. Oh God. She had run her mouth too far, dug her own grave with her rambling. Her hands clamped against her mouth as a heat rushed to her face. She could see the French ships arriving for her next month, giving her passage because she was not in pristine condition. Hopefully Tom didn’t pick up on what she was inferring.

“You aren’t a virgin?” his voice was quiet, almost dark. She felt her entire world shatter. Tom scooted towards her slowly, it was completely unnoticed. She was too deep in panic to recognise the growing flirt rising in the Prince of Wales. y/n shook her head feverously. “That little tick took you?” When he put it like that, it made her stomach tingle. She had never heard such a sentence used in that tone. She was drowning in thoughts.

“I didn’t know what I was doing, that’s why I was so unsatisfied,” she tried to explain, her hands now bunched up the fabric against her knees. “He was just so soft, too soft and I wished he would have-”

“Would have what?” he toyed. Tom doesn’t quite know why he was acting like this. So intent on prying her little secrets out of her. Usually, he would have just simply got straight to the point but now, seeing her become red with frustration was a view causing him great pleasure. Any abstinence he hoped to place upon himself earlier in the night had been thrown out the window. He finally felt back in control, something he longed for. Something she was serving to him on a silver platter.

“I..” she began but the words got caught in her throat. Her tongue stopped completely, almost refusing to finish the damning sentence. She wanted him to be rougher with her, she wanted him to treat her like a woman and not a girl. “What happen to you wishing to keep your hands to yourself?” She attempted to change the topic, trying to flee but to no avail as he quickly caught her wrist in his palms. Their skins igniting on sight.

“Don’t try to change the subject Princess,” he purred, standing up to meet with her at the side of the bed. Her title now held a completely different meaning, it wasn’t being used to describe her. It was being used to utterly destroy her; a nickname only meant to be whispered in the dim light of a dozen candles. “I can see right through you,” Tom’s calloused fingers met the loose fabric on her shoulders, dancing over her collarbone. It was soft but held meaning. “I can see that you wished he touched you differently. Touched you like a real woman, rougher and passionate.”

His words were damned. She should feel ashamed that she was feeling light-headed just by the grazing touch of his fingers above her perked breasts. “Yes,” it was the only thing she could get out. The only single three lettered word that allowed itself out of her mouth. Tom pressed his lips to her neck, underneath her jaw.

“Perhaps, he too was inexperienced.” He spoke through small pecks. “Allow me to show you something different, something better,” it was barely above a whisper, but y/n heard every word. Her fingers tangled themselves in his hair as he peered at her.

“I would enjoy that very much,” y/n responded just as quiet, all the gentle touches he currently had placed upon her turned darker. He pulled her into his embrace quickly before tripping her feet from under her and ending atop her on the messily made bed. His hand instantly found the inside of her thigh, his finger bruising her skin. It was delightfully, the slight pain sending shivers down her spine.

Their lips met, gentle at first. Her hands moulding themselves against his jaw, moaning into his mouth as he pushed her deeper into the mattress. She wished she could stay like this forever, wrapping in Tom’s embrace as they mended together. Alas, he pulled away from her. Lips separating with a small pop and a soft whine from y/n underneath him. Tom took a distinct look at her; she was sprawled out and whimpering for something more. Did she give this look to him as well? Did she use the melody that was her voice to beg him to do anything? Tom didn’t particularly wish to replay the thought in his head but yet, he couldn’t help himself.

Her nightgown quickly found itself discarded; her nipples perked in the cold. His lips immediately latched on, massaging the soft tissue. He never knew something could feel this smooth, without any flaws or imperfections. Even though he knew he could spend an entire night between the valley of her tits, he too longed for something more.

In a matter of moments, he found himself staring directly at her sex. A glorious sight to behold, glistening with her arousal in the pale moonlight. She was practically dripping onto the sheets below her. He placed a soft kiss to her pelvis, she jumped at the contact. “If you feel uncomfortable, you need to tell me,” he told her all the while his fingers toyed at her hot hole. Dipping even so slightly into her heat. She was already in euphoria just from the slightest bit of pleasure. y/n nodded her head before locking eyes with him.

He didn’t waste another second, quickly licking a fat stripe through her folds. The taste was pure heaven, he didn’t give her a moment to register the feeling before diving right back into her juices. Sucking and pulling at her, wasting the night away feeling her thighs clamp around his head every time he flicked her clit coupled with a singular finger prancing in and out of her.

y/n wasn’t quite sure how loud she could truly be. She knew that even though they were in the far south-east of the castle, there could be a dozen scullery maids listening right outside the door. Or if someone was trying to achieve some sleep right beside them. At this very moment though, with Tom’s head in between her thighs devouring every inch of her throbbing cunt, she couldn’t give a single fuck. y/n allowed the string of curses and praised to tumble from her lips as she clasped onto the bed sheets for dear life.

“Such a dirty mouth,” Tom remarked, releasing her for a few seconds, “for such a pretty and delicious pussy.” He chuckled darkly. y/n wanted to bite back at him, but she was cut short but the addition of another of his digits sliding into her tight entrance. y/n clasped down hard on her hand. A foreign feeling began to drive itself into her stomach. While unusual, it was not at all exotic to her. It was thrilling, feeling her walls contract around his fingers as y/n began to instinctively rock her hips against his digits.

“God,” he purred, “that’s it, make yourself cum on my fingers Princess. Let me see that gorgeous face while you do it.” Tom had now retracted his mouth from her, completely mesmerised by the way her eyes screwed shut as she reached her peak. A cacophony of beautiful and dazzling sounds stumbling out of her mouth as he felt her climax all over his hand. Such a tantalising sight for any man.

y/n was too deep in her own return that she didn’t notice the retraction of his presences from the middle of her legs. So, when he felt his hands roughly pull her to the edge of the bed, she almost choked. The exhilarating feeling of his strained cock rubbing against her drenched folds made her forget her place. Made her speak before her mind could catch up. “I want you to fulfil the expectation.” She told him, her eyes never wavering from him.

Tom halted all his movements. It was painful but he needed absolute clarity before he did anything without her reassurance. “You need to elaborate Princess,” he told her darkly. He knew exactly what she was asking of him, he knew exactly what she desired.

“I want you to come inside of me,” she spoke as if she was a different person. y/n doesn’t quite know whether it’s the shift of mood or her own personal feelings but either way, she wanted to feel their juices mix and then leak out of her. Wanted him to fill her right up to the brim until the possibility was certain.

“You want me to fuck my seed right into you?” his words were dirtier than she expected but so was he as he slid in and into her. His naval hitting hers with a loud smack. He refused to move until he had played with her just that tad bit more. y/n’s head thrashed into the sheets behind her. She was so full, never has she felt this complete in her entire life. He wasn’t even moving but she could feel every inch of him deep inside of her.

“God yes,” she whimpered. “I need it so bad,” she was going to drive Tom insane. Just by a simple sentence, he was going to lose his mind and cum right now without even doing anything.

“Want to carry my child, our own Prince or Princess,” he pulled back out of her and slammed right back in, knocking the wind out of her y/n. It was so profoundly dirty, just discussing it. It thrilled her to the very core, child-bearing was meant for women not girls. Perhaps that is why she is so drawn to the talk, the talk of something so primally feminine set her entire body on fire. She couldn’t speak a coherent sentence instead she just let out a continuous plea.

He began slow, hips rocking to find that perfect beat. He revelled in the only sounds in the room, the sound of his cock hitting the divine spot inside of her over and over again and her delirious moaning. It was a symphony he was lucky enough to hear. He wanted to hear more, listen to the pure sounds of him railing into her. So, he picked up the pace. His thrust became not only deep and harsh but fast.

God, if he could immortalise this feeling he would. The feeling of her walls constricting around him as he pounds right into her, the feeling of her legs wrapping around his constantly thrusting hips and the feeling of her sweating skin underneath his fingers as he grips for support. It’s like the Lord himself made her tight little cunt just for him.

“You’re so big,” y/n praised mindlessly. He’s never had someone say that to him without it sounding forced. It’s so raw that he can’t help but go even harder into with each praise that falls off her lips. “Fill me up, I want to feel you all inside of me.” It’s a dangerous game, she’s tapped on something so feral inside of him it hurts.

y/n wants to prop herself up and explore his body while he pounds into her, but she simply can’t. Her limbs give out with every thrust. Her entire body spasms each time he hits the perfect spot inside of her. She a moaning mess, trying to maintain any sense of normality but failing miserably. It’s a constant state of pleasure, she’s afraid that she’s lost track of time. That is until the faint, but all the desirable fit finds itself lit in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m almost there,” she whispers, it’s the only thing she can get out. His thrusts, that once had gained a steady and harsh rhythm are now falling. He’s losing focus with each grip he receives. With her words though, he gives her the final stretch. No longer does he has some form of structure but instead he’s just railing her like a wild animal.

It’s an explosion and neither knows why but it’s addictive. y/n climaxes around him, her toes curling as her final orgasm hits her long and violent. Shaking underneath, him as she unknowingly milks his own finish out of him. Tom’s fucking his cum right into her, he doesn’t stop for a second. Too focused on the goal ahead of him. Placing it where it counts. It’s a feeling he wants to never forget, better yet it’s a sight he wants permanently etched into his memories. As he pulls out of her, their climaxes tumble out of her. Dripping down her leg.

“Hold your legs up Princess,” he teases as he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “I heard it works wonders.”

The rose blooms only for those who care properly for her.

━━★✼☆｡

a/n: please don’t flop, omg this is so long and no one asked for this shit. please don’t flop chile 🤡