#we all serve the short king

[shiiikigami]

JJK SPOILERS

nah you know what? i'm still salty that gege hasn't given inumaki any growth or change or progression other than his injury in canon. his classmates have all had grand power-up arcs, or really great narrative battles, but inumaki has really been the same since JJK 0 except progressing up a semi-grade. people have blamed it on the fact that his ability is OP - but it really isn't. the drawbacks are so severe when he's cursing someone at a higher grade than him - and right now in canon the major fights have all been higher than he can manage alone.

i mean, the second years were a particularly rag-tag bunch compared to the first years, given that none of them are traditional sorcerers and all. and i get that he's been offscreen for the time between shibuya and his reappearance due to his injuries too, but he's really due okay. blah blah i know his time is probably up soon so can't he have that?

anyways all this rambling is just me saying i'm cooking up an arc for toge to have his growth just you wait and see.

[gutsby]

Wedded Bliss

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

Warnings: 18+. Dubcon. Corruption kink. Virginity loss. Arranged marriage between enemies. Brat taming. Breeding kink. Beefy, mob boss Bucky devolving into a fall-to-his-knees-just-to-fuck-you kind of horny mess.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

You kissed him and wished him dead in the same breath. You said ‘I do’ and meant ‘I don’t,’ exchanged your vows like your own last rites, and felt him slip the ring on your finger as if he’d just tightened a noose around your neck.

You didn’t want to be a bride, and you sure as hell didn’t want to be the bride to Mr. James Buchanan Barnes.

Frankly, you were mortified.

And terrified, too, now that you knew your groom might actually kill you in the kitchen of your honeymoon suite.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?!”

“I walked down the aisle, didn’t I?”

Another plate went crashing on the wall behind your husband’s head just as he managed to duck. He side-stepped a spray of porcelain and glass and probably crushed several hundred shards beneath his polished black oxfords when he walked—stalked—over to you.

You’d just reared back to hurl a serving plate at his face when you found your speed swiftly outmatched. Bucky had your elbow gripped between his forefinger and thumb in less than a second, and, pinching the bone like he might readily break it, he said, even as always,

“Put it down.”

You did as he told you and dropped the platter to the floor with a crash.

Rather than berate you for the broken china—or the four other pieces before it—your husband only smiled.

“Are we done?”

Hell, you wanted to be. Slide over a pen and a one-way plane ticket to someplace in BFE, and you’d be signing those divorce papers in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, your dear husband was just referring to the temper tantrum.

You weren’t totally sure if you were finished on that front, so you looked him up and down and shrugged.

“Now darling—” he started.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Light of my life—”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your cool, level-headed groom took each gibe like it was his sworn duty, and only when he yanked your wrists behind your back and shoved you toward the bedroom door did you sense that he might not be too pleased with your behavior.

Your knees struck the edge of the California King at the center of the room, and before you could will yourself not to fall face-first, Bucky nudged you hard again.

Still pinning your hands behind you, he followed your collapse on the bed and leaned over your prone body.

His breaths were hot on your ear; you could tell he was smiling as he started to hike your dress up your legs.

“It’s all part of the deal, doll.”

You wriggled under his hold and tried to angle yourself better to see him, hoping he’d see your scowl.

“The deal was to get married,” you reminded him.

“Mhmm,” Bucky hummed, just then starting to trail a finger up the uncovered skin of your calf with his other hand, “And what is it that married people do?”

You kicked your foot reflexively, paused, then said,

“Fight. Constantly. Probably resent each other for the better part of two decades before we finally decide that ‘making it work’ for the kids isn’t worth it at all, and I claim half of everything you own in a bitter divorce.”

That earned a chuckle from Bucky. He kept his roaming hand brushing up the back of your thigh and squeezed the flesh just below the swell of your rear.

“Don’t worry, my lawyer drafted a pretty good prenup.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but then he was tracing the contour of your ass with his palm, and you cut yourself short. Bucky carried on, careless as ever.

“But the kids you mentioned,” he said, “How are we supposed to get those?”

You pursed your lips and tried hard not to move when his fingers drifted inward—you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. The bottom of your dress was bunched around your hips now, leaving you sorely exposed. Had your bridesmaids not thrust that stupid white lingerie set upon you hours before the wedding, you probably would’ve chosen something a little more modest than a thong. But here you were.

At least the sight seemed appealing to your husband, whose eyes hadn’t left you once while his hands grew even hungrier to feel your warmth.

“I’m hoping a sperm donor or one of your double-crossing mobster friends will knock me up, honestly,” you said, feigning enthusiasm at the thought.

A tart slap delivered to your ass told you that Bucky hadn’t found that funny. After, he started kneading the skin a bit harder.

“No shot,” he shook his head, suddenly gliding his fingers down closer to your core and waiting for you to say something in protest, “Only one that’s gonna be pumping this thing full of babies is me, I promise.”

It was like he wanted your retaliation, whether that be by a thinly veiled look of disgust or a reactionary jab of your own. You weren’t keen on fulfilling any wish of his, but at this point, you felt you had no other choice. When you sensed he was distracted by the newly-discovered heat between your legs and had loosened his grip on your wrists, you flipped yourself over on the bed. Shoved at his chest before he knew what to do with himself.

Of course, the push didn’t send him far, but it was enough to get his attention—and his hands off of you.

“I’m not having your babies, Barnes! I am never going to fuck you, no matter how long we stay fake married,” you spat.

At that, Bucky just raised his eyebrows and wet his lips. You were cramming your wedding dress back into place, glaring at him the whole time, and were scarcely more aware of the bright, teeming city outside the window than you were of your husband’s own growing erection.

Finally, you’d said it. His new wife wouldn’t fuck him. The sound of your resistance was almost a pleasure unto itself, and the longer you stared at Bucky with growing contempt and resolve not to do that thing, the more determined he became to make it happen.

Cat-and-mouse games had long been a staple in his life, and he was pleased to see them carry into his marriage as well. Surely if he’d triumphed in every pursuit for the last twenty years—facing the likes of some seriously execrable bandits and racketeers—he could take on a bratty woman less than half his size. You said you didn’t want his babies now, but just wait until he’d fucked you full of his cum once or twice. You’d be begging him for it in no time at all, and shortly thereafter, he’d have you barefoot and pregnant as many times as he liked. Always swollen with one of his children and whining for more.

The woman before him now had a murderous glint in her eyes, but he could fuck that away easy. In fact, he would live to do it. He traced the outline of your thigh over your dress and smiled when you tried not to recoil.

“Surely you didn’t think we’d be finger-painting and reading poetry to each other on our wedding night, hm?” he asked, almost delicately.

“Thought you might have one of your other women lined up,” you snorted. When you tried to move away, Bucky pinched your leg to make you stay. You winced.

“That’s not funny,” he said, a little more consternation in his tone. Like he actually cared whether you thought him a profligate Lothario or not, “Now that we’re married, it’s only you and me. No mistresses, nothing.”

Yeah, and he was just as likely arriving to your marital bed a blushing virgin. You rolled onto your side and pretended not to feel him tighten his grip as you did.

“Try the carnal part of our marriage yourself and I’m sure you’ll find I’m an exceptional fuck,” Bucky continued, speaking low as he stroked the chiffon of your dress.

You didn’t doubt the man was good—certainly the extent of his sexual escapades as a twenty-something seemed to demand it—but exceptional? No fucking way. You knew men like Bucky, with the world and every walking pair of tits at their fingertips, and almost all were incurably selfish. Cocky. The kind to jackhammer a woman for three consecutive minutes, roll over, and say, ‘Did you cum?’

No, there was not a snowball’s chance in hell your husband’s sexual prowess was even half as good as he claimed it was. Deciding to bite your tongue for the first time that night, though, you just stared at him blankly.

What you didn’t know was that your silence only stoked the flames of his ego, prompting him to press the matter further.

“What? You think I can’t fuck?” he said, “Any woman lucky enough to bed me has cum at least twice. Every time.”

Sure they did, Bucky, you wanted to say, but were suddenly drawn into his lap before you could speak.

“But let’s pretend I can’t,” he said, heedless of the face you made as soon as you were straddling his hips, “You wouldn’t let your husband prove himself tonight?”

“I don’t fuck strangers.”

Bucky smiled at that.

“Everyone’s a stranger until you get to blow them, honey,” he teased, squeezing your hips when you didn’t seem amused at all. Then you let out a cry, feeling yourself thrown back on the mattress like a rag doll while Bucky moved off.

Before you knew it, he was tugging your ankles down the length of the bed and widening his stance just a bit. He stopped pulling once your knees were grazing his black dress pants and your feet were dangling off of the bed.

“You like skylines?” he asked.

You frowned and raised a brow that he was quick to interpret as a ‘yes.’ He hauled you onto your feet.

“‘Course you do. All pretty girls like pretty skies,” he rattled on, strolling with you step-by-step to the set of French doors at the end of the room.

Bucky led you out to the balcony. The air was warm as it ever was, dull gusts of the evening wind curling up from the coastline below. Just as your husband had promised, the skyline of Santorini greeted you on either side, and you had to admit, it was more than just pretty. The views from your villa were absolutely breathtaking.

You stood with your back to Bucky, hands resting on the marble balustrade, and you felt him there, behind you. You didn’t bother to tilt your head when he drew even closer.

“What do you like most about it?” The question was simple enough, punctuated with a kiss on your shoulder. Your eyes scanned the horizon, the sea, even the quiet little streets down beneath, and you racked your brain trying to think of an answer that might satisfy him.

Before you could, though, you sucked in a breath when you felt your dress start to come undone at your back.

Bucky was unzipping your gown, gentle as ever, and probably grinning from ear to ear as he watched you shift uncomfortably in place and try to hold the material above your breasts where it had been fastened all day. Presently, you kicked your heel backward and hoped it would land somewhere near his balls. You missed.

“James,” you hissed.

Bucky groaned at the sheer intonation of his name on your lips.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why are you undressing me?”

Bucky had successfully dragged the zipper all the way down to your ass, and it seemed he was trying to shimmy the dress off your frame. You held on tight.

“I’d like to fuck my bride over the balcony railing, if that’s alright with you,” he answered truthfully.

The man was nothing if not blunt and crass. You turned around to give him a look, yanking your gown even closer to your chest.

“I’ll— I’ll tell my mother, Barnes.”

You felt stupid as soon as you’d said it—using your go-to threat whenever you were in distress. What were you, eleven?

“Your mother?” Bucky repeated, words steeped in derision, “Last I recall, mommy dearest was practically begging me to get you pregnant at the reception.”

Your jaw clenched, and you internally cursed your whole family. Your parents were supposed to be on your side throughout all of this—it was bad enough they’d pawned you off to a mob boss of unrivaled infamy all to settle a debt, but this? Your mother had assured you just the day before that Mr. Barnes was bound to tire of you within the year. No mention of sex or babies whatsoever.

The same mother who had beat you over the head with the notion of your own virginity since you were old enough to read, the one who had underscored just how important it was to wait for the right man to give yourself body, mind, and soul to, turning around and telling this filthy criminal to have you any way he liked. And knock you up? The fucking nerve of that woman.

You were so preoccupied with thoughts of your own backstabbing family that you hardly felt Bucky drag your dress the rest of the way down your body. It was only when you were completely bare before him, and your husband had just started to skim his lips over your tummy that you tensed with surprise.

“I don’t have to fuck you just yet, doll,” he murmured, having sunk to his knees and only moving lower. Then the corners of his lips twitched, “Least not with my dick.”

You tried to pry his head from between your legs before he could stretch his tongue so much as an inch.

“James!”

Again with that name.

“You know, I love when you call me that, Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky was peering up at you now, soaking in the sight of your body in a white lace bra, panties, and stockings.

“Is my bride feeling shy?” he teased, gently nipping at your inner thighs.

You weren’t sure what you were feeling in that moment, to be honest. Revulsion, betrayal, arousal, you name it—each crowned with an all-encompassing hatred for the man currently occupying the space between your legs—while a still stronger desire almost hoped he would stay.

“You can hate your husband all you want and still let him tonguefuck you,” Bucky growled against your skin.

Like he’d read your mind.

In reality, your husband hardly needed the powers of telepathy to tell him just how turned on you were; the sopping wet spot in your panties said as much. From his vantage point, Bucky saw the disgust in your eyes slowly eclipsed by lust, and with a single flick of his tongue, he knew he would have you exactly where he wanted you.

“Just let it happen, honey.”

He felt your fingers thread tight through his hair and the first stir of your hips in tandem. One small, delectable whimper crossed your lips, and it took everything in Bucky not to tear your panties straight off with his teeth.

Instead, the man opted for a soft, gentle lick over your clothed slit. Testing the waters.

Your whimper was quick to meld to a moan, and then, just as fast:

“N-no, Bucky.”

To your dismay, his tongue didn’t retreat, only making firmer laps against your centre while his lips grazed the lace. He gripped your thighs and wedged himself deeper, and again, you cursed the paper thin fabric of your panties for letting you feel everything his mouth was doing. He hadn’t even made proper contact with your cunt, and your knees were already starting to shake.

He pressed a kiss above your clit through the flimsy material, and you almost tore a clump of hair from his head.

“No. Please.” You hardly made sense to yourself; it was clear you wanted his touch, but something inside you wasn’t quite ready to submit to the idea that this was all okay. That your husband’s tongue and lips might be meant for something like this, and you didn’t have to feel so guilty for wanting it either. Fucking purity culture.

“My pretty girl,” Bucky presently murmured above the fabric, words sending a dozen little shockwaves in their wake, “My beautiful fucking wife.”

The man inhaled your scent and could’ve sworn he was in ecstasy. Blinded by desire as he was, he really wasn’t bullshitting in the slightest when he gathered you to him and said you were the best; he’d genuinely grown transfixed by the feel of you, in spite of every fibre of his being telling him not to. The marriage was arranged, fake, and fueled by hatred—and somehow, Bucky couldn’t get enough.

Nor could he wait any longer. One light swipe of his finger tugged your panties aside, and then he was latching on, no cover this time, to take your clit between his lips. Sucking hard, going fast, needing it bad.

A moan rang loud in his ears, and your hand on his head was instantly joined by the other. You yanked his hair like you never had before, pulling so tight at the roots as though your pleasure depended on it. Bucky smiled around the soft pearl in his mouth and flicked it gently with the tip of his tongue.

“Feel good, baby?” he breathed.

His head tilted up to you, and he could see you were struggling just to breathe, face painted with a medley of emotions.

You didn’t know if you could, or should, be feeling this good from a man so evil. Bucky flattened his tongue and licked a long stripe up your pussy to ensure that you would. Then he posed the question again, smirking.

“You like my tongue on this wet, needy cunt?”

His words were so damn obscene, but you nodded anyway. Feeling small and powerless beneath those big, broad hands as they pinned you back on the marble and spread you even wider for the taking.

He loved how innocent and lewd you looked at once, wincing with pleasure and still trying to keep your composure like you thought a good girl should.

Bucky wanted to break that resolve. He brought one hand closer to your entrance.

And, just as your breaths were starting to hitch and grow more ragged in your chest, he pushed two fingers inside. The act surprised your husband almost as much as it did you—not quite, but almost—upon feeling how tight you were, how resistant to even two digits you seemed to be. He hardly knew whether to shove them deeper or pull them out, so fast did your muscles contract around him.

When you whined a loud, protracted, ‘FUCK!’ he figured he would stick with the former. He grinned, having never heard you speak, much less swear, out of pleasure like this.

Your head lolled back and your body made an arch when his fingers curled inside you. You were panting, moaning, coating his hand with your juices, and Bucky knew you were close.

He started pumping his fingers in and out while his tongue worked your clit, chin practically doused in your arousal by now. A swell of pride rose within him: he could finally bring you home to that sweet release, have you a shaking, soaking mess above his face like you were wholly his and no one else’s. He moved his tongue even faster and sank his fingers straight down to the knuckle.

Then, unexpectedly, both were robbed of your touch.

Seized with fear, you shoved Bucky off and stumbled away from his glistening face. You took off toward the doors and fled the balcony before you could think.

“What the f— honey? Honey?!” Bucky sputtered. He bounded after you.

You’d thrown yourself in the master bathroom and locked the door behind you in the blink of an eye. Outside, your husband had only to stare in pure bewilderment and awe, mind reeling at what had just happened.

Fucking hell, he knows. He knows! You collapsed against the door and slid down a couple inches. Your hand reflexively flew to your mouth to stifle the sounds when Bucky began pounding the wood behind you.

“Baby, what’s wrong? What’s—what’s goin’ on?”

In truth, you’d rather chug bleach than divulge the thought that had just scared the everliving fuck out of you back there. It was stupid and senseless and should’ve been frightening you for weeks before it ever came to this, but here you were, panicked in the bathroom of your honeymoon suite because you’d never done this before—and you’d never reached climax in your life without bursting into tears.

Fuck, you felt stupid. How could you think this would be any different—or that Bucky’s tongue wouldn’t eventually attempt to wrest an orgasm out of you?

It’d just felt so good, you thought maybe a new climax brought by someone else’s fingers might free you from the same unsavory demise you’d met a hundred times before, but then it hit you, shortly after Bucky had plunged his fingers inside, you were going to cry.

You winced when Bucky’s knocks grew louder, his voice gaining more ire by the second, it seemed.

“Open the fucking door!”

He’d rake you over the coals for this. Getting so close to what he wanted, only to have his silly little bride snatch it all away and run hiding in the en-suite bathroom? Your stomach turned at the thought of what men in the mob were liable to do with women like you—what Bucky might conceivably do now that you’d sparked his rage.

Your eyes darted to the window just as his fist shook the doorframe behind you. You ran over to the tub, tucked squarely beneath the windowsill, and climbed onto it just to get a hold of the fastenings around the glass.

One click synchronized with the furious cadence being hammered on the door, and just as you started to slide the pane up the way, a heavy thud sounded outside. The weight of your husband’s body being thrust against the door, most likely.

You bit your lip and lifted one leg over the windowsill, shuffling your body even closer to the outside world.

Three floors up! Have you lost your mind? You could hear your father’s words ringing in your skull already. There was a ledge, you reasoned, no more than ten feet below, if you could just grab hold of the frame right there and slide down the cool stone you might—

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned.

You watched your husband heave through the busted door of the bathroom, wide eyes and a ‘Here’s Johnny’ flourish raging hot on his face. Your heart leapt to your throat, and you started to lower yourself out of the window, hoping desperately for that ledge below to be sturdy. But before you could make it even half of the way there, strong arms were circling your frame and yanking you back inside, hurtling straight into the bathtub with Bucky tumbling over you.

“What are you doing?!” he roared.

You wriggled under his weight, petrified of the fiery look in his eyes as he lurched over your frame.

He straightened up just enough to shake you by the shoulders—like a parent reprimanding a child.

“What the fuck was that?! Huh? You think that’s fucking funny, jumping out windows?”

No, no, not funny, you wanted to bite back, but found your mouth dry and unable to speak. When Bucky shook you again, you had only to whimper a pathetic sound.

The man was enraged. Stubble still damp with your juices and looking undeniably frazzled and spent, he drew closer to your face and demanded you look at him. When he took hold of your cheeks in both hands, the command couldn’t have reached you any more clearly.

“What— what was that for?” his voice lowered as he tried to catch his breath. You still couldn’t move.

“I-I don’t—” you stopped and hardly knew how to say it:

Sorry to cut our tonguefucking session short, I was just afraid I might burst into a fit of uncontrollable tears while you licked and sucked me through the best orgasm of my life. I’d rather jump off, or out of, a building than tell my mob boss husband that I can’t cum without crying. By the way, I’m a virgin!

Instead, you just blinked and stared back at him.

“Can’t…do it,” you murmured.

Bucky’s expression only grew more puzzled by the words out of your mouth. He squeezed your face tighter and leaned in even closer.

“Do what? Sex? Fuck, I— I didn’t mean to be that aggressive, hell, I’m sorry.” He stopped to run a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you could’ve sworn you saw the first glint of compunction in his eyes.

He looked away a few seconds, as if collecting what fragmented thoughts he could, then brought his head back down to your level and took your hands in his.

“Honey?” he tried getting your attention, just barely above a whisper now, “I know the whole thing’s fucked, I know.”

That was the understatement of the century. To your surprise, Bucky’s gaze softened when he saw a scowl cross your face.

“We don’t…have to do anything. I was just pushing your buttons earlier. Being a dick.”

His tongue moved to wet his lips once more, this time without the seductive, smug demeanor he usually wore and simply exhibiting discomfort. He swallowed. The bow tie around his neck appeared to him to be fastened far too tight all of a sudden, and then, haphazardly, he started clawing at the garment to get it off.

You didn’t know why you felt compelled to help. It was like all ten fingers just lifted of their own accord to join Bucky’s hands in trying to undo his tie.

The silk fabric wasn’t tied, but knotted, crudely and inflexibly, beneath the little black bow. You frowned. Still unable to meet his gaze as you worked your fingers under the tangled material and tried to pretend like the two of you weren’t still sweating profusely from the events that had just transpired—both the tonguefucking and the window-jumping.

“Who tied this, a five-year-old?” you muttered.

“I’m thirty-eight, thanks,” Bucky returned just as quietly.

Both of you indulged in a smile that lasted no longer than a second, but you felt the tension ease a little.

This was not where you thought your dreaded wedding night was headed before. Curled up in a bathtub with your hands around your husband’s neck—and not actually trying to kill him—while Bucky blinked almost nervously the longer your hands lingered on his collar. It seemed he’d found something especially tantalizing on the wall behind your head, because his stare remained fixed on that spot the whole time you fiddled with his tie.

Maybe that, along with the last ebb of alcoholic influence from the reception still coursing through your veins, had emboldened you to come right out and say it while Bucky was looking away. You couldn’t be sure.

“I’ve never had sex before.”

At last, the tie loosened a little.

Bucky flicked his gaze back to yours in a second.

“What?”

You lifted a brow, wondering if he really needed an explanation as to what it meant to have never gotten laid before, but you decided against indulging him any further. Bucky seemed keen on doing that all by himself.

“You’re a virgin?”

You nodded.

“Didn’t my overbearing mother make sure you knew?”

“Yeah, I thought she was full of shit,” Bucky answered bluntly. Then, catching sight of the semi-offended look in your eye, mixed with a tad more amusement than indignation, he added, “I mean— I didn’t think you’d, uh, wanna wait…twenty-five years for some action.”

He winced when he realized that sounded just as bad. His throat cleared shortly to make way for a new attempt at comity, but you cut him off, shaking your head as you finally got the knot to untangle.

“No, I get it. I don’t know why I waited this long either,” you shrugged.

As soon as you’d freed him from his bow tie, you started to stand from the bath tub. Bucky, too, straightened to his full height and started to close the window while you walked back to the bedroom.

You eyed the rose petals strewn across the duvet and felt a little more relaxed this time around. The weight of the V-word had been lifted from your shoulders, and now you had only to share the crying-while-cumming stuff to Bucky later on. Much later on, you hoped.

You crawled onto the bed and stretched out on your belly, playing with the soft red petals and wondering if room service was still offered at this hour.

Bucky had just stepped out of the bathroom when he halted at the threshold. Saw your body sprawled out on the bed, back arched and ass pointed in the air as you reached over for the phone on the nightstand. He stared for a second too long and felt a familiar stir in his pants.

Sonovabitch, he started to think, before chiding himself silently, Shut up, man, she’s a virgin. Be cool. Be cool—don’t make her jump out a window again.

He ducked back in the bathroom and eased the door to just a crack while you discovered a voice on the line:

“Hi! Hey, I’d like to order room service to, uh…” your voice trailed off. Then, covering the mouthpiece, “James, what’s our room number?”

Inside the bathroom, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of his name. Already palming his erection through his dress pants as he leaned against the wall.

“We rented the whole building, dear,” he called back.

“Oh.” He could just imagine the slight pout on your lips as you spoke. Then you asked if he wanted anything to eat, Bucky thought only of the sweet nectar between your legs, and he answered aloud, no, he was fine, really.

For the first time in his life, the man felt positively ashamed he was about to rub one out in a bathroom, alone. It wasn’t like this was the first it had ever been done, but now there was you, innocent and oblivious in the next room over, while Bucky undid his belt and quietly freed his cock from his dress pants. It felt kind of perverted, in a way, but he knew he needed this release to put his mind at ease and not feel so affected by you.

While you scanned your phone for a menu and chatted with the concierge downstairs about various food items, Bucky was spitting in his hand and fumbling for his shaft. You talked American Wagyu sirloin, lobster thermidor, and seared Faroe Island salmon while he thought achingly about the way your cunt had tasted and how badly he wanted to try it again.

How did he feel about an artisan cheese platter? Bucky hardly had the wits about himself to answer beyond a strangled, ‘Whatever you want, honey’ and a tightened fist around his cock, stroking hard to get the filthy thoughts out of his head before the food arrived.

Ever sweet, soft, supple, and savory—his mind reeled with fresh memories of that place between your thighs, and he almost lurched forward in pleasure.

Your brute of a mob boss husband was irreparably pussy-whipped and hadn’t even fucked you yet. He gripped the bathroom sink beside him and sincerely wished it wasn’t his hand doing the work right now. But of course, he had to be patient, had to be kind—couldn’t force himself on a woman who clearly wasn’t ready.

Again, he spit in his palm and jerked himself fast.

Any minute now, he thought with some relief.

Your feet padded softly into the living room as the pleasure inside him was starting to crest. Still pining for your warmth and the way your legs trembled around his head, Bucky was all but fucking his hand at this point. He’d snagged his bottom lip between his teeth in a lopsided smile and groaned, too low to be heard, and pumped himself even faster for his impending orgasm.

A thought crossed your mind as you stopped ahead of the sofa. You pivoted.

Suddenly, you were skipping back to the bathroom, wanting to know Bucky’s wine preferences before you placed another order.

You barged in and froze.

“Sorry!” you squeaked, darting out just as fast.

Five seconds slower and you probably would’ve seen Bucky blow his load all over the sink. As it was, the man was left sorely at a loss for any form of release and heaving fast, ragged breaths from the colossal scare you’d just given him.

Good fucking going, Buck—your wife wants to cuddle and eat cheese and you’re out here beating your meat.

Bucky shoved himself back in his pants and waited an excruciating minute for the sound of your second window exit of the night. A slammed door, a frantic phone call, a few sobs into your pillow as you realized how dirty and depraved your husband was, anything.

He was only met with silence.

Taking one more shaky breath, Bucky reached for the doorknob and started back out. Cautiously.

The man took his slow, silent leave of the bathroom with his gaze trained toward the doors—half-expecting to see his bride rappelling from the balcony—but then quickly shifted to the bed. Finding you kneeling at the edge.

“James?”

Your voice almost pained.

A word was all it took. Bucky was back on his knees.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted it to go away, honey. I’m sorry.”

Go away? You quirked a brow and couldn’t hold his gaze much longer; just trailed your vision down his torso to his pants, then his erection, still standing prominent as ever.

Bucky struggled to decide whether you were ticked off or intrigued, seeing your eyes make their painful appraisal of his length beneath his pants. Your brow was pinched, but your head was cocked. Almost curious.

“Are you mad at me?” you asked, gaze fixed on the spot.

Immediately, Bucky rose to his feet and crawled back on the bed, seizing your body with both of his hands.

“No! No, not mad at all,” he mumbled as he sidled up beside you. Pleased to see you hadn’t recoiled, “I was just, uh…missing you, ‘s’all.”

If his men could see him now, Bucky was sure he’d be the laughing stock of all the town. Doting and kind, eyes softened beyond recognition, he just watched you and wanted nothing more than to repair the smile that had ebbed from your face. Come ridicule, hell, or high water, the man was infatuated with his bride—all broken plates and attempted window escapes be damned.

Presently, you brought your hand down to his bulge.

Bucky stiffened but didn’t speak. He wanted you to do this on your own, of your own volition.

“You seem kinda mad to me.” You hardly knew what you were doing. Just rubbing his length and hoping it was something he’d like.

Where Bucky had wanted to see you smile, you just wanted to hear him grunt and whine—maybe grab your hips and beg you to do something, please. You’d never felt any such degree of control, and you suspected Bucky had never not felt it himself. You wanted him desperate.

You were playing a dangerous game, you knew it, but something inside those baby blues said he wanted to do it, too. Do anything for you, quite frankly.

You watched the rise and fall of Bucky’s broad chest and stroked his length even softer.

“James.”

“Uh-huh?” His mouth hung open with a gentle grunt, fighting every instinct to buck into your touch.

At last, you squeezed his shaft and prodded him on. Let your head drift closer to his so his lips would graze the apple of your cheek, and just when you sensed he wanted a taste, you tilted your face toward his own,

“We haven’t even kissed since the ceremony.”

Bucky stared blankly at you, enrapt with the pulse of your fingers. You could tell he was aching to move.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded a wordless affirmation and slid sharply back in bed as Bucky lunged after you. Your hands flew from his pants to the plush mattress behind you as you shifted—or, rather, scrambled—back in place and felt your husband climb over you hungrily.

“That what my wife wants?” he murmured, frame slotting tight between your legs.

You nodded again, and had only to suck in a breath before Bucky was devouring your lips. The kind of flushed, frantic, filthy kiss that would’ve doubtlessly wrought looks of horror on every face at your wedding had he grabbed you that way after the declarations of ‘I do’ had been spoken.

You loved him like this, impassioned and a bit unhinged.

His tongue worked his way past your lips and scoured every soft, fleshy inch between the insides of your cheeks before he took your face in his hands, kissing you roughly.

Something hard and throbbing nudged your sex, and suddenly you were whining in his mouth. Wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Ah, honey, don’t,” Bucky groaned, visibly straining to contain himself. When you dug your heels even deeper in his back, the groan that followed from him was hoarse and guttural.

“I thought— I…fuck,” your husband turned his head to curse as you grinded your hips up to his. You had to bite back a smile.

“I just wanna do what married people do,” you murmured coyly, pretending not to see when Bucky shot you the most red-hot, wanton look he’d imparted all evening.

“Yeah?” Like a kid in a candy shop the size of Sears.

Bucky took your face in his hands once more and made sure to scan your expression for any shred of doubt. On finding nothing there, he sat panting, half-disbelieving and half-contemplating all the wretched things he wanted to do to you. You squeezed his sides with your thighs and just hoped your husband knew what to do, because, in truth, you didn’t have the first fucking idea.

A few dry, clinical terms flashed before your mind’s eye, along with your mother’s bleak depiction of what treatment lay in store for a woman on her wedding night, and as Bucky started to work his belt and his pants off, you just hoped he wouldn’t be cruel.

He couldn’t be, right? He’d only mowed down a hundred men and dismembered dozens more, you were told, but surely a set of eyes this soft, caring, and kind couldn’t belong to a monster. You let him lift your hips and shimmy your panties, garter belt, and stockings down your legs, and when he returned, you tried your best not to betray the thoughts in your head.

Bucky hadn’t been with a virgin for as long as he could remember—maybe ever. His own ‘deflowering’ an ancient relic of his boyhood and the multitude of partners since then a mere flurry of nameless faces, he sincerely couldn’t recall a time when he’d asked, or cared, whether the woman beneath him had her cherry intact. He didn’t suppose it could be too different, as he peeled the last pieces of your lingerie set off your body and saw you seemed perfectly ready. He ran a finger between your folds and felt you shiver with what looked like excitement. Piece of cake, he thought, smiling.

No doubt he would take great joy in making you his own. His bride, his wife, an unblemished beacon of light in a life as sordid as his, looked perfect spread before him. You would adjust to his size. Bucky trailed the head of his cock up your slit and coated himself in your juices, and just when he’d bracketed his other arm around your head on the pillow, you let out a small sound.

“Are you sure it’ll fit?”

Bucky fisted his length and pressed the tip to your entrance.

“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

He hadn’t yet met a woman who wasn’t able to fit him.

“Okay.”

Somehow, your voice sounded even smaller, head lodged between pillows and the crook of Bucky’s elbow. You felt small. Frankly, it didn’t seem like your husband was quite computing the worries that were pervading your brain, but you decided he knew best—your mother had assured you that husbands always did—and when Bucky first pressed the head of himself to the seam of your cunt, you hardly even whimpered.

You watched his brow furrow above you. He tried to go further.

Your folds were as soaked as he’d ever seen a woman’s, your hole practically pulsing with desire, and somehow, he couldn’t push in.

Bucky snagged his lip between his teeth and braced himself with the aid of the headboard, taking your hip in his other hand. A breath sounded on your lips the second he adjusted, and shortly thereafter, he felt your gaze on the same place he was watching: the spot where your bodies were trying to connect.

His features darkened at the prospect of failing, or even appearing incompetent to you in the slightest. He’d done this hundreds of times before, why wouldn’t it work?

When he felt your eyes trail back up his body and study his face—maybe wondering why her new groom hadn’t gotten around to thrusting into her yet, he thought—he felt a swell of panic and pushed.

Against his better judgment and the feel of your body, he muscled his way through and forced his cock inside. Bottoming out in a single, stabbing thrust.

You seized in pain but wanted to be a good wife for him.

Bucky, too, felt his hips stutter at the resistance your walls were giving him, but then remembered how he’d sworn to be a dutiful husband, and kept going.

Together, you stared anywhere but the other’s face and gritted your teeth for two entirely different reasons—you, in agony, and Bucky, in ecstasy, the latter hoping with everything in him that you liked this as much as him.

Bucky took a tender, if not slightly awkward, rhythm rutting against your body and stared steady at the headboard like he always did.

You were in pain and faced with nothing but his hulking chest, moving up and down, back and forth, over and over again like a goddamn seesaw from hell while it felt like your insides were presently being torn to shreds.

Who fucking enjoys this? you wanted to wail, but feigned a moan instead, raking your nails down Bucky’s back, Why isn’t he looking at me? Why isn’t he touching me?

Your walls involuntarily clenched around him, and he swallowed a moan.

Just think of baseball, beer, math, the Roman Empire, anything to keep from busting right now, Bucky told himself as he clenched his jaw and fought to maintain his pace. Your pussy just felt so. fucking. good.

Beneath him, you had tried and failed to fight back tears. The burn was just too much; the longer he thrusted, the more your walls contracted, and confusingly, stupidly, it seemed like he was using you. Your mother was right, most likely, that sex was just a means to an end for men like Bucky, and your husband didn’t care about your pleasure at all. You fought hard to keep the waterworks at bay, that one thing you hadn’t wanted Bucky to see, but eventually, the tears were flowing freely.

You stifled a sob that your husband mistook for a moan.

He fucked you even faster and felt a grin start to twitch at the corners of his lips when you made a sound that seemed consistent with pleasure.

“Feel so fucking tight,” Bucky grunted, about to lower his gaze to your face for the first time since he’d entered you, “So nice and tight and w—hey, hey, baby?”

He stilled inside as soon as he saw that you were crying. Took your face in his hands and almost couldn’t believe the sight of your tear-stained cheeks beneath him.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, scanning your face for any signs of harm.

You just shook your head and tried to brush him off.

“Keep going, I’m good.”

Bucky seemed angered at the suggestion. He brought your face closer to his and stared almost reproachfully down at you. Then he paused a beat and swiped one of your cheeks with the pad of his thumb.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“N—”

“Don’t lie.”

You squirmed a bit and winced. That was answer enough for Bucky, and he slowly pulled out of you.

“Aw hell.”

The two of you glanced down to see a blooming red spot on the comforter. Bucky rubbed the blood in disbelief.

He’d gone too far. Again. Hurt something inside of you that couldn’t be fixed with a kiss. While you struggled to sit up among the pillows, Bucky was running a hand through his hair and cursing himself up and down.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he scowled.

“I didn’t wanna interrup—”

“If I’m making you bleed, you stop me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well you seemed to be having a pretty good time!”

Bucky didn’t need to tell you in words what was painted on his face; he was pissed off and probably bound to slip off the bed any second, when your tears started welling up again. Then he eased off, remembering he was more mad at himself than anyone else, and slid closer to you. He tried pulling you into his chest, but you didn’t budge.

“C’mon,” you said, grabbing his wrist, “Let’s keep going.”

Bucky eyed you incredulously.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh,” you insisted. He shot you a glare but didn’t protest when you guided his hand between your legs.

You were spread back open for him in no time. Still stinging like hell and ready for another go. Bucky almost couldn’t believe it.

“My headstrong wife.” He managed a smile before kissing the crown of your head, and kept right on kissing that spot no matter how far his fingers were traveling.

“You owe me two orgasms, remember, Mr. Barnes?”

It seemed Bucky’s boastful claims of late were in fact the furthest thing from his mind as he crawled back over your body. He pried your knees apart and left just enough room for his frame, taking his fingers to your folds and rubbing in light, gentle circles.

The bleeding had stopped. What little remained was long forgotten, and duly, the pain from recent memory was slowly but surely purged with every flick of his thumb. Bucky planted an arm next to your head and kept touching you there until your face relaxed completely.

When he chanced a finger inside, he was careful not to rub so much as plunge in quick, shallow motions, and at the first signs of pleasure, press light and tender kisses on your skin.

“If it hurts at all, you tell me.”

He sounded stern as he inserted another finger, but really, the man was all putty in your hands, wanting to please you and tease you in any way that he could.

When you told him faster, he sped up; you gripped his hair and said slow down, he did the same. He curled his digits in time with every whimper and moan you made and took care not to be too harsh on your sweet spot.

The only time he paused was when you looked up and asked him point-blank: could he fuck you sweet and gentle now?

Bucky paused. Swallowed.

The man would’ve screwed you six ways to Sunday if you asked him; that wasn’t the problem. The only traces of hesitation remained where your eyes said something different. Even as he shuffled between your legs at your behest, aligned his cock with your entrance, and felt a wave of desire wash over him, he pressed his forehead to yours and searched your glossy gaze once more.

“You sure about this, bunny?” he murmured.

Your heart melted at the name. You couldn’t deny you were frightened, and perhaps a bit worse for the wear after your last attempt, but his words were a comfort, his hand on your cheek a welcome gesture. When his thumb grazed your lips, you kissed it and nodded.

“Alright sweet girl,” Bucky said, tone laced with affection.

This time, before pressing the head of himself inside, Bucky caught your lips and kissed you softly. Rubbed himself up and down your slit—paying extra attention to your clit—and coated himself completely before trying to penetrate you again.

Your cheeks flushed, and you kissed him harder.

“P-please, Bucky, fuck me,” you murmured against his mouth, eliciting a small grunt from him.

“Yeah? You want your husband’s cock inside you, doll?” He kept the pretense of teasing, but really, he was just trying to make sure you wanted this as badly as he did. By the blissed out look on your face and the soft, ceaseless squelching noises produced by your arousal, he got the message pretty quickly.

He breached your folds with just the tip at first. You both felt your muscles contract. Instead of blindly pushing ahead like he had before, Bucky trained his gaze on your face and watched for any signs of discomfort.

“Everything okay, bunny?” he hummed as he brushed a few strands of hair from your face.

You were half in awe of how attentive he was, and doubly impressed by the stretch that followed—like a pinch, but nothing like the pain you’d felt before. You peered up at your husband and squeezed his shoulders.

“It— it doesn’t hurt this time,” you said, breathless.

Bucky could’ve caved at the sweet, innocent expression alone—like you were pleasantly surprised this hadn’t caused excruciating pain—and his lips moved down to pepper your cheeks with kisses again.

“Doll, I’m so sorry.”

The sounds and sighs of your pleasure beneath him, along with the words telling him it was okay, really, he hadn’t meant to do it, all made him feel even guiltier for having hurt you in the first place. It took him some time assailing your face with tiny, apologetic kisses before he even thought to feed you another inch.

When he finally plunged himself deeper, it wasn’t without your express permission; even then, Bucky feared he might split you in two.

The whole time he eased himself inside, he was moving his gaze between your face and the place between your two bodies—watching you open for him and take him inch by inch. He rubbed his thumb over your clit when you whimpered.

“Doing so good for me.”

“Stretching so nice for this cock.”

“My beautiful, beautiful wife.”

Every syllable of his praises flooded your head like honey. Feeling him stretch you out, fill you up, and rock you softly with his first shallow thrusts, all while talking you through it, had your mind ablaze and near-euphoric.

Pleasure practically searing your veins, you didn’t even hear yourself, or really mean to say it, as soon as you did.

“This doesn’t feel dirty at all.”

An epiphany to you and a puzzle to Bucky.

“What’s’at, honey?” He was still rutting his hips and slowly picking up speed. Your husband groaned when you clenched around him and pulled him even deeper—before you realized what you’d said.

Your cheeks flushed.

“I— I was always told sex made you dirty. This feels—” you stopped to swallow a moan when Bucky grazed a particularly sensitive spot inside you, “pretty nice.”

‘Pretty nice.’ Your husband couldn’t help the smile twitching at the corners of his lips as he leaned down to kiss you. He wrapped his big, muscly arms around you and pulled you closer to his chest.

“Makes you dirty?” Bucky said, disbelief evident in his tone before his smile broke into a grin, “Baby, you’re the cleanest, sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He didn’t let you endeavor to protest, just buried his face in your neck and pressed teasing kisses all over the skin while he continued to pump in and out of you. He knew to keep hitting that spot, too.

You were drowning in whimpers and kisses when Bucky brought his lips to your ear.

“Doesn’t make you dirty at all,” he assured you, “Just makes you my wife.”

You clawed Bucky’s back when he sped up a little, and you felt the pleasure soar to even greater heights when he propped your legs above his shoulders—a brand new angle for him to bend you like a pretzel and fuck you good.

“You take this cock too nice to be dirty,” he gritted his teeth and continued to soothe you just how he knew you liked it, “Such a good little wife, sucking up every inch of me like you were made for it.”

Your lips parted in a soft ‘o,’ feeling him plunge the depths of your cunt like he never had before. Bucky slipped his thumb in your mouth while he held your face.

“That what you are, bunny? A good girl?”

You nodded your head and sucked his thumb, feeling yourself fucked dumb as you did. Bucky loved that blissed out look in your eyes.

“Good girl for daddy?” he cooed.

Your ankles trembled around his neck as soon as he said it. You nodded again, yes, you were, and felt a light coil start to form in your lower stomach as Bucky kept pounding you and pushing his thumb between your lips.

Then, with a pop, he plucked the digit from your mouth and brought it down to your clit. He started soft at first, but before long he was rubbing vicious circles on that little bundle of nerves, watching you come undone before his eyes and clench around him even tighter.

“B-Bucky,” you whined, fisting the sheets underneath you both as you squirmed.

“Mhmm?” Your husband pretended to be oblivious.

“I w— I’m gonna—” The words could scarcely leave your lips without finding themselves punctured with a whimper as soon as they were spoken. Bucky thrusted harder.

“Gonna what? Cum for daddy?” he grinned, “Make a mess all over this cock?”

Your moans of pleasure more than sufficed for an answer. You nodded and winced, felt your whole lower half seize with a warm and heady feeling, and before you knew it, Bucky’s thrusts were sending you spiraling over the edge, with a wave of bliss following shortly behind. Sounds of skin slapping skin hardly faltered, and Bucky kept rubbing and fucking you all throughout the waves of your high.

Tears sprung to your eyes, and you didn’t care. Your mind was alight with more bright, fervid feelings than you could count or comprehend, and your body washed over with pleasure.

You clung to Bucky and felt him keep fucking you, even as you shrieked against his skin.

“One more for me, honey.”

You didn’t think that was possible. You had just spilled all over him, squeezing his cock like a vice and screaming his name, and now he wanted it all over again? So soon?

Your fingernails sunk into his arms as he continued to rut into you, and you started to shake your head.

“C-Can’t Bucky, I can’t, I can’t,” you sobbed, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

“Sure you can.”

Your husband had his mouth at your ear again, panting as the pace of his thrusts grew faster. He tilted his body slightly forward so your legs were pushed even higher above you—damn near grazing either side of your head—and pounded you relentlessly.

His voice seemed so calm and assured as he spoke,

“Cum for daddy. Show me just how fucking good this cock makes you feel and cum again for me.”

With a command like that, how could you refuse?

You came a second time, hands seizing Bucky's forearms, and screams tearing through your chest as you rode your high impaled on his cock over and over again. The sights and sounds and repeated, pulsing spasms of your pussy on his shaft sent Bucky chasing his release not long after, and you felt a warmth spread inside you.

Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, your cheeks practically drenched already. As you came down from your high, you started to blink.

But just as you lifted a hand to sop up the moisture, Bucky was leaning over you and into you with the brightest smile. Then he was kissing each wet, salty stain like it was the most natural thing in the world, sponging soft and gentle touches all over the spots your tears had overflown.

It seemed every nerve ending in your lower half was on the fritz, your body little more than mush underneath him, but somehow you managed to catch his mouth as he traversed the skin. You kissed him back, and Bucky drew you closer.

The two of you separated for a second, Bucky’s cock still resting comfortably inside you and his broad frame engulfing you in bed. He paused a beat. Seemed to consider something in his mind before speaking aloud.

“Honey,” he started, unsure of how he wanted to say this.

You peered up at him, curious. His seed had filled every contour and crevice of your aching walls and was just then starting to dribble out of you. Bucky seemed unfazed. He cupped both hands around your face.

“I love you.”

You blinked. No fucking way you were hearing those words.

“What?” You felt too awestruck to say anything else.

“I love you,” Bucky repeated. A smile was starting to tug at his lips, his thumb tracing your cheek while you stared at him in disbelief.

You would’ve liked to speak.

Would’ve loved to say those three little words right back.

In fact, you had just opened your mouth to tell him that, when a sound at the foot of the bed startled you both.

The warm glow of moonlight pouring in from the window panes was your only means to see it. But sight wasn’t worth much at all when a man appeared and pressed the barrel of a gun to Bucky’s temple, letting out a chuckle.

Another man, clad head-to-toe in polished black tactical gear approached from the far end of the room. Bucky gritted his teeth but remained motionless, hearing that man cock his firearm as well. You were surrounded on either side of the bed. Your blood ran cold.

“Sorry to interrupt the fun, Mr. Barnes,” the man on the left spoke so low and gruff he could scarcely be heard.

When Bucky started to stir, the man on the right raised his pistol as well. Curled his finger on the trigger.

“We haven’t even met your beautiful bride.” A set of cruel, glinting teeth turned in your direction. Suddenly, all eyes were trained on you—along with a third handgun, pointed at your head, as another man approached.

“Wedded bliss treating you well so far, Mrs. Barnes?”

[venmondiese]

LITTLE BOX FULL OF SURPRISES

masterlist ✧works in procress ✧ AO3

based on this request⭑.ᐟ

-ˋˏsummary: The maimed one-eyed prince marries the most beautiful woman on earth. She is dutiful, beautiful and perfect, but Aemond can't stand when someone, specially his uncle, look with desire at what it is his. ✧Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Tully!Original Female Character ✧word count: 3.1k ✧Warnings: : MDNI 18+, p in v sex, dom/sub undertones, face slapping, spitting on the mouth, degradation kink, possesive Aemond, Aemond is WHIPPED by his wife.

Every time his grandsire and his mother spoke of a Lady of great beauty coming to King’s landing, he rolled his eye. 

Even when they present a small portrait, small to fit his palm, he does not seem impressed. Perhaps it is too small, perhaps it is too pretentious. Either the painter exaggerated your features or he couldn’t properly paint a small portrait. But he was curious, after all. Named the most beautiful woman on earth, blessed by the Gods. 

He doesn’t doubt that Lady Tully was beautiful. Perhaps she was truly a beautiful woman, with her long red hair, ‘like fire’ said the letter. But being called The Maiden on Earth seems exaggerated to him.

His grandsire had told them about the implications of his betrothal, about how important it was to have secured the Riverlands, since Grover Tully was an old lord, and will not understand reason. To have his most beloved granddaughter as a princess, was the only way to win his approval, and support. 

Aemond finally meets her on the little garden near the Weirwood tree. They had been serving little cakes, as some lords and ladies talked nearby, not even half of court was here, and he liked the quietness. That made him less self-conscious.

She was near the table, her hand hovering above all the treats she could get, smiling as she watches them with interest. She is expressive, he realises. He hasn’t seen her face, only her back and the day her hand moves and her head is tilted, curious about the southern gastronomy.

 “My lady” Aemond says softly. 

She turns so gracefully, and she is surprised to see him. Her hand still extended, and she quickly moves it to grab her skirts, and do a courtesy to him. She has a sweet smile, and she speaks. 

 “My prince” she says, a bit surprised. “I… I didn’t expect you.”

“I must admit I came a bit earlier than agreed…” he murmurs, looking behind him and then back to her.

The most beautiful maiden on earth fell short to her. She was… something else, in the best way possible. She had that curiosity, that life in her eyes, as she smiles at him, her lips are perfect, and he could see that her maids probably used those Myrish lip taints, for they were a very natural red colour, almost matching with her hair. Her dress was magnificent, wearing the colour of her house, red and blue decorating everything. Even her eyes, blue like the opaque blue rivers in the Riverlands, and her hair, red like flames, matched with her house colours. She wore fish details, her earrings and in her dress pattern. But she was wearing a collar with a seven pointed star in it, and he sighed at her beauty. She was breathtaking.

“Oh, well, so it seems…” she says as she smiles a bit sheepishly, looking at him. “It’s a fine castle, my prince. It does have its own beauty.” 

Aemond has never thought of the red Keep as something beautiful, at all. He always wanted to live in Dragonstone, but his wish was not granted.  But, if she says so, it must be true, and with good reason.

“You think so?” 

She grabs a lemon cake, and eats it carefully as she nods. “Yes! And you also have a Weirwood tree here. When we made our trip here, we passed through Raventree, and their Weirwood was a bit… depressing…” she says, smiling sweetly. “But here it’s very beautiful. More… alive”

As she talks, he watches her closely. Even when his mother, his sickly father and his siblings arrive, when his mother gives him a scolding look for arriving earlier, he sort of watches you in silence, his chest swelling with an air of mystery. 

“You are not what I expected” he admits, quietly between the two of them as their parents talked about the betrothal.

“No?” She asks smiling, licking her finger from the cream of the lemon cakes. “You’ll see I’m a little box full of surprises” 

That’s the beginning.

A ceremony on the Sept, as she stood next to him, reciting vows and the cloak with dragon sigils is on her shoulders, left behind the fish one. Aemond has never looked so smug and proud. The bedding ceremony was… traditional. Having a crowd was awkward for both, surely, but Aemond made it all more comfortable for her, covering her body with his, and not exposing her, at his own expense.

“Just focus on me” He murmurs closely to her face, as she looks at him with wide eyes. He was between her open legs, and he insisted for her to keep her chemise on, while he had no problem in nudity “Your septa and mother could have told you…”

“Not much” She whispers back.

“Not much” he repeats, moving a strand of hair out other face, tenderly watching her face for discomfort. “But I will be gentle, and… we’ll learn together. Yes?”

“Yes. Thank you…, husband” she says, and he feels a prideful pressure on his chest. He was her husband. The most beautiful woman’s husband. 

And she was always thankful for his patience and gentleness towards her, and she stuck to him to all times, even when she was in court, charming everyone around. Her arm was always interlocked with his, and referred to him as ‘her sweet husband’. 

Love came quieter than expected, as they laughed on their bed at nights, having picnics in the gardens or going to the Riverlands in Vhagar together, swimming on Riverrun’s rivers, and just… enjoying each other. It was more than love when they had their first son, a lovely and happy baby, mismatched eyes, with both purple and a deep blue. Aemond adored his son, his little Daerion, and he adored you more.

“Black looks well on you” Aemond comments. 

Daerion’s blabbing was a way to agree with Aemond’s statement as the maid finished putting on her headband, the same tone of her dress. Her orange hair is in braids, two simple ones with some gold details on them, and some dragon earrings that he gifted her. She was gorgeous, and all his. 

“Your wardrobe hasn’t changed” she states looking at him. “Went from velvet black to dark black” 

Aemond walks over to his wife, watching her being just so beautiful like that, sitting, waiting peacefully like a porcelain doll.

“Mhm... As if changing colours would make everything amicable…” Aemond murmurs, taking Daerion in his arms, and he allows him to play with his hair. “Does father know it’s useless? Rhaenyra wearing green won’t change anything, nor will my mother wearing black. HIs voice comes as a grunt as he bounces their baby. 

“It’s foolish when you put it that way” her voice is tender, sweet, and somewhat like velvet. He is still besotted by her, as maidens do with knights. He watches the shape of her breasts on that dress, how the cleavage is so delightful for his eyes and the roundness of her tits that make the fabric around stretch a bit. As if the tailor always got the measurement of her chest wrong on purpose, which he won’t complain about. 

Her bright red hair contrasts with how the black makes her skin look paler, and her eye colour deeper.

“They shouldn’t call you the Maiden herself anymore” Aemond murmurs softly, walking closer to her, still holding Daerion in his arms. “You are like the mother herself. Like the Goddess Syrax of Old Valyria. Beautiful, strong… so alluring…”

“You never seem to run out of compliments” her hands move to grab her rings, and the one he likes the most is the sapphire one, just to symbolise her marriage to him. 

“Never, more so if a goddess like you is my wife. All mine…”

“My prince, my lady.” It’s a Kings guard who interrupts. “Supper is ready, and Queen Alicent asks for you both to arrive earlier…”

“Hm” Aemond says, leaving Daerion in the wet nurse’s arms.

“Thank you, ser Willis” the knight smiles at his wife before walking to wait outside the door.

He rolls his eye as he leans to kiss his son’s forehead, caressing his chubby cheek and he smiles fondly at his sight. The little freckles he has that he inherited from his mother, something that Aemond loved. Yet remembering how unnecessary kind his wife is… annoys him.

Kindness and sweetness only helped to enhance her beauty and popularity, and he also loved that. She was beautiful, perfect in any way, tied to a One-Eyed maimed monster, like him. All he could offer to you, that it was worthy, was the luxuries of the royalty, all the kids you want and his unconditional love. He was at your mercy.

He has one eye, but he is not blind. Any man here on the keep, would pull their breeches down if his wife asked so. They would even cut their own throats for her mere delight, and Aemond would be one of them. 

“Goodbye, my sweet love” the sweet motherly tone makes little Daerion squeal happily, extending his little arms for his mother. She kisses both his hands, later to wave to him as they leave the room, arms interlocked.

Aemond always bites his tongue when his lady wife is kind to men. He hates it, yet he knows she does it for the kindness of her heart, and not any ulterior motives.

He was smitten for her, moving the chair for her to sit, and helping her, her dress not getting stuck anywhere or her headpiece, and only then, he sat on his own seat at peace.

“I heard they might have some goose” she murmurs to him, as the room fills. Her fingers caress his arm, and he hears her every word. “I’d eat it all if I could, you know” she teases.

“Mhm.” Aemond murmurs. Even if he is besotted, his facade is still the same; stoic, cold, distant. Yet to her, his gaze was always loving.

“I would only share it with you” she states proudly, leaning to give him a peck on the lips, before standing up once the King is brought to the room.

As he stands, he doesn’t miss how his uncle watches her. Aemond might not know the man personally, but he knew the look of desire in a man’s face. Much more when they looked at her 

The supper is mostly… tense, and awkward. But Lady Tully is charming to everyone and even toasts as well for Baela and Rhaena in their betrothal, congratulating them and speaking nothing but wonders about her own married life, making Aemond wear the slightest, yet most smug smirk on his face.

“Amazing” she says, with her mouth full as she eats the goose, and Aemond nods, a hand rubbing her back so she doesn’t choke for eating so quickly. “Here, my love” she says, extending the fork with a bit of the goose that she adores so much. 

Aemond eats shamelessly, enjoying the taste as he nods softly, approving, which makes her smile. His hand resting on the back of her chair, as he drank his wine quietly, watching his sister and nephew go to dance together. He is highly unaware of the prying eyes that watch them both.

Helaena and Jacaerys’ giggles and the movement of her dress is enough for lady Tully to watch curiously. Her husband was not one for dances, as he had not a good perception of objects with one eye. She never pressured him, and accepted the fact. 

She always would say how Daerion once he would be tall enough to walk, she’d dance with her son all the songs and dances, and Aemond approved that idea. 

“Lady Tully” It was Daemon Targaryen’s deep voice, and she looks at him a bit surprised, leaving her fork on the table as she covers her mouth, her hand unconsciously fetching wine, which Aemond hands her his. 

“Prince Daemon” her melodic voice is a bit confused, and more so when the uncle of her husband extends his hand. The green fabrics from his suit are deep, yet he still wore dragon details on it, and he looked smug about it.

She turns to watch Aemond, his jaw tensing as he looks at Daemon. And he has to physically stop himself from cutting his uncle’s throat when his wife walks with him to join Helaena and the bastard. Aegon and he share a look, both upset and annoyed, as their wives are so freely dancing with other men. 

Aemond watches her beautiful face, frowning as Daemon talks about something, whispering it closely so no one else hears it. His grip on the edge of his seat is strong; knuckles’ turning white as his jaw is tense, not looking pleased at all. And then, he hears her warm laugh, giggling at what he said, as her whole face brightened up.

Once they serve the pig in front of him and hear the little bastard giggles, it is enough to send him through a fit of rage. 

He literally drags his wife by the arm after everything went downhill, after saying that stupid toast, after the Velaryon’s boys attempt to defend themselves (very badly) and both her husband and her good brother humiliate them.

“Dancing with him” Aemond murmurs, walking to their shared chambers, not minding seeing the servants stop and look at them both. “Accepting it, and giggling to his jokes as he shamelessly flirts with you” 

“It was politeness...” her voice is weak when protesting.

“Did he mocked me for having only one eye?” He asks roughly. “Did he told you how beautiful your are and how full your breasts are?”

She opens her mouth a bit taken aback by his lewds remarks. “I am dutiful to what it’s expected of me. I wouldn't have allowed him to mock you”

“You should…”

“My family’s words are Family. Duty. Honour. And you know I care for that very deeply.” she says as she tries to keep up with his long steps “And I did just what was asked…”

“You are mine” he states, walking inside his chambers as his grip does nothing but become stronger. “My wife and you are… putting yourself in display for my uncle, laughing at his flirting. I know your family words are important for you, but this is… beyond that”

Perhaps it was her confused eyes or her angelic face, but he loosened up his grip yet he kept talking. 

“He wanted you! To have you below him and fuck you like a… wench or… or some kind of…”

“I know” 

Aemond turns drastically, eye twitching at his wife's words.

“You knew?”

“It was being cordial. It was duty. To amend broken ties…”

“I will break and burn and turn into ashes any ties from you to him” he says exasperated, insane with jealousy. His eye is wide, twitching in rage as he cannot believe this. She was his wife. 

Seeing Daemon’s hand grip on her hip, almost groping her, made him insane. Because he knew that Lady Tully, beautiful as the Maiden, a beloved goddess amongst the poor and rich, could do so much better than him. Yet, she still chooses him.

“Get naked” he says simply.

“What?”

“You heard me just right. Get. Naked.” He says again, not wanting a negative. 

Her whine is endearing, as she starts taking off little by little. Her gown, the diminutive buttons at the back, her collar, and her hellish headpiece.

“Let me” he grumbles as he helps her take off the headpiece, tossing it aside more carefully.

She is possibly the most beautiful when she is naked. Round breasts, even fuller thanks to lactating, and her body was tempting enough to anyone. 

“Undress me” he says instead. He took delight when she was the one serving him, in this way. He loved to see her desperation, her eagerness for him. His jerkin is out in no time, and she kneels to undo his breeches.

Because she had an angelic face, but it was only he who knew how obsessed she was with his cock. She could spend hours lying on the bed, sucking his cock as she rested her head on his abdomen as Aemond read. She wouldn’t even suck him off properly, his wife would only suck the tip, give kitten licks, and lazily press some kisses. During hours and hours. 

“I forbid you to speak to any one of them. Ever again” 

Confused eyes turned up to look at him, as the careful hands undid his breeches, almost a bit eagerly. “Forbid?”

“Hm. It’s what I said, is it not?” He says, narrowing his eye as if asking to be defied. 

“But it’s mad” she protests, frowning. “I promised Jace and Baela a tour in the gardens, and it would be impolite if I didn’t spoke-”

“Too bad” his voice cuts the conversation, and he is not leaving it up for conversation. 

“You are being irrational...”

“And you are being a fucking brat” he spats, grabbing her chin as he bites his lower lip. “I’ll show you how irrational I can get”

Her eyes watched him, almost too innocent for her own good. It made him hard; he could feel his cock stirring on his untied breeches. 

“Fucking slut, giving yourself to other men” his tone is harsh, but by the way her knees move, to accommodate the weight as he grips her chin, he knows that she is aroused. So is he.

Lady Tully was beautiful, and a box of surprises with everything, he realised with time. He had everyone trapped under her charms, and kept her secrets very private. And he loved it.

“Whore.”  His hand leaves her chin, only to move it to slap her across the face. 

She gasps, her face turned. It wasn’t harsh, yet the sting was burning on her skin, as she placed a hand on her cheek. To foreign eyes, he just slapped his wife. But he has done it before, to her request. Aemond knew that if his wife was enraged by that, he would have been beaten over and over, because she was kind, but didn’t stand for people dishonouring her. 

Aemond, more gently places his hand back on her chin, pulling it so she can look at him. “You will learn your place” Aemond says, as she looks up at him, with those meek eyes of hers. He loved her eyes. “Open your mouth”

 He leaned down, his mouth opening over hers, so near that she could feel his hot breath. His hand goes to wrap the bright red hair of hers, and his firm grip got her head secured. 

Perhaps Aemond would kiss those perfect lips, yet he pulled back and released a strand of saliva directly into her waiting mouth. Aemond’s fingers tightened the grip in her hair, as his other hand came up to wipe away the excess of spit. 

“There is my good girl” he murmurs, looking at her. “Mhm. I’m going to teach you a lesson” 

Aemond lifts his wife to her feet as if she weighs nothing, his grip on her hair almost dragging her to the bed, forcefully as he heard her little whines. He had a moment or two to decide which position suited best, for then to grab her hips and guide her to be on her hands and knees. He grabs the long red hair once again, angling her head to the side, because Aemond needed to see her face the same way he needed air.

She was soaking wet, and that is a satisfaction for her husband. Aemond accommodated behind her, watching her body as he positioned his cock at her entrance.

 “Such a sweet little cunt” he growls, his eye flashing with lust and desire as he thrusts into her from behind, in one swift motion. 

Her whimpers and pants are loud, as she grips on the sheets as her back is arched. She was desperate to be filled and fucked, not something unusual. The unusual thing was that… nothing happened.

“Aemond” She whines, moving her head to watch him from above her shoulder. She had that desperate, pitiful appearance that he loved.

“Yes, my love?” He asks almost nonchalantly, watching her ass, and how his cock is fully sank inside her 

She can barely think straight as his dick is deep inside her, throbbing in her walls as she just needs him to start fucking her. “Eh… move?”

“I don’t think so” he murmurs, his hand moving to caress her ass to his liking. “You’ll have to fuck yourself on my cock” His wife opens her mouth, confused as her eyebrows frown in hesitation. “Show me how much you need me” he says simply, he was fucking teasing her. “How much you need my cock”

Feeling the thick length of Aemond’s cock inside her, she accommodates on her hands, slowly moving away just to sink down onto his cock again. Her slick walls gripping him tightly as she impales herself on his thick cock. 

“Aemond… Fu-uck, you feel… oh, yes…” She whimpers, and her voice is filled with pleasure as her pussy starts getting pounded as she liked so much. If Lady Tully liked something in life, was probably getting fucked until her mind is mush.  

Her hips start moving on their own accord, as she grips on the sheets, trying to keep a stable posture to move her hips better, as her moans are obscenely loud, trying to get his cock deeper and deeper. Aemond leaves a groan, watching how she sinks down on his cock, and it is an image that would make any man cum in seconds. He truly was the luckiest man ever. 

He feels the fire in his stomach tighten, as her moans grew more and more delighted to the feeling of his cock pounding into her. At first, she had thought of it as promiscuous, and asked the maiden for forgiveness, but gods damn her if it wasn’t the best thing in life to get a good fuck from the love of her life.

“So responsive when getting a cock in your needy pussy” Aemond mutters, as one of his hands raises to spank her ass, the sharp slap only serves for the sounds coming out of her mouth to increase, and he spanks her again, and again, and again, to his own amusement and delight. 

“Please, Aemond…” 

“You just love misbehaving with me, because you know I will put you in your place” he says, moving forward to her body to grip his hair with his right hand, his left goes right next to her hand gripping the sheets to hold his weight. “Because you are a needy whore” he states, gripping her hair as she nods forcefully. 

“Yes” she says, in that whiny tone of hers. He knows her reactions yet every time they aroused him even more. “Yes, please”

The grip on her hair only serves to help him push her back against his cock, his hips now making the effort to start properly pounding into her cunt as she loved; hard, rough and at a deliciously good pace. Her body is practically numb as he starts to use her body for his own pleasure, just as she loved.

Who would have said that the most beautiful woman on earth loved being used by her husband? Definitely not him. She was the most perfect creature, in any way. Smart, funny, pretty, a good wife and mother. And yet she always craved his cock, like the filthiest whores of Flea Bottom. 

“Let those bastards hear you, hm?” He asks, as he leans to speak lowly near her ear. “How it’s your husband who pleases you. Perhaps my uncle will get the notion that you are mine. Only mine. Fucking mine. That fucking dodderer will die by my hand if he ever dares to lay his eyes on you” 

The mere thought infuriates him, making his hips slam into her harder and more feral. Rutting into her cunt in an animalistic pace as he has to clench his jaw in rage. His hand on her hair and the other on her waist, he groans at the feeling of her soaking cunt. 

The sobs he hears as his cock keeps on pounding into her sweet spot, makes him smug enough, and even more aroused. His sweet lady wife, so prone to cry when she had too much pleasure when she got overwhelmed with lust. 

“Please, please…” the round of pleas comes up with her tears, and Aemond moans, shamelessly, as he was so close. “I can’t t-take i-it… anymo-ore” 

“Oh, you will” he says through gritted teeth as he lets go of her hair, only for his other hand to go to her shoulder to help her get his dick deeper. “I will breed you. Cum so deep that my seed takes root, and everyone will know who you belong to.” 

Her nods between sobs, pleas and trembling legs help him pound in feral thrusts into her, feeling her cunt already milking him, inner walls attempting to squeeze his dick inside and never let it go.

“Cum for me, my love” he murmurs, still fucking her deep and nice how she likes it. “My beautiful wife” he murmurs, besotted by her as she cries, her tears rolling down her rosy cheeks with little freckles that he adored. 

The little spasms of her body, her wails and the way her cunt squeezes him, it’s enough to drive him to the edge, holding her body down into his cock as he moans loudly, rolling his eye back in pleasure as he cums hard. She whimpers, whining a bit as his seed just keeps on filling her, his balls tensing up as his grip will probably leave her delicate skin with red marks.

He is caring afterwards, as he cleans her with a towel, or when he places her in bed and covers her, lying by her side each time as she snuggles to him.

“You have to know–” she says softly, her fingers tracing circles on his chest. “You are hot when jealous”

Aemond huffs, grumbling about it a bit as he seems reluctant. It amuses her.

“You always find me hot, I could be… Killing a chicken and you would be leaking”

“Get on my place for a moment, please, just imagine how your muscles would flex” she says dead serious and he rolls his eye amused, as the corners of his lips gives him away.

The fixation on his hair would be a problem if he didn’t love her so much. Aemond allows his lady Tully to braid it as they talk in bed. 

“I didn’t really mean it” he says softly. 

“Hm?” She asks curious, her fingers working on a single small braid on his hair.

“You can talk to them” he says through gritted teeth. “Just-... not too much”

Her little laugh warms his heart. “Very well” she says amused. “For each sentence I say to them, I will suck you”

“I retract myself, talk to them very much, all you like” he says, and it has her giggling. “You know I love you…” he says; as it comes into his view her concentrated face, her tongue coming out of her pink lips as she was focused. He could see the freckles that he so adored, and her pretty eyes. How he loved her.

“You know I love you more…” she says fixing his braid to stick to his hair. Her mouth forms a pleased smile as she sits, as she inspects her work. “Yes. Seems pretty nice”

He could feel the hair strand tight, and he moved his hand to touch his head. “What in the Seven Hells you did to my hair, woman?” 

She looks very pleased as she giggles, her body accommodating against his chest as she shrugs innocently, as he keeps on playfully trying to decipher what his wife did to his hair. 

[qqueenofhades]

I got political whiplash on Threads. First, everyone was screaming, “All is lost!” I came back an hour later, and everyone was screaming, “We Ride at Dawn!”

The right-wingers are in panic mode. Steven Miller was practically screaming on Feckless news. 🤣

I mean. The right-wingers' entire mentality, the fuel for the January 6 attempted coup, the recent SCOTUS President God-King Immunity ruling, and all the rest, is premised on the simple fact that the president is indeed, Almighty God King who serves for life and will never, ever willingly give up his power. So that's how I can guarantee that the GOP, because they are short-sighted fascist morons, did not plan for this. Their entire strategy was built around attacking Biden, because they hate him. Like, really hate him. He defeated Trump the first time and there was still a good chance that he could do it again. Trump got impeached the first time for trying to extort Zelenskyy for dirt on Biden, because he didn't want to face him. That's why they went after Hunter on largely bogus charges, tossed around the idea of impeaching Biden, actually (uselessly) impeached Mayorkas, etc.

And yet, because Biden (even if he was forced to do it) decided to step away and voluntarily give up his presidential power instead of wrecking American democracy to hold onto it, that has broken their little shriveled fascist brains. They literally can't comprehend it, and I can guarantee they're now shit scared about having to face Kamala, a brown woman, who is the epitome of everything their tiny evil brains hate. As noted by those bangin' fundraising numbers, there is also a lot of excitement around her. And suddenly, after MONTHS of "this election is a referendum on which old and mentally declining man you hate more," that has been removed as a factor. (Watch the media suddenly forget all about age and/or mental competency as a factor now that Biden is out. Does it apply to Trump, you ask? CRICKETS.)

Kamala is going to mop the f'n floor with Trump at the next presidential debate, and I guarantee that the GOP knows that too. Because yes, if Biden had another bad debate, or if he has a bad case of COVID that might end up giving him long-covid symptoms or keeping him off the trail for days or weeks, that would have been very, very hard to recover from. Now the GOP is the one stuck with an old, mentally baffled, virulently hated presidential candidate and the most pro-Russia, anti-woman, demonstrable-sellout whitebread VP pick imaginable, that they had to choose because Trump nearly got the last one killed and he wasn't interested in the job again, for some weird reason. And as we have pointed out before, this is the last-chance saloon for Trump in any number of ways, and he has been demonstrably overconfident the last few weeks as the media was consumed with discussion of Biden's stumbles rather than Trump's manifold unfitness, treason, felonies, and all the rest.

I don't agree with Biden on everything he has ever done in his long career in public service, but I will say that I don't think he would have actually done this if he wasn't eventually convinced, for whatever reason that might be, that it was the right decision. And my one big fear about him stepping down was that the party would instantly fracture, people would start flogging unrealistic Magical White Boy replacements, and otherwise insist on an "open mini-primary!" or some other fucking bullshit. Now, there are still a few idiots trying that, but by and large, the Democratic power apparatus has instantly thrown its weight behind Kamala. That doesn't excuse them for the weeks of wibbling Anonymous Sources self-sabotage beforehand, and I still vote that we destroy the billionaires at our next opportunity, but if we can stick with that and keep up those mongo fundraising numbers, we might indeed actually have a better chance than before, and that was what this was all about.

As I noted yesterday, Black women have been disproportionately influential in taking Trump down (think Leticia James, Fani Willis, etc) and there is undoubtedly a huge, HUGE amount of poetic justice if Kamala can be the one to stick the knife in his greasy orange gut once and for all. I can likewise guarantee the GOP is well aware of that, and the fact that while they can yell even louder and trot out the same old racist, sexist, misogynist fearmongering dirtbag attacks they used on HRC, that is a strategy with demonstrably diminishing returns (it sure as hell isn't going to help them win any more female or suburban or black voters or anyone else we always hear about how they're Making Inroads with). And we're not going to talk about how it's Obvious that America would never elect a black female president. Obama won two terms. Even with all that weight of frothing misogyny and DECADES of Republican smear machines, HRC won the popular vote and was ratfucked out of the Electoral College by the slimmest of margins, after a massive interference campaign by the Russians. It is fucking possible, we are going to do it, and the Republicans are so, SO FUCKING SCARED of having to live in an America run by a brown woman, that can only be for the good.

Kamala Harris 2024. Let's go.

[sopafa]

Camelot, the center of this story, is ruled by Jim Lake Jr., trollhunter and leader of both the magic and human realm. The round table, is full with knights and ladies, from all the distant lands, willing to defend the magic and fight for what is right. The queen of these lands, is Claire of the Lake, a shadowmancer. A witch. Who is able to not only control shadows, but fill Jim’s heart with pure love.

Aja Tarron, monarch of the land of Akiridion, who, despite being part of the round table, lives in her own kingdom, as opposed to her consort (the knight Palchuck) and her brother Krel (who serves as Ambassador to the lands of Camelot).

From other kingdoms, and distant lands, we have other rulers and monarchies, who have signed the peace treaty of the lands of Camelot, and follow the traditions of caring for, protecting and preserving magic, as well as magical creatures and beasts.

Rosas, an island kingdom with milk teeth, created by the King Magnífico, as a sanctuary for those who want to escape war, and leave in piece. Witches and wizards are often seen in the kingdom of Rosas, after all, it was the first kingdom to be formed with a monarch capable of manipulating magic.

Arendelle, The mountain kingdom, known for its proximity to fjords and ice magic. The world knows well the story of the so-called snow queen, and how the firstborn of the royal house of Arendelle was blessed with the kiss of ice magic, to protect her people, and prove herself worthy of the throne.

And of course, the kingdoms of the champions.

From cities, to islands. The legend says that the purest hearts come from anywhere and anywho.

No matter gold, or silver stone, what is really important is the soul.

Berk, The center of the archipelago, the land of Vikings and fierce dragons, where beasts and men live together as one. Be careful with teeth, fire and weapons, who knows, they say that the least dangerous thing in those lands are dragons. Not for nothing, Berk has no enemies.

Dumbroge, legend has it, that the oldest souls and magic itself, comes from these lands. That the richness of its power is so high that if you stand still, you can see magic itself take shape. Unfortunately, past prejudice and persecution of magical creatures in times past caused a mass migration, leaving witches and entities in short supply in this area.

Corona, the land of the sun, an island in the middle of the Mediterranean, which is said to be rich in trade, art, minerals, and above all, raw materials for magic spells. Some say that its power comes from the sun itself. Others are just lucky. The truth is that nobody knows.

[deforest]

SHE'S CRAZY WITH THE HEAT — 1946 ft. The International Sweethearts of Rhythm

In 1946, William D. Alexander began the production of a series of one-reel shorts, half-hour featurettes and feature films that would serve a dual purpose. These black cast subjects would be released to theaters that welcomed African American audiences; concurrently, the music segments would be excerpted from the films and released as Soundies. Ultimately, sixteen of Alexander’s musical shorts reached the Panoram screen, spotlighting the bands of Lucky Millinder, Billy Eckstine, Henri Woode and the International Sweethearts of Rhythm. (Alexander actually produced four films with the Sweethearts, three ten-minute short subjects and one feature, although some of the performances turns up in more than one film; only three performances saw release as a Soundie.) The International Sweethearts of Rhythm grew out of a band formed in the 1930s at the Piney Woods Country Life School, an institution – in part an orphanage – for poor African American children. A member of the music department had apparently taken note of the success of Ina Ray Hutton’s Melodears and decided that an all-woman band composed of school members might lead to something special. While they performed locally, the ISR did not begin to hit its stride until it left Piney Woods and became a professional touring outfit in 1941. The band was certainly “international” in nature, and its ranks included African American, Latina, Chinese, Indian, White and Puerto Rican musicians. In 1941, Anna Mae Winburn joined the orchestra as front woman and featured vocalist. During the war years Maurice King joined the band as both arranger and band manager. Born Clarence King in 1911, King played reeds and later became a fine swing arranger. While here we recognize his composition and arrangement for the Sweethearts – he called this tune “She’s Crazy with the Heat ” – King is best known for his longtime association with Barry Gordy and Motown Records for which he served as director of artist development. He worked closely with vocal groups, teaching the singers how to voice and phrase together. “Maurice brought sophistication and class to Motown,” said session musician Johnny Trudell. By 1946, the Sweethearts was recognized as one of the finest African-American bands in jazz. They recorded for Guild and RCA Records, broadcast regularly for the Armed Forces Radio Service, and toured Europe entertaining the GIs. While much of the success was due to Maurice King’s arrangements, the band’s musicians were all strong, and a special nod must go to Viola Burnside, one of the most neglected tenor soloists of the 1940s. I chatted with my friend Roz Cron, a member of the Sweetheart’s reed section, shortly before her passing. When I thanked her for her contribution, she paused and said, “Yeah, we were one of the best, one of the very, very best.” (via Jazz on Film)

[doctorwhoandfairytaillover]

Loving Arms

Summary: The children of Viserys I from his wife Alicent Hightower had always been lacking in affection from their parents. They simply didn't realize how much until their widowed aunt was brought into their lives. (AU where Alicent has an older sister and her kids get the love that they deserve, takes place some time after the Driftmark event)

Part I: An Important Guest

A/N: No pairings as of right now as I want to focus on the familial and platonic relationships with Greens when they're still quite young. This is possibly only the beginning (credit for the divider goes to @kawaii-lau)

126 AC

Some months after the funeral of the Lady Laena Velaryon, wife of the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen there was much clamor in the Red Keep. For the eldest daughter of Otto Hightower had been summoned to court after more than a decade away from the intrigue and politics that surrounded the throne and her family. Not much was known about the sister of the Queen apart from what had been known from her previous shorts visits in the early years of her sisters marriage and births of the younger royal children. The elder Hightower girl had been married two years prior to Alicent's own marriage to the King.

Hoping for a future alliance with the house of his eldest daughter's husband, Otto had the girl married to the younger brother of Qoren Martell who served as the reigning Prince of Dorne. But upon the death of his son by law, it was expected by the Hand of the King that his daughter would return to follow her filial duty of remarrying once more upon her return. Only... the man had not accounted for how his grandchildren would come to react to the arrival of their long unseen aunt.

--------

Aemond was positively annoyed with his older brother Aegon, "You could not think to ready yourself for our guests arrival ahead of time? Must you always make the lot of us appear inadequate because you choose to drink yourself into a stupor?"

Halaena, Aegon, and Aemond were specifically told to prepare for an important guests arrival but because of the elder amongst the three not being ready on time, it appeared that they would be late in their greetings. In his haste to reach the throne room faster, Aemond almost stumbled over his own feet and he cursed quietly to himself as he attempted to avoid tripping.

"Need help walking, do you Aemond?" Aegon giggled.

"I can walk just fine," Aemond mumbled. "I simply need a bit more time to recover my sense of balance on account of my... my eye."

The younger Targaryens response quieted his brother and the elder turned his attention to their sister.

"Were you told anything about who our important guest is meant to be?" Aegon asked. "One would think that if they were such an important person, we would all have to be alongside our mother and grandsire by the entrance."

Halaena shook her head, "I think we've met them before, but I cannot be certain if it's who I think it might be."

"Oh and pray tell, wise Halaena. Who could it be?" Aegon mocked.

"Didn't mother happen to receive a raven some weeks ago that our uncle the second prince of Dorne, the husband of our aunt had passed from the sweating sickness."

"Why on earth would that woman come?" the eldest asked, "I don't think she has come to visit King's Landing since the birth of our dear Aemond. Not that I could begrudge the woman, I heard that it was a miracle our grandsire married her to a Dornish prince since she apparently was deformed and all found her a lost cause."

"Perhaps if you listened when Mother informed you about who our guest would be, then we would all know, now wouldn't we?" Aemond huffed. "And don't speak of our aunt that way! Show some respect!"

"It doesn't matter, we will know soon enough if it truly is her or not, and it's not as if our aunt will ever know, I doubt it could be her" Aegon grumbled.

The doors to the throne room were opened upon their arrival and all but one turned to look at the trio that had come into the room quite late. The children could see the frown that their mother wore clear as day when she looked upon them, her disapproval apparent at their actions. While their grandsire had a near equal downturn of his lips but it was more in his eyes that one could see the disappointment at the trio.

"Ah, so good of my grandchildren to finally make their appearance!" said ser Otto. "We had all wondered when you might grace us with your presence!"

Aegon merely rolled his eyes at the words of his grandsire, while Aemond and Halaena looked down in embarrassment.

"Oh come now Father, I am sure that my nephews and niece meant no harm and tried to make haste. They couldn't have expected that I would be the one to arrive."

Three sets of eyes were quick to look over at the person who spoke.

They could only see her profile, but it was apparent that the person could be no other person than their elusive aunt. The eldest daughter to Otto Hightower and his wife Alyrie Florten, widow of Prince Doran of House Martell, the Lady (Y/N) Hightower.

She wasn't an imposing figure, in fact, compared to her father and younger sister. Their aunt was not much, but... that is actually something that they appreciated about the woman. All their lives, the siblings had such imposing men and women that surrounded them or directed them at all times, but not (Y/N). She stood out in a gentle way, a steadiness to her presence. Unlike the prim and elegant hairstyles of the court, it was loosened and decorated with a few blossoms. Her gown was a pale green and embroidered with the symbols of both her own house and that of her late husband, with towers and suns. But most of all, there was no dismay in her gaze as she looked at them from the corner of her eye, rather she smiled affectionately and warmly.

"Come children," Alicent guided them closer. "Come and greet your aunt." And in a harsh whisper to Aegon said, "And don't even think about commenting on her appeareance!"

When their aunt fully turned to them, all held back a gasp when they saw her full countenance. A glassy grey eye stood out on the left hand side of her face that had obviously been burned. Carefully she stepped toward them and the three were ushered forward until they stood only a step away from her.

Unwaveringly she smiled at the trio and approached Aegon first, "You have grown much in the time since I last saw you."

Hesitantly, she reached to cup his face in her hand and the boy flinched, this stopped her movements and made her smile drop slightly. Carefully she waved her hand and asked, "May I?"

Tentatively, Aegon nodded and allowed his aunt to softly cradle his face in her hands. Her one good eye flickered across his face and she smiled at him once more, "Such a handsome young man. Must be the Hightower in you, because you and I seem to share the good looks."

His aunt's comment seemed to release the breath that the group was holding, because Aegon, Halaena, and Aemond couldn't help but giggle. A soft warmth settling in their bodies as they attempted to stifle their uncontrollable laughs.

Alicent saw their laughter as rude and intended on scolding them, but a raised hand from her sister was enough to have her hold her tongue.

Stepping away from her elder nephew, (Y/N) noticed how Halaena's gaze shifted away from her own and understood. She simply curtsied to the girl, "I look forward to getting know you more Halaena and perhaps you could show me your things of interest."

Halaena timidly smiled and curtsied in return, "I like all sorts of insects."

"I am sure you do, sweet girl."

And lastly, her gaze turned to her younger nephew that was shuffling nervously where he stood.

Quietly he asked, "Does it still hurt you?"

Her smile never wavered as she answered, "Thank you for your kind consideration, nephew. Sometimes, it does ache but I am fine now."

A gentle calm settled amongst them, but it was disturbed when ser Otto cleared his throat. "Come, dinner has been prepared and we have dallied long enough. I am sure you have needed a hearty meal."

"Of course, Father" (Y/N) agreed. "I am sure we can continue with pleasantries over a delicious meal."

The Hand of the King, carefully led his daughters out the room and so everyone else took this as a sign to clear the area. But the siblings stayed behind, a clear look between them that there were things they would need to talk about.

Tag List:

@minaxcarter, @hotleaf-juice, @pikomin, @deltamoon666, @cococrazy18, @firefairy, @dracaryxzs, @snowbunny58, @lacherrysouldy, @only4thefics, @queen-luna-007, @ambrivertenergy, @kayllineb12

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Reunion (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which your husband finally returns from his time in Númenor, and you make the most of the first moment you get him alone

Warnings: evil!reader, mentions of injury, hot and heavy make out, slight choking, heavily suggestive dialogue, mentions of voyeurism

Note: same evil!reader as the others in the collection, but it should make sense on its own too.

He’s finally on his way to Eregion. And wounded. It’s been plain to see through your soulbond for days.

You can barely conceal your trepidation as you stand with Celebrimbor and Elrond, awaiting your husband’s arrival in Eregion. They do not know to expect it, of course—they believe Galadriel is long gone into Valinor, and they could never fathom that she is soon to ride through the gates with a man at her side, much less that he is the very darkness they seek to keep at bay. And that you, Celebrimbor’s trusted aid for so many years, are none other than Sauron’s beloved wife.

Had they known, they surely would not have asked you to assist in the task secretly entrusted to them by king Gil-galad—that of bringing into being some sort of creation that will save Elvendome from the dying of their light in Middle-Earth. That is what you are discussing now. Elrond laments that you have failed, and it is time to inform the High King of this. Celebrimbor looks at him, dismayed.

“We must not despair,” you intervene, working as much hopeful reassurance into your gaze as possible. “Surely, in another few days, the answers will come.”

And it’s not even a lie. Your husband shall bring all the inspiration needed and then some—but you must ensure the Elves do not leave this city before his arrival.

Elrond shakes his head. “I fear we’re out of time.” He places a hand on your shoulder, and you push down the urge to swat it away as he speaks very inconvenient words. “The Elves must prepare to abandon these shores. Forever.”

You return his sad smile with practiced ease.

Where are you? you reach out to your husband, sending the thought as far and quickly as you can manage—

A deep tiredness answers on his end. Swiftly and so very close.

The sound of hooves has never sounded sweeter than when Galadriel finally rides in through the gate. It serves you well that both Elrond and Celebrimbor are too stunned by her arrival to notice the slip in your mask when you see your husband following behind her, slumped against his own horse. Surely, the anguish written on your face is too great to be considered natural concern for a wounded stranger. You school your features quickly, but do rush to aid him in climbing off his horse—that much, any kind-hearted Elf would do.

For a short, beautiful moment, you are pressed against him as he staggers on his feet, and you manage to exchange the briefest of glances. His brow is slick with sweat, he is bleeding from his side, yet you feel through your bond how your touch fills him with elation. You would suffer the same wound as him, you think, if only it meant you could kiss him as you long to, then and there.

But a couple of guards are quick to intervene, taking what they must think is too heavy a burden off your shoulders. Pulling your husband from you, they sling his arms around themselves and all but drag him away when he fails to walk on his own, leaving you to strive not to follow as your heart slams against your ribcage.

“What has happened?” Celebrimbor asks.

“Enemy lance, six days ago,” Galadriel tells him. “We rode without rest.”

Galadriel. You take a moment to look at her. You’ve seen her before, of course, but not as a cog in your plans. That had happened quite accidentally—or perhaps by fate. Either way, your husband has returned. That is all that matters.

Well, that and getting him alone.

There is no plausible reason for you to stand at his side whilst your people’s artificers work to mend his wound. All you can do is sit and wait, gently nudging your husband’s mind through your bond to make your presence felt. A sense of content drifts back to you, though it is laced with the same impatience you feel.

If you were still loyal to the Valar, you would thank them for the haste with which Elvish remedies work, even if the hours they require to be applied feel like an eternity. Finally, the artificers leave your husband to rest his newly recovered body as you watch from the shadows of the corridor. It is past midnight, all too easy for you to slip into his room and shut the door behind you without anyone noticing.

Your husband, having sensed you were about to join him, awaits you in utter nonchalance, lying with his legs crossed and his arms beneath his head as if he truly were some graceless human man. He’s been given a new shirt, white and pristine. Pity. If you have your way, he’ll need a new one soon enough.

“The hour is inappropriate,” he greets you, and you don’t know whether you want to kiss or slap away his smug little smile.

For now, you answer with your own. “Good.”

You stride towards the bed with the determination of a demon chasing prey, and with swift, skillful movements, climb into it and straddle your husband’s hips.

“Gently, my love,” he warns, mischief dancing in his eyes as his hands fly to your waist, gripping your flesh greedily even as he keeps you at bay, “I am but a man recovering from his wounds.”

You give a slight, rueful chuckle. He is perfectly well now, and you both know it.

“I’m afraid you shall have to endure,” you threaten sweetly, and he abandons all feigned resistance as you dive in to finally claim his lips with yours.

The relief of being together again is instant, and you sigh into his mouth as you let his kiss consume you, sweet and slow. You surprise even yourself. You had expected a furious clash of teeth and tongues, the frenzy of swallowing each other whole after going too long without your beloved’s taste—like it was when you had finally nursed him from an amorphous black mass back into his form, and the two of you had been reduced to a tangle of thrashing limbs in the snow, as mindless and savage as animals mating in heat.

But that was after countless years of suffering in his absence. Compared to that, your time apart since the shipwreck separated you has been nothing at all—and what’s more, of your own choice, however it displeased you. Your husband had seen an opportunity in his meeting with Galadriel, one from which you could both benefit, and so he had entreated through your bond that rather than look for him, you must return to the false life you had built in Eregion in his absence, for he sensed you shall yet have use of it upon his return.

And now, here you are—reunited once more, in body as well as mind. This time, you wish to savour it. You relish each and every slide of your husband’s tongue against yours, every scrape of his stubble against your cheek, every inch of hair caressed by your fingers as they sink into it, tugging longingly at the roots. Your hearts beat against each other as you press yourself flush to him, his arms wrapped around you to somehow pull you even closer, and the might of the sheer adoration shared between you is almost too painful to bear.

“Will you stay this time?” you whisper, nudging his nose with yours as your lips part from his and hover close. “Or will I be made to wait for you once more, my love?”

His hand cradles your face, coaxing you to retreat only enough for your gazes to meet.

“The road goes ever winding,” he tells you. “Not even I can see all its paths.”

“Yet it seems ours so often tend to drift apart,” you say, frustratedly. “As though they are forced to be. That sea creature who attacked the ship, and the immense wave that carried us at such great distance from each other—that was no coincidence, was it?”

Your husband shakes his head.

“It is for us that I wish to reshape this world. Without you, the end I have seen so clearly since I first awoke withers away before my eyes. They know this.” Hatred sparks in his eyes, but it is only a flicker against the love with which he beholds you. “The Valar themselves may have attempted to part us,” he says, “yet the tides of fate only brought me back to you all the more fruitful in our endeavours.”

“Hm, so I’ve heard.” Now animated by more pleasant thoughts, you sit up slowly, sure to drag your nails down your husband’s torso with just the right amount of pressure that it draws a low groan from him. “King of the Southlands,” you proclaim, equal parts pride and amusement tugging at the corner of your mouth. “An old man’s trinket and a word from a gullible Elf and an entire people bow at your feet.”

“She is not gullible,” he says, almost absent-mindedly. His eyes are fixed on some tantalizing spot on your neck as he sits up as well and covers it with his mouth. “She is desperate to believe whatever suits her purpose,” he murmurs between languid kisses to your skin. “I all but laid back and allowed Galadriel to bring me right where I most needed to be.”

You’d be a helpless puddle of desire—and to an extent, you are—if not for the fire his words ignite within you. You grab a fistful of his hair and pull him away, pushing against his chest to throw him right back down against the pillows. That earns you a grunt and a wicked chuckle from your husband.

“It is not wise to speak another’s name,” you say with eerie calmness, gaze locked with your husband’s as you lean down until you’re nose to nose, “whilst your wife is astride you.”

He hums as if in contemplation, taking hold of your chin as his eyes roam over your face.

“She is hailed as the most beautiful of Elven maidens,” he reminds you, and you know it satisfies him when your brow knits in indignation. But then he goes on, ever so adoringly, “Those who say such a thing either have never laid eyes upon my beloved, or they are blind as bats.”

See, now... now you melt.

You catch his hand as it moves from your chin, and give the tip of his thumb the slightest nip.

“Beguiler,” you purr, a honeyed reproach. “No wonder you have them eating from the palm of your hand.” And that is exactly where you lay a lingering kiss. He seems transfixed by the reverence of your gesture, and his slightly parted lips are too tempting for you not to kiss them once more.

Your blood is still heated from your husband’s teasing, from being pressed against him so close, and you hunger for so much more than the gentleness from before. Your kiss grows deeper, more desperate, and soon enough you’re tugging at the hem of his shirt, signaling for him to aid you in lifting it over his head. With a frustrated groan, he takes hold of your hands to make them cease.

“My love, I would like nothing more than to have you, repeatedly, for the remainder of the night,” he says in earnest, breath heavy. “But you’ve already lingered here too long. Should someone come and see—”

“I’ve locked the doors,” you dismiss, and chase his lips once more. He lets you catch them, claims yet another kiss, only to turn away from you again.

“And if someone should unlock the door to find you here,” he retorts as you grunt in protest, “how shall we maintain our pretence?”

“I do not care!” you all but whine, the longing you have endured in his absence swelling painfully within your chest. It turns your voice into a quiet plea. “I want my husband.” You press an impossibly sweet kiss to his cheek, then murmur in his ear, “Don’t you want your wife?”

His breath hitches. Suddenly, he turns his head, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

“Temptress,” he rasps begrudgingly. Then, softly and subdued, “Beloved.”

He is the one to capture your lips now, any thought of restraining his desire long gone. You smile in triumph against his mouth, then plant your hands against his shoulders, push away and—fisting your hands in his shirt, you pull.

Elven fabrics are by no means fragile, but with a bit of your powers put into it, the shirt tears apart at the middle, baring your husband’s chest to your ravenous gaze.

“Perhaps we might be able to explain this, after all,” he muses while your lips attack his neck, quickly moving downward. “I could tell them what a merciless creature you are...” His hand comes to cradle the back of your head as he admires how you pepper urgent kisses down his chest. “...taking advantage of a poor mortal man when he finds himself in such a vulnerable state.”

You halt abruptly, eyes snapping up to his. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing,” you gasp with perfectly feigned innocence, even as you lay your sinful mouth on him once more. “Here I am—a kind, virtuous Elven maiden such as myself,” you speak between kisses, nips and licks at his skin, “seeking to bring aid to a wounded man...” Your lips venture lower, down his abdomen. “...only to be seduced into his bed...” His eyes are aflame with desire as you gaze up at him through your lashes, working open his belt. “...with shameless words of temptation and ruinous caresses. Imagine the scandal.”

It happens in an instant—you gasp as you are grabbed and pulled and flipped onto your back, your husband’s frame pressing you down into the mattress as he pins your wrists to the pillow.

“Imagine that, indeed,” he rasps out, eyes so darkened by hunger his pupils turn to their primal slit shape. “Imagine if they were to burst through the door...” He releases one of your wrists to wrap an achingly tender hand around your throat, leaning into your ear. “...and saw us joined as one,” he whispers into it, making you shudder, “and knew at once that we’re forever bound.”

You grip at his wrist, eyes fluttering shut, chest heaving, ready to beg for him to give you more. But he isn’t done, and tightens his hold on your throat with just the right amount of pressure to draw a wanton whimper from it. “Imagine,” he says, “if they saw this kind, virtuous Elven maiden you have led them to believe you are for all these years, ruined with pleasure beneath her husband.” He lifts his head, his cruelty to ‘them’ mingling with his reverence for you in his gaze. “Imagine their betrayal, their horror. Their jealousy—for they would know, deep in their bones, that no love of theirs will ever compare to that which binds our souls as one. Would you like that?”

You would not like it—you need it, you crave it with a force so great it feels as though his skin is made of flame, burning yours in sweet agony with every inch it touches. And yet, even breathless and desperate as you are, you lift your chin in challenge and fix him with your gaze.

“I would like you,” you murmur defiantly, “to put that wicked tongue of yours to better use than talking.”

Your husband grins. “How I’ve missed you, my love.”

There is nothing teasing about the way he kisses you then. He tastes your mouth with abandon as his hips dig into yours, and you whine impatiently, writhing within his grip. Obeying your silent wish, his hands release your throat and wrist in favour of roaming over your body, caressing and kneading all the spots of your soft flesh he knows to be most sensitive. You coil your arms around him, wishing him even closer, as his lips drift from yours to your jaw, kissing their eager way down your neck, and you shudder as he tugs down the shoulder of your dress, exposing your heated skin only to set it further ablaze with his mouth. You can feel the fabric straining, sure enough to tear apart in the same way his shirt had, and you want it, you want your husband’s skin against yours with nothing in between—

Someone is trying to open the door.

You pray with all your might that you misheard, even as your husband freezes at the sound as well, and lifts his mouth from your shoulder to look in the direction of the sound. But then whoever is on the other side, realizing that the door had been locked, knocks on it instead.

You don’t even bother making your voice quiet. “Oh, for the love of—!”

Your husband puts a silencing finger to your lips—and gives you a scolding look when you lick it obscenely.

“Sir Halbrand?” one of the artificers calls from outside. “Are you well?”

“That should be ‘your majesty’,” your husband mumbles.

“I’ll kill them,” you deadpan.

“Shh,” he cooes, slightly amused. “Not yet. We still have work to do here.” Infuriatingly composed, his eyes roam the room in search of a solution, and land on one. “Why don’t you step onto the balcony for a moment whilst I tell them I locked the door myself? A man needs his privacy, after all.” He looks back to you, and finds a tragic blend of ire and yearning on your face.

“Oh, my love,” he says sympathetically, brushing a tender knuckle down your cheek, “how beautiful you are when you crave me to despair.”

“Then I must always look splendid,” you quip, lifting your head to reach his lips with an alluring whisper, “I never not crave you to despair.”

He curses in Black Speech, the foul words muffled as he gives into your kiss once more. But then there is another rap at the door, more urgent than the last.

“Go,” he grunts. Before you can protest further, your husband pries himself off you and leaves the bed altogether. You allow yourself a moment to plop down on the pillows and curse at the ceiling before you will your body into moving. Your limbs are still weak with desire as you get on your feet.

You decide then and there that your first decree as Queen of all Middle-Earth shall be the execution of whoever is now standing beyond that door.

Your husband has hastily discarded his ruined shirt, tormenting you further with an unobstructed view of his lean torso. There must be something equally irresistible in your disheveled state, however, because the moment his eyes land upon you, his apparent composure slips away and he surges to you like a man possessed, planting yet another searing kiss onto your lips.

“Get rid of them,” you pant out as you break away.

Your husband takes your hand, kissing your knuckles quickly. “As my Queen commands.”

Your heart flutters, easing the frustration as, finally, you go your separate ways: he towards the door, you to conceal yourself. You take comfort in knowing that this parting, unlike the others, shall be extremely short—and the reunion all the more delectable.

Previous fic with same reader -> Tides of fate

Next fic with same reader -> As one

[arijackz]

PICK A CARD: What You're Walking Away From and What You're Walking Toward

⚸ "Just like moons and like suns, with the certainty of tides, just like hopes springing high, still I’ll rise." —Maya Angelou

Disclaimer: This is a general reading, take what resonates. I wish you love and light through this renewing period. <3

p1 → p2 ↙︎ p3 → p4

♦︎ Pile One ♦︎ (3oP, 2oS rev., the tower, the star)

⚄ The cards are taking a while to come out, I feel like whatever seeds you’re planting, the bulk of the work is being done internally, subconsciously, or in your sleep. ⚄ With the three of pentacles,  you are reevaluating the role your social connections play in your life and how exactly they’ll fit into the puzzle pieces of your future. For most of you, these are friendships. A few of you, romantic relationships. Another subset of you, there is an emphasis on the relationships you've built with the people you share a common goal with. This can be for work, clubs, hobbies, etc. ⚄ You are moving out of 5th house-type friendships (here for a good time, not a long time) and entering 7th and 11th house partnerships. These unions go beyond just having fun. Deep connections are developed so you can have a support team to lean on during the upcoming highs and lows of the 6th, 8th, and 10th house. They hold more significance and the people who reside in this area of your life should be thoroughly vetted. ⚄ Two of swords rev., you are battling with an internal decision regarding the company you keep and struggling to center yourself.  This tower moment is forcing you to vet. To take action. Reflect on whether these people help fulfill your life purpose and achieve your goals or just hinder them. Reassess your relationships according to what you want out of life. ⚄ I was trying to keep this pac short and down to 3 cards. But apparently not?? The star just flipped out, reaffirming that there's a lot of good shit in the works. Stepping away from certain people will align you with the next phase of your life. Bigger and better is coming in. Some of you are settling in relationships in fear of being alone. ⚄ Staying with connections you have outgrown will leave you stagnant. The universe has big plans in store for you, your life is going to take off soon. It will not wait for your friends to hop aboard the ride. You cannot take everyone with you. Your relationships are coming into question because the universe is doing some pruning for you. ⚄ I see people “jumping ship”, maybe you feel the people around you are not there for you during your rough patches? Yeah, connections built on shallow foundations are dissolving.  ⚄ The king of cups popped up out of nowhere. You are falling out of alignment with the people you’re with and leaving them will push you towards kinder souls who are more emotionally nurturing.  ⚄ Mercurial, Uranian, and lil bit of Jupitarian energy. I’m talking directly to you Virgo, Gemini, Aquarius, and Pisces placements. I call you out with love of course. This is my sidereal big 3 after all<3 ⚄ The star is a very hopeful card, filled with excitement and abundance. You are driving on the road to your destiny. There are only a few seats left in the car, choose wisely. ⚄ Advice: Have faith in your intuition and discernment. I say this in every pac lmao. You’re definitely on the right path (you’re leading up to the star), but this transitioning period is going to be uncomfortable because you are leaving connections behind. When we exit our comfort zones and leave people, we tend to gaslight ourselves and downplay the situation or allow fear to derail our judgment. You are too close to your dreams to let old connections hold you back. You have a deep knowing that these connections will not survive the ride to the top, listen to your intuition and let go of what is no longer serving you. Be selfish if need be.

I only bark once.

♦︎ Pile Two ♦︎ (temperance, the magician, the hermit, knight of swords)

⚄ I felt a puff of air in my left eye. The left side of the body is traditionally associated with the intuitive and receptive feminine. You are in a waiting period right now and are receiving intuitive downloads and messages. Your connection to the metaphysical is strengthening. Be inquisitive at this time and assess your life in a higher light, you are being blessed with the ability to see the hidden and the unforeseen.  The synchronicities you are seeing right now are not a coincidence. (Extra confirmation if you’re seeing repetitive 3’s, 5’s, 8’s, triangles, stars, and the infinity symbol)

⚄ Lmfao I was planning on only pulling three cards but the life you’re sowing right now is HUGE. 3 major arcanas back to back and then a court card?? You are being prepped for a whirlwind of adventure. You’re in your own world fucking COOKING.

⚄ The slow period you’re in is forcing you to build a foundation of balance, patience, and introspection. Boring. I know. But it is crucial to your development. I said it best in my last pac so i’ll say it again here, Whatever you build in this lifetime will be built slowly and have a solid foundation because your legacy is meant to withstand the test of time and last long after you leave this Earth. This period you’ve spent waiting is you getting your ducks in a row and sowing your seeds for the next evolution of you.

⚄ Shoutout to my Pisceans and Saturnians. If you have resonated with this so far, definitely go check out pile 4 of my ✩Glow Up✩ pac because there are a lot of gems in there for you.

⚄ You are creating your future reality in this introspective period. I feel for a lot of you, your self-work is centered around deconstructing the old perception of yourself and building your identity up from scratch. You are either beginning, in the heat of, or ending a long period of self-discovery and establishing your self-esteem.

⚄ With the knight of swords at the end of the spread, you are approaching the end of the tunnel with renewed vigor and resolute faith in your capabilities. I’m seeing your life in reference to that religious story, (Lord forgive me, I am telling it wrong and forgot the details 😭) where the man gets locked in a cave and starved, expected to either be dead or too feeble by the time his sentence is over. Instead, he comes out stronger than ever and with twice the unwavering spirit he had before his time in the cave.

⚄ This is what’s happening to you, you are finding inner strength and willpower that is going to propel you forward in your destiny. And you will not fail. It’s not even possible, the resolve you’ve built for yourself will carry you faithfully through all the bullshit life will throw at you.

⚄ Advice: None. You got this in the bag,just remember that you only lose battles when you retreat. The energy you’re cultivating for your near future is the knight of swords, a character who will never retreat. Therefore, you will never truly lose.

"I was born underwater with three dollars and six dimes"

♦︎ Pile Three ♦︎ (9oS, the hanged man, 6oS, 10oW)

⚄ Off the bat, you need to surrender any hangups you have surrounding your future. I picture your mind running 24/7 telling you all the ways you’ll fail as you work tirelessly. Or, you want so desperately to put your plans into action, but a buried subconscious fear prevents you from moving forward, adding more stress on your shoulders. It is weighing heavy on your mental health and causing severe anxiety that is inhibiting you from much-needed rest and healing. This is the season of surrender, it’s okay to let go and let the current wash you away. As soon as you release your fear of making mistakes, you’ll learn the flow of the waves.

⚄ Two of pentacles is at the bottom of the deck, I feel your stress stems from a fear of financial insecurity and the overwhelming pressure of having to plan a sustainable career yourself. A lot of your priorities in life are demanding your attention and it is becoming a heavy burden.

⚄ I am going to be blunt because I care. You gotta stop giving a fuck. Your anxieties are paralyzing you. You need to sip a little metaphorical “fuck it” juice. I am just now getting out of the mental space you’re in. The only thing that helped me step out of my fear-induced paralysis (which lasted a long and dark 6-years), was to reaffirm that no matter what decision I make, I will come out prosperous. In fact, the more you stress about the future and the more control you try to take, the further you push your desires away, which will only fuel your anxiety bugs.

⚄ Have faith that no matter where you land, you have the power to turn any less-than-ideal situation into something bountiful. The bird does not fear the branch breaking because it has faith in its wings. Not making a choice at all is worse than picking the wrong one. You’ll win some, you’ll lose some, all situations bear fruit, just keep putting one foot in front of the other. This too shall pass.

⚄ Advice: I know it is easier said than done, but ground yourself in the present. Release yourself from the worries of the future and the nightmares of the past. Stop stressing about upcoming due dates while you eat and stop reaming yourself for past mistakes while you’re out with friends. Tune yourself into what is happening before your very eyes.  Turn your brain off and mindlessly do something. Anything that brings your attention to the present. Don’t even worry about being productive. Watch tv, color, dance, cook, anything but sitting and stressing. This sounds crazy to say in today’s work culture but trust me, stressing about being productive or pushing yourself to “grind” will be your downfall. Your body needs to regulate. With the six of swords, you have to make the conscious decision to walk away (stop stressing and allow the situation to run its course) from what is mentally plaguing you. These are the seeds you’re sowing, you are on the path of releasing your burdens. I’m proud, we can do this!

"Mom, Meet Mary Jane the Milf!"

(representative of the whole relax message in your pile. i had fun making the board, this is not an endorsement.)

♦︎ Pile Four ♦︎ (6oS, king of pentacles, 7oP, 5op)

⚄ Cards went a lil buckwild here. There are a lot of pentacles in this spread, I feel like you are dissolving a lack mindset. What you desire and your perspective of success is evolving. You are stepping out of a false idea of wealth. You might have had a habit of undermining the talents and resources you have and comparing them to what others have.

⚄ This is my doomscroll pile. My silly little rotters. Looking at people with nice things and thinking why can’t I have that? Looking at attractive people and going I’ll never be as pretty as them, I am cursed with these looks. Looking at people who showcase their talents and saying, oh I could never do that, they’re so much better than me.

⚄ You are realizing just how harmful these thoughts have been to you. You had curated a mindset that would have you look at people and then immediately place yourself as inferior to them in some way. This shapes a reality where you feel constantly inadequate, thus always in need of something. This constant feeling of need prevents you from seeing the resources you already have within and building off of those.

⚄ Congratulations, you are stepping away from that lack energy. You’re beginning to see the value in yourself and redefining what it means to be prosperous. Now it's, Oooo, that girl looks so cool playing the bass, this encourages me, I bet I could learn an instrument too. Instead of, “Oh look, another person doing something with their life while I sit here and rot. What is wrong with me, why can’t I be as cool as them.”

⚄ Do you see how the latter self-talk is just draining the life out of you? It sets you up for failure before you can even try. 

⚄ When I say a false idea of wealth, I mean the superficial things you believed would bring you fulfillment. When you were in that dark space, you looked at pretty girls and believed that if you looked like them or got the attention they got, you would finally be happy. Now, you’re on a journey of discovering things more sincere to your identity to find fulfillment in.

⚄ You are discovering your interests, hobbies, etc. Anything that boosts your self-esteem and gives you a sense of value. You are about to fall in love with yourself and all the endless capability of creation you hold.

⚄ Advice: Comparison is the thief of joy. Unfortunately, with social media, every day is a pissing contest about who can have the most and be the best. I’d bet money that the most attractive, smartest, and most talented person you know is sizing up the person next to them and getting a false sense of satisfaction or self-hate. Don’t fall into that. Break the societal cycle and look inward for satisfaction. Compete with yourself. Be the only person you are trying to impress.

There is beauty in my unraveling

Let me know what piles you pick!

[bonniebird]

Dark!Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Part one here

Your father’s men trembled as they escorted you out of the keep towards Vhagar. Aemond sat proudly on her back, staring down at you. He smiled cruelly when Vhagar moved rather suddenly and the youngest of the men let out an audible cry of surprise. 

Your parents had said their goodbyes inside. Deciding it was best that your mother stayed out of Aemond’s line of sight, due to her frequent bouts of sobbing. Your father had feared that it would give you all up immediately. A carriage followed you out. A number of ladies and belongings caused it to ride low on its wheels and they squeaked under the protest. Letting out an anxious sigh through your nose you motioned for everyone to stop at the gate of the keep and approached the great beast before you carefully. Aemond waited a moment before climbing down. Looking at you coldly there was a flash of an insincere smile on his face for a moment. He approached you and you eyed him wearily, doing little more than stiffening up as his hands cupped your face.

“I am relieved that you came to your senses.” Aemond said in his sickly sweet voice. He stepped away and walked past the men, ignoring them as he approached the carriage.

You said nothing and stayed where you were as Aemond inspected the carriage and turned back to you, apparently satisfied there was nothing untoward hidden among the statuesque handmaids within.

“We should return. My mother is worried for you.” Aemond smiled and gestured to the carriage. The men looked at each other nervously refusing to move until you nodded and they hurried back to the safety of the keep. Leaving you alone with Aemond. There was a tense silence between the two of you as he extended his hand to help you into the carriage. As soon as the door closed behind you one girl let out a sob. 

You recognised one of the women as the daughter of your father’s close friend. Florence you recalled. She reached forward, seeming to want to declare it nice to see you having been a childhood friend from before you left for King’s Landing, but she thought better of it, hesitating before reaching across the carriage to grasp your hands instead. 

The silence seemed to weigh the carriage down even more as it began to move, creaking and swaying as it crossed over the gateway of the keep and out towards the road that would lead to the King’s road. The eldest of your ladies, a woman who had served your mother for years cleared her throat.

“We must be brave. Resilient. We shall persevere.” The old woman said in a fearsome tone. The atmosphere among the frightened coven of women changed from one of fear and misery to a silent determination to survive. Chattering began like soldiers testing no man's land to see if the battle was truly done. Quietly among the elder women and then soon all of you, solidifying an alliance between you all by the time the wheels hit the short bridge that signified that your journey down King’s Roads would soon begin. 

By now there was a large distance between the keep and the carriage giving you all a nervous confidence, a buzzing rush that your pounding heart worked to fuel. The feeling was smothered when there was a horrifying sound. It was a rumbling screech that was followed by a roar that flooded the air with a rippling heat. With a cry, you tried to reach for the door but found hands grabbing at you, arms holding you in place. Chaos and fear filled the small space as everyone clung to one another and tried to make sense of the doom they knew would be outside the carriage doors. When the heat finally began to die down they reluctantly let you go allowing you to stumble out into the smoky air. You moved so quickly your skirt caught and you fell with a grunt to your hands and knees. Scrambling to your feet with small fearful noises you found yourself running back up the road. You were blinded by fear and driven forward by the sick, cold sinking feeling as anxiety and smoke strangled you, forcing your breath out in choking gasps. Hours before the same road had been your road to salvation. Now it was a smouldering ruin, a fitting prelude to your family's doom as the keep crumbled and collapsed in on itself. The sound that ripped out of you as you collapsed to the floor was a feral suffering sound. Even Vhagar heard it high above and crooned out a sound that rumbled the air, tipping herself away from you as she passed, miles above in the sky as if to defend Aemond from your sorrow as she looked for a place to ground herself with a heavy rumble, toppling trees as she grumbled and crushed anything that happened to be underfoot. There was no consoling you. The women, having abandoned the safe-haven of the carriage, hurried themselves out into the horror, and tried to stifle your sobbing and shrieking as you looked at the burning ruins of your childhood home. Vhagar circled overhead, taking off from the ground. Through watery tears and the ash that filled the air, you saw Aemond looking at you over his shoulder as he sheathed his sword. 

“Get her back inside!” You heard bellowed over your sobs. You were tugged back to the carriage. The rest of the ride back to King’s Landing was silent.

*******************

Alicent smiled at Helaena as she took up a seat beside your bed. You had arrived days after Aemond had left. News of what happened to your family’s keep had reached her long before either of you returned. There was a stiffness to you when you arrived and upon being taken back to your rooms you collapsed on the bed and had sobbed yourself to sleep. Try as she might, there was little more that she could do than fetch a Maester to slip you something to help you sleep.

Aemond gave little details to Alicent who found herself shut out of the council room. No one could or would tell her what had happened or why what she knew had happened had even occurred. It wasn’t until one evening she was summoned nervously by one of your younger ladies, who had no idea how to sooth your fitful bout of madness. Alicent sent everyone away and managed to have you back in bed, mumbling nonsense to her. When she finally understood what had been done. She diligently brushed your hair, pushing you back into bed when you worked yourself up so badly that your eyes widened and you spat out madness she couldn’t understand. She pressed a cold cloth, damp with water from a bowl on your bedside table, against your forehead and soothed you as best she could. It was early morning when an exhausted Alicent had sent for the Maester insisting that you needed something to let you sleep. He had hesitated until you began ranting and raving. You spoke to no one in particular, eyes unfocused and body trembling. Among the words, you spat out what had happened, all of it. Alicent felt sick to her stomach. Worsened by the guilt of helping the Maester hold you down as he forced the medicine to your mouth. She soothed you when he was done. Your head against her shoulder as she lay you back into the bed. One arm remained wrapped around you as she pulled the blankets up and rocked you as you sobbed a slowly found rest as the medicine stole your lucidity from you.

There was a part of Alicent that wanted to defend Aemond’s actions. He was her son after all. The idea reared its head some days. But whenever she looked at you from her enduring vigil at your bedside, seeing you dead-eyed, miserable, wasting away in bed as you refused to eat, limp and lifeless she was reminded of herself. She had wished for anyone to help her when she had been married to the king. To return to The Reach and Oldtown, to her brother. You no longer even had that, a place to dream of fleeing to. Aemond had stolen that from you and it enraged the long-dormant remnants of Alicent’s youth.

There was a light rain that hung in the warm air. It emptied the streets below the Red Keep and made the red stone glisten a deeper red. The prickling of the cool rain relieved Alicent from the stifling humidity as she walked the battlements. She had left your maids to tend to you assuring them, unnecessarily, that she would return momentarily. The dowager queen was rarely found anywhere else. She walked and seethed to herself until she found Aemond looking out over one of the fields to the side of the keep. Vhagar was shifting around among young trees, bending and shaking them as she turned to settle into a lazy sleep. He looked so smug and content. As if he thought nothing of setting Vhagar on your home. Fury made Alicents lip tremble as she glared at him before calming herself and approaching.

“Was it necessary?” Alicent asked as she glanced at Aemond, looking him up and down as he stood tall and proud. He didn’t look at her or ask her what she was referring to. He didn’t need to. Alicent had not allowed him a moment's peace on the matter.

“Of course, we are at war and I was dealing with traitors.” Aemond said casually. Alicent looked at him again, this time her face was twisted with emotion she couldn’t contain.

“They wished to stay out of the fighting. We could have sent your sister with (Y/N) to them. Now you’ve burned her home to the ground.” Alicent scolded angrily. Aemond tutted and shook his head. It was a condescending move and meant to mock his mother.

“They lured (Y/N) away because they had sided with the enemy. I simply had to protect what was mine.” Aemond eyed Alicent as if daring her to question him or say something more. She decided, for the sake of anyone who would receive the brunt of Aemond’s temper, to say nothing more but to let the twist of guilt and horror settle into the pit of her stomach. With nothing more to say to each other Alicent left to go to the sept for the first time since your return.

***************

While Aemond inspected a map that was spread over a table before him, he waved a hand addressing a servant in his room. He didn’t look at them or do anything more than snap that he wanted you to be brought to him. When some time passed and he had finished the jug of wine that had been left for him he stood, stretched and inspected his room. It was ladened with years of an intimate friendship. Ribbons and tourney favours in your house colours lined one wall, one for every tourney he had been in until he’d been bested rather humiliatingly and never competed again. The windowsills were heavily weighed with stones, pebbles and odd things that you had brought to him over the years like some sort of flirtatious magpie. Of course, he knew exactly which one went where and would not have them put back in the wrong order if someone cleaned.  In all honesty, he could become so wrapped up in his research and studying that he might not have noticed if you had come into the room. Before the war, he would have coyly complained about you fussing around him while he read from books before playfully relenting. 

Alicent had often told him that it was inappropriate to have you squeezed up next to him in some large chair with your head resting on his chest as he read from the large old books and scrolls. When you had both been young it was simply an innocent companionship. But his mother had been right. Though he loathed to admit it. He would lean in close, taking in your smell and resting his head against yours, revelling in the closeness. The way your smile for him was somehow different than when anyone else made you smile. How you would lean into him or his touch almost instinctively. It began to drive him a little mad. Until one evening after you had fallen asleep on one of the bench seats in his room, he had been driven down to the brothels of Flea Bottom. He was always disappointed with what he found. There was no shortage of maidens that looked or sounded, almost, like his sweet girl from the Reach. But nothing was right. He made do. Cole had asked him if he ever felt guilty about it, after catching Aemond on his way back into the keep. Aemond had scoffed. You loved him. Nothing anyone could do would change that.

“My prince.” The nervous voice cut into Aemond's deluded daydream and caused him to start slightly as he turned to glare at the servant. He eyed the door that was held open by the nervous man who hadn't fully entered the room.

“Where is she?” He demanded. He was frankly bored and needed something to entertain him while he mulled over his plans. He was irritated by the delay of your company. It meant he had to put off his planning until he had found you. The servant seemed to understand that he would be blamed for the interruption.

“She will not come.” He muttered. There was a moment where the man flinched and made a noise as if he thought Aemond had moved to strike him. Instead, the prince shoved past and stormed down the corridors to your set of rooms.

Your room was stuffy and uncomfortable. The first thing Aemond did when he entered the room was open the windows that had been left closed at your request. As he moved around the room he inspected it carefully. Your rooms had always been the sort of messy chaos that upset Aemond. No matter what he asked for, assuming you wouldn’t be able to find it, you would find it in some kind of heap strewn over furniture and hand it to him victoriously. 

Now, however, the room was spotless. His mother’s work no doubt. At your writing desk was a half-finished letter in his mother’s handwriting and in a comfortable chair to the side of it sat Heleana’s half-finished embroidery. A few toys sat at the foot of the chair as if his sister had hoped the child would encourage you out of bed. Or perhaps they had simply decided to take up life at your bedside. There was a pile of unfinished plates and goblets set to one end of a low table and at the far end of the room shrouded in light white curtains was your bed.

Pushing back the curtains that split the room in half he laid eyes on your bed. The bed was ginormous in size and the most ridiculous thing Aemond had ever seen. It had been a gift from his mother and your own for one of your name-days early on in your extended stay at the Red Keep. The headboard was carved so that landmarks of the Reach sat along the top. The four posts that held up a carved roof above you were carved into thick vines and roses while the roof’s carving was that of your family's keep. The footboard of the bed was a carving of Vhagar sleeping. Installed after Aemond had thrown a fit that there was not an ounce of Targaryen heraldry in the carvings. It had been egregiously big for you then and remained comically large.

The curtains that ran around the bed were pulled shut too. Aemond ignored the evident signs that his mother had been devotedly waiting on you hand and foot since you had returned. The chairs, blankets and books that she favoured rarely left her room but here they were surrounding you. Stepping over the signs of his mother’s dedication to her new cause, Aemond roughly pulled the curtain to the side. He let out a satisfied sigh. The beauty of his maiden was something he had always been rather smug about. He had been cruelly enough to use it to taunt Aegon as well as a few other young men who dared to approach you. It caused all but Aegon to shy away. 

“I sent for you.” He was gentle at first. But there was no response. Just the rise and fall of your breath as you lay on your back, hands crossed as they rested on your chest and you stared up at the carving of your home. “(Y/N).” Your name felt unusual in his mouth, being spat out with irritation. It was usually a lovely sound, a contented purring noise. Never the angry crack it had come out as. But still. No response. 

It wasn’t until he had leaned his weight on the bed, meaning to make his way to the middle where you lay back on plush green pillows that you moved. It was a quick flinch and a glance at him from the corner of your eye. He frowned and paused for a moment before reaching out. Your arm shot up and smacked him away with surprising speed and you shuffled to the opposite side of the bed.

“Get away from me!” You said and a weak croaky voice. He smiled as if your attempt to get him to leave you alone had been amusing and sweet. A flirtation in his eyes. But when you glared at him with an empty coldness he had never seen before his smile fell.

“Away from you?! After all the effort I have gone to to get you home! All this time I have allowed you to go about brooding and making everyone fuss over you. You owe me.” He seethed out and lunged forward. You darted back, vanishing between the curtains and hurried towards the door out to the corridor. Aemond was quick to follow and due to your frail self starved state caught you quickly in the corridor outside your room. With a vicious noise, he grabbed at you. Doing your best to fight him off you collided with a wall, a statue and as he lifted you up and turned, caught your lip on some cold metal on his clothes. You caught sight of Cole standing not too far away watching the ordeal.

“Help me!” You croaked out. Cole and Aemond shared a look before Cole sighed and turned, walked a few paces away before stepping back until he was against the wall, standing guard. A small desperate noise escaped you as you realised the man who once defended you as he defended Alicent and Helaena had no intention of doing so now. 

The door thumped behind Aemond as he furiously released you. The sudden drop to your feet caused your knees to buckle as your body, having been starved and neglected for over a month, was unable to keep you up. Trembling you tried to get to your feet but found yourself barely able to stay sitting as Aemond paced around the room.

“Help you.” He said quietly. His breath was panting and puffing as his temper whipped itself into a burning anger. “Help! Why would you need help? Hmm? What is there to fear from me?” He stopped pacing as if he expected you to answer. You looked up at him and your expression of confusion, anger, and resentment made him frown. 

“Murder.” You said quietly. There was a braveness to the tremble of your voice. Something left of the girl who fled. It seemed so long ago that you had been her. The girl able to blind the prince to whatever she wished to hide. Who had escaped. Immediately Aemond changed. His cruelty seemed to melt down into softness. Before you ran this would have deceived you. A naivety you had not been aware you had. Now you could see it was nothing more than a shed skin. 

“No. That. was not murder.” He spoke gently, his hands caressing your head as he leaned down, looming over you. “It was justice.”

“Justice.” You repeated with no emotion as you stayed entirely still. Aemond pressed his cheek against yours as he crouched down.

“You understand.” He said and pulled back, smiling as he moved to stroke your cheek. “I had to protect your reputation from being tainted by those traitors. I am your defender. I always have been and always will.” His voice shifted from its honey tone to an unnerving forcefully calm tone that was almost mocking you. You gave him an expressionless look. Did he truly think so little of you? Had you allowed your dispare to make you so weak? He tilted his head and gave you a smile akin to Sunfyre lulling a brave deer into a false belief that the dragon was tame and would not pounce. He really thought you were that fucking stupid. The door opened and Alicent broke the tension that had begun to build.

“Aemond.” She said wearily. Jaehaera spotting you from between her grandmother’s skirts and the open door dropped her mother's hand and hurried forward with a fondness reserved for you. She sat on the floor just short of you and looked up at you with a curious misunderstanding of the situation.

“(Y/N) has decided to get up.” Aemond said with a cheerful attitude. Alicent stared at him. Stepping between you and Aemond and standing as firmly as the Oldtown tower. An immovable force.

“Then it is best you leave. She should use this time to eat and bathe before resting again. Best not to rush recovery.” Alicent spoke with a stiffness that made it seem she was battling Aemond for you. There was a long pause before Aemond crossed his arms behind his back and nodded, relenting to his mother.

“Indeed. Finding out one's family are traitors must be shocking to a young maiden. I will leave you to restore my lifelong companion to full health, Mother. It would be inconvenient to have her collapsing again.” Aemond moved towards the door, a tactical retreat from the prince. Helaena hesitantly entered the room and looked at you with watery eyes. She held your gaze before looking away, seeming to wordlessly burden herself with what should have been her brother’s guilt.

[honeyxbee]

Losing Game ― L Lawliet

TW: Some NSFW, implied noncon, Yandere!L, gn!reader, kidnapping, implied stalking, captive reader, threat of intravenous feeding

words: 621

It has been exactly four months, seventeen days, eight hours, twelve minutes, and fifty-three seconds since the last time you saw the outside world.

But who's counting, right?

L is, apparently, as he casually brings it up in the middle of the game of chess he forced politely requested you play with him. Your eyes momentarily flicker up from the board sitting on the table before you; your brows scrunched slightly as you try to figure out why he decided to mention that.

Nothing with L is ever pointless ― you've come to recognize this fact over the last few months. Every word he says, every movement he makes is intentional as if he's a well-oiled machine instead of flesh and bone.

Sometimes, you wonder if he is.

"Is that so?" you settle on as a response, trying to sound casual as you move your piece, capturing one of his pawns. His dark eyes are fixated on yours, clearly searching for a specific reaction, though you're not quite sure which one. But you're almost certain that it's not nonchalance, so that's the one you offer him. It's a petty attempt at meaningless rebellion, really, but it makes him sigh, nonetheless.

You've learned to take any wins you can get.

"You've hardly touched your cake," L comments casually as he repositions his knight, glancing at the uneaten dessert he served you over an hour ago.

"I'm not hungry," you say with your eyes fixated on the chessboard, moving your queen.

"You've hardly eaten."

"That doesn't mean I'm hungry."

"That is concerning. Irregular nourishment can negatively impact your health and well-being. Perhaps we should consider having you fed intravenously, instead."

His words are spoken casually, yet you can't help but grimace at the thinly veiled threat. L is a lot of things, but he's certainly not a bluffer. You glance down at the piece of cake on the table beside you and reluctantly spoon a bit into your mouth, making him let out a short hum of approval and make his next move.

White to Qc6. You chew on your bottom lip in thought, scanning the board for a second before moving your king to avoid being checked. L's lips twitch ever so slightly.  

"You're getting better at this," he muses as he moves to capture one of your pawns, his eyes not leaving your face. You try your hardest to avoid his gaze, moving one of your pieces to help defend your king with a slight tremble to your hand.

"You're getting better at this." It's crazy how such simple words can make your mouth fill with bile, the words of encouragement that used to make you beam. But of course, that was back when you first started working with L, bright-eyed and brain-full of fantasies about becoming the next greatest detective.

Before L put secret cameras all over your apartment. Before he drugged your tea and took you to his home, where he sat you on his lap and fucked you for the first time, murmuring those five little words of praise in your ear. Before he locked you up here, turned you into his prisoner with the excuse that he was doing it all to protect you.

"Checkmate."

L's voice forces you out of your thoughts, blinking at the board with a small frown on your lips when you see that he has won the game. Again.

He smiles slightly when he notices your expression, tilting his head in thought. "Did you think you were going to beat me?" His voice is full of genuine curiosity ― as if the concept of you beating him in something is a strange thought. And you suppose it is.

After all, L never loses.

[beefcakekinard]

Oooh, what about BuckTommy and Missing Them from the intimacy prompt list 👀

40. missing them

"I miss you," Buck murmurs, quiet in the barren cavern of his hotel room. It's fine - nice, even - but the impersonality of the beige walls and stark white linens only serve to remind him that he isn't where he wants to be. On the other end of the line, Tommy hums softly, and Buck can hear the rustle of his sheets.

"I miss you too," Tommy says. Buck presses his phone tight against his ear - holding Tommy's voice as close as he can. "We've already gotten through one week, we can do one more."

Buck sighs. When he'd signed up for this workshop eight months ago, he'd been single, and two weeks of union-paid travel to Pasadena had seemed like fun.

"You're in bed?" he asks. He stares up at the popcorn ceiling from on top of his king-size hotel bed and tries to ignore the drag of loneliness through the centre of his chest.

"Yeah, finally. Feels like I barely got to sit down all day."

Buck licks his lips. "What are you wearing?"

"Seriously?" Tommy laughs and Buck closes his eyes to better picture the smile he knows is scrunched into Tommy's face. He can't help smiling in return at the thought.

"Well," he says, dragging the word out, "I have missed you..."

Tommy laughs again. "Or certain parts of me, it sounds like."

"Hey, don't sell yourself short. It just so happens that I miss many parts of you."

They giggle together for a moment - and in that bubble, it's almost like Tommy's right there beside him.

"How about this," Tommy says after a beat of silence. "You tell me what you're wearing, and we'll go from there." He drops his voice a little as he flirts and Buck's body responds automatically, his dick giving an interested twitch in his shorts.

"I'm wearing boxers, and- and your sweater," Buck says. Tommy's next exhale is heavy.

"Which one?"

"It's a grey zip-up."

"Hmm." Just that noise from Tommy's throat makes Buck squirm in place, his dick filling out as he thinks about how Tommy's imagining him. "Unzip it."

Buck complies. As he loses the cold, heavy line of the zipper down his torso, air-conditioned hotel air rushes in over his chest and stomach. His nipples pebble and his abs clench at the sudden chill. He keeps his eyes closed, his face pressed to the side with his phone tucked between his cheek and the pillow. He has both hands free like this, and he trails his fingertips lightly up and down - through his chest hair, down, following his happy trail to the waistband of his boxers, then back up and over again.

"It's open," he says, a little breathless. He knows Tommy likes when he sounds like this, and hopes it's affecting him.

"Good. Pinch your nipples for me." Buck follows the direction, and can't help the gasp that pushes into his lungs.

"That's good, sweetheart," Tommy continues. "Take your shorts off."

Buck pushes his boxers down to his knees and kicks them off and away. His cock rests hard and full against his stomach, framed by the open sides of Tommy's sweater. He licks his palm and takes himself in hand, closing his eyes again, the better to focus on the whisper of Tommy's breathing on the other end of the line.

"So what are you wearing," he asks again, smiling when Tommy snorts. He hears the familiar snick of the lube cap and stalls his hand for a moment, building a picture of what Tommy could be doing - getting his big hand slick before wrapping it around himself, maybe.

"I'm not wearing a thing, baby."

And that - he can see it so clearly in his mind's eye, the way Tommy must look right now, reclined in his soft blue-striped sheets, stroking himself, holding the phone up to his ear. Buck squeezes his cock and groans, starts moving his hand again, with purpose, when Tommy chuckles.

"What are you thinking about?"

"You," Buck says, gasping when he presses his thumb under the head of his dick the way Tommy likes to do. "What you look like right now, what- ah- how you're touching yourself." He presses harder against his phone with his cheek, pushing it down into the pillow and bringing his face close to the bunched-up hood of the sweater he's wearing. It smells like Tommy - like his shampoo, his laundry detergent, his aftershave, all spun together to overwhelm Buck's senses. He moves his hand faster.

Tommy groans and Buck could swear he feels it, through the phone, into his ear, down his throat. "I'm-" Tommy pauses. Grunts. "I'm fucking myself with the dildo you bought, wishing it was you."

And that- that's- Buck can't help the sound that pulls - from deep in his chest, low, needy, shaped vaguely like Tommy's name. He inhales and takes in a lungful of Tommy. He exhales and puts some sound into it for Tommy's benefit. He moves his left hand, unclenching it from where he'd been clutching the sheets, and he cradles his balls, tugs them just the way he likes.

"God, Tommy-" All he can think about is the last time he fucked Tommy, almost two weeks ago now, how Tommy looked with his legs spread, curled around Buck's waist; how he took it and took it until he came, untouched, how he clenched around Buck's cock and moaned when Buck came inside him. Buck moves his hand faster again, everything gone slick with the amount of pre-come he's leaking, dripping down his hand and stomach. He's getting close, he can feel it like a rising tide, like a wave just about to crest.

"I'm gonna-" he says, breathing heavily into his phone. "Tommy, you're- I'm-"

"Evan," Tommy rasps, and that does it. Buck comes with a stuttered moan - the wave crests, breaks, flushes to shore and he loses himself, for just a moment. His brain catches back up to the present just in time to hear Tommy gasp his name one more time, followed by a drawn-out moan, then finally heavy breathing. They sit in the quiet, catching their breath together.

"How much longer did you say?"

Tommy chuckles, and Buck knows he's smiling by how he sounds when he says, "Just a little while. I'll keep the bed warm for you."

Buck's heart swoops in his chest at the thought. He can get through this week. On the other side of it, there's a bed with blue-striped sheets, and a gorgeous man waiting for him in it.

[blasphemousclaw]

Are the omens and hornsent the same?

short answer: no

so to explain why the omen and the hornsent are different, we first have to understand what it means to be hornsent… the hornsent aren’t a species, they’re a civilization of humans defined by the horns that grow on their bodies:

“Hornsent view the Crucible as sacred for the refinement wrought through its evolutionary gifts. Most prominently, their tangled horns.”

“Horns are sublime artifacts to hornsent, and their presence confirms the belief that they are a chosen people. Only the repeated sprouting of fresh horns can create a tangled horn, which is viewed as an irrefutable symbol of primacy.”

“The Crucible has a particularly strong influence on the beasts of the realm of shadow, causing many to grow horns despite the characteristics of their species.”

the hornsent sprout horns because the Crucible has a strong presence in the land of shadow and causes horns to sprout on creatures who don’t normally have horns… the hornsent, who revere the Crucible and its “spiral current,” saw this as a blessing and as proof that they were “a chosen people,” so they cultivated this trait. in hornsent society, the larger and more tangled your horns are, the more awesome and cool and holy you are. this is why Jori, the leader of the theocratic hornsent inquisition, has the largest, most tangled horns of all:

however, hornsent can also be born with no horns at all. this means that they'd be seen as sad and cringe. you can find hornless hornsent bound in chains, which means they might have even been a sort of slave caste... which, given what their society is like, wouldn't surprise me if that were the case:

(source: Zullie the Witch)

the omen, on paper, are the same as the hornsent — humans who were influenced by the Crucible, which caused horns to grow on their bodies. but the reason why they aren’t actually the same is because simply having horns doesn't make you hornsent. again, the hornsent are not a species, and “hornsent” isn’t a generic term for people with horns… the hornsent are a culture, a culture which the omen were very much not born into! unlike the hornsent, the omen were born into a society that sees their horns as impurities:

"A vestige of the crucible of primordial life. Born partially of devolution, it was considered a signifier of the divine in ancient times, but is now increasingly disdained as an impurity as civilization has advanced."

traits associated with the Crucible, including horns, became less and less accepted under the Golden Order as time went on... basically, the omen were seen as impure and unclean, unfit for the Erdtree's grace and excluded from society.

but there's actually something else that makes the omen fundamentally different from the hornsent... they're referred to as having "accursed blood"?

"Warped blade of shifting hue used by Morgott, the Omen King. The accursed blood that Morgott recanted and sealed away reformed into this blade."

"The mother of truth craves wounds. When Mohg stood before her, deep underground, his accursed blood erupted with fire, and he was besotted with the defilement that he was born into."

"Trident of Mohg, Lord of Blood. A sacred spear that will come to symbolize his dynasty. As well as serving as a weapon, it is an instrument of communion with an outer god who bestows power upon accursed blood." 

it seems that there is something inherently different about omen blood that doesn't seem to be the case with the hornsent? omen can also innately produce a black-brown flame, which we never see any hornsent enemies do (pretty sure the inquisitors' fire is just normal fire from their candles). INTERESTINGLY, there's two items from the base game, the Omen Bairn and the Regal Omen Bairn, that produce these brown-flame wraiths... but a similar item from the DLC, the Horned Bairn, produces "vengeful spirits" that are pale and colorless!!

it's almost like the wraiths produced by the omen are "unclean" compared to the hornsent ones!

so I think this pretty definitively proves there's something more going on with the omen? but why is this the case?? Dung Eater's ending makes me think that the omen might be "cursed" simply because their existence is incompatible with the Order under the Erdtree...

"Curse grown on a corpse killed and defiled by the Dung Eater. A tender pox afflicted with omen horns. The Dung Eater cultivates the seedbed curse on corpses. By doing so he prevents dead souls returning to the Erdtree, leaving them forever cursed."

"Loathsome rune gestated by the Dung Eater. Used to restore the fractured Elden Ring when brandished by the Elden Lord. The reviled curse will last eternally, and the world's children, grandchildren, and every generation hence, will be its pustules. If Order is defiled entirely, defilement is defilement no more, and for every curse, a cursed blessing."

but there's also the theory that the omen curse was actually created by the dying hornsent as revenge upon their attackers... Hornsent Grandam says this when attacked:

"A curse upon thee, rotten miscreant. A curse upon the strumpet's progeny, upon Marika's children each and all. The curse of the omen shall strike thee down... In the form of the sacred beast's ire. May the curse strike thee… To the very last..."

she specifically calls it the "curse of the omen!" the one thing that makes me question this theory though is that she also says "in the form of the sacred beast's ire," and we know the divine beast's ire takes the form of storms... nothing like anything the omen do. an interesting theory nonetheless!

anyway TL;DR, the hornsent and the omen are different because 1. the hornsent are a culture (not a generic name for horned people), and the omen were specifically born under the Erdtree's Order, and 2. the omen are tangibly "cursed," but the hornsent are not

[pinksobg]

su-su-su-supernova 🌠🎀

What's good is coming next?

I hope you enjoy the reading! for reflection. thank you 🌠🎀🌌

pile 1: hii pile number 1! all good? a moment of stagnation will be transformed. We see here movement in some area that was previously at a standstill, for your good, for your prosperity in an area. other people can also benefit positively from your prosperity, it could be your family, your friends, your partner, your community; with community work or something like that. We see here a movement towards your own prosperity, to fill your own cup, but it also seems that what comes next will also be very beneficial to others. How intriguing, isn't it? It may be your joy that radiates, because you will return to movement in something that was previously in stagnation, which may even leave you in distress previously, or with internal conflict. This joy that you radiate will be good for you and others around you. Amazing! Another case too, this area that was at a standstill, could actually have something in common with serving others too, it could be about spiritual gifts, working in care, treating people with love and kindness, etc.

In short, something will change, a positive movement in something, a snap, an inspiration, a change perhaps in your well-being, in your energy, which will become more positive. Therefore, you will be able to move something in your situation, in your environment and/or in your life that will be very, very beneficial. both for yourself and for others. Congratulations on this great news, pile number 1! Take good care of yourself, stay hydrated, get a good sleep, ask for help if necessary and you feel like it. thank you! 🌷💌

Cards: I forgot to write them, I apologize my pile number 1.

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pile 2 - woah! pile 2! you probably went through a tower moment, something changed internally and/or externally. We see here that it is a positive change. With the Lovers Card and the 7 of Cups, you will have many options that will sharpen your eyes! I think there are a lot of love opportunities here, perhaps you are or will be arousing interest in several people and soon you will be able to choose. 👀 hmm, interesting.

Cards: the tower, the lovers, 7 of cups.

Anything else? Furthermore, your ideas and mind will be sharper during this period. allowing you more clarity and good ideas, good projects and also providing you with willpower, inner inspiration. Cards: page of wands, king of cups.

Advice: 10 of pentacles, wheel of fortune. truly accept past events in your life, past cycles. With the work of acceptance, your personal prosperity will flourish greatly. So, accepting and letting go really isn't easy, it can take time, practice - but it's something that can be learned, isn't it? Don't give up, good luck on your healing journey. Seek help and inspiration whenever you want. thank you! take care of yourself, pile number twoo. ❤🌷

________

pile 3 - the sun! oh, finally. some weight will be left behind, recentness, hurt, something you've been waiting a long time to release. It's as if things finally fall into place with ease and a weight is lifted from your shoulders.

In the past, you may have had to choose between two things, with the two of pentacles. Your intuition guided you a lot on this path. I wanted to talk more about the positive things, but I was called to attention. Maybe it would be good for you to reflect on something, write about your feelings, your points that led you to the decision you are making/or made at that moment, if it's your case.

The oracle cards tell you:

love surrounds you. The Spirit is there for you.

There is also more advice from oracles, among them, avoid disorganization; If you feel that you are not capable of something or a mindset, improve yourself little by little and believe that part of you is already like that, the way you want to achieve it - and/or "fake it until you make it" kind of thinking if that is healthy for you and do you good in your situation.

Cheers, pile number 3! ☀☀☀ now is the time to feel loved, free, light and supported by the Universe. "Got your back!" ☀🌼🌱

________

[minaturefics]

Head and Heart

Request: Could I request an Aragorn x Reader fic maybe where they have to separate during the trilogy, and when they’re reunited they both want to confess their feelings but they each think it’s unrequited?

A/N: It's here.... finally here.... I honestly don't think this is my best work, but I've gone over it so many times and I think it's time to just get it out here! I hope you enjoy it all the same, and thank you for your patience. I think I've lost my writing mojo - this might be the last fic in a long time (｡•́︿•̀｡)

Aragorn x Reader

Gender-neutral reader

Non-graphic mentions of wound treatment

6.6k words

---

There was an unsettling sillness to the forest. Darkness curled around the little campsite, only kept at bay by the small fire. There were no croaks or squeaks from the shrubs, no hoots or chirps in the trees. There was not even the slightest whisper of wind to rustle the leaves. Behind you, the company slept, breaths loud in the silence, while you kept watch. The fire had burned low, the warmth of the flames barely reaching your back, and you glanced behind, wondering if you should refuel it, but Aragorn was already kneeling by the smouldering flames, feeding it sticks and twigs.

It had been a tense couple of weeks with the long treks at night and the fitful sleeps in the day, the unyielding wind and the unforgiving landscape, the cool indifference between the emissaries of Gondor — you and Boromir — and Aragorn.

When you had first laid eyes on him at The Council, you had noted his handsomeness — his dark hair, his piercing eyes, his short beard flecked with grey — but then came the revelation of his lineage. So this was the king come to claim the throne of Gondor. This was the man you would have to swear fealty to and serve under. This was the man who would inherit the land and people that the stewards have long since cared for. 

As though sensing your gaze, Aragorn looked up from the fire and met your eyes. He stood, eyes only flickering away for a moment to check on the others, and walked towards you slowly. You straightened, muscles tensing, and he brought his hands up in a placating gesture. 

“Peace,” he whispered. “I have only come to smoke.”

He settled on the ground next to the boulder you were perched on. Strange, for the king to willingly choose the cold earth when there was more than enough space on the rocks nearby, to willingly choose to be lower than you were. 

He brought out a pipe from his pocket, filled the bowl with leaves, and soon the air was filled with the sweet scent of pipeweed. 

“Do you smoke?” he asked around the stem of his pipe.

You shook your head. “Though I am fond of the plant they once used to be. In Gondor, you can smell them in the wind in summer when the flowers bloom. The scent of them followed Boromir and me to the borders of Rohan when we journeyed to Rivendell.”

He hummed. “You and Boromir must be close. There are not many who would be trusted with such a task.”

“We have known each other for many years.” You shrugged. “My family has long been loyal to the stewards of Gondor.”

You glanced at Aragorn, wondering if he had picked up on your subtle dig. It was not the throne, or who might fill it, that you were loyal to. Aragorn may be the heir, but he was still a stranger. And only a fool would trust another so easily, especially when it came to the country’s land and its people.

You expected him to frown, to grow grim and silent perhaps, but instead a small smile pulled on his lips. “I do not think you care for crowns and titles.” He took a long draw from his pipe and blew it out in a steady stream. “Your heart is with the people and the land. I do not think there is anything you would not do for Gondor.”

Your stomach flipped. How had he read you so easily?

“Of course,” you said, irritation rising unbidden within you. “We have lived in the shadow of Mordor for many years. We have supported and defended the people. We have shed sweat and blood for them.”

“I understand,” he said, serious. “I am aware my presence is an uncomfortable one. But we are not enemies.”

“You do not understand. Gondor may be your birthright, Aragorn, but it is myhome.”

“And I swear to you, I will defend her.”

“You swear to me?” You scoffed. “As a king?”

“As a man.”

You met his eyes. The firelight flickered in them, but there was nothing fickle about his gaze. Something stirred in your heart, a softening, an awakening, and you nodded, short and sharp. “Alright.”

-

Aragorn watched you as you tried to cheer the hobbits after dinner. They were seated in a circle around you on the soft moss, between the great roots of the Lothlorien trees, listening to your stories. There was a fire in your eyes, a merriment, a wildness, and warmth in your voice.

“And then,” you said in a hushed whisper and the hobbits leaned in, “Faramir and I pushed him into the river! Oh, Boromir was furious. He crawled right out and dragged the both of us by our ankles and pulled us in with him.”

Pippin snickered and glanced at Boromir who was seated beneath another tree root.

“You should tell them about the time you got stuck in the bell tower!” Boromir called, grinning.

“The bell tower?” Pippin’s head whipped back and you let out a long groan.

Your eyes darted to Aragorn’s, lighting up in surprise, and you flashed him a smile before turning your attention back to the hobbits. His heart gave a little lurch and he grimaced. He did not have time for such things.

Ever since that evening, you were quicker to smile at him, more likely to walk beside him and talk. He had thought  you beautiful before, stoic and stalwart, seated at The Council, but now, thawing, warming, it was like the first flowers of spring beginning to bloom. Beauty was one thing but spirit was another. And he could not help but admire yours. How you tried to encourage the hobbits through the snow on Caradhras, how you helped Gimli up from his knees in Balin’s tomb, how you stood, crying but defiant, after the Balrog took Gandalf. 

He knew, just as well as any, that it must have been grim, gruelling work as a ranger in such times. Many of his men had grown serious and solemn over the years, and a part of him envied the Gondorian rangers for having your light when he had none. 

He glanced down at the forgotten sword and whetstone in his hand. No, whatever fledgling feelings he might have for you had to be halted. He had just barely earned your esteem; it would be madness to think of earning your affection.

“That’s it,” you said, deflating a little, “I’m out of stories.”

Pippin and Merry gave disappointed groans, and Sam and Frodo flashed you grateful smiles. They went off towards their beds, fluffing the pillows and straightening the blankets, and fell into a quiet conversation among themselves. You stood up and wandered in Boromir's direction and he turned his attention back to his sword, running the whetstone along the edge with a satisfying shink. 

He lost himself in the motion, driving away thoughts of Gandalf, thoughts of the ring, thoughts of you. 

“Are you alright?” You asked and he blinked out of his meditative trance. Your eyes were soft and concerned. 

He nodded. “I am just burdened by the future. I am anxious to carry on with our errand.”

“It has been a harrowing few weeks,” you said, coming to join him on the soft ground. “It would do us all some good to rest here under the protection of the elves.”

“We do not have time.”

“We have time for this,” you said firmly. And then more gently, “Aragorn, we have all suffered a great loss. You more than most. You knew Gandalf the longest among us, have you not?”

“I have,” he murmured, the corners of his eyes burning. He sniffed and swiped his tears  away before they fell.

“Would it… would it ease your mind to speak of him?”

He was uncertain anything would ease the tightness in his chest and the hollowness in his stomach. Still, the words flowed from his lips, low and stilted.

“It was Gandalf who introduced me to pipeweed,” he said, memories of the mischievous wizard filling his mind. “Elrond was most displeased.”

You laughed, a hearty, sweet sound, and he let out a long sigh, muscles loosening. 

“He showed me how to fill the bowl and tried to teach me how to blow smoke rings.”

“Can you?”

He smiled a little, remembering sitting next to Gandalf, practising. “Not quite. It is harder than you think.”

“Well, perhaps next time you could show me.”

He nodded absentmindedly and shifted, laying his sword and whetstone aside. His pipe, in his pocket, jabbed him in the thigh with the movement. It would be nice to take a moment, to have a smoke and relax, just like you said. “Or perhaps,” he said slowly, “I could show you now.”

You glanced around, eyeing the ethereal flets high in the trees. “Is that permitted here?”

He grinned. “I’m sure they will permit it. In the memory of Gandalf.”

He prepared the pipe and lit the leaves. The smoke filled his lungs, sweet and soothing, and he leaned back against the tree root. After a few long draws, he attempted the smoke rings. The first few were short lived, more like coughs of smoke rather than rings, and then one or two vaguely ‘O’ shaped.

“Gandalf would be disappointed,” he murmured with a chuckle. 

“Have another go,” you said with a smile.

He inhaled, long and slow, the smouldering leaves glowing. He relaxed, Gandalf’s scolding instructions filling his mind, and exhaled. Two clouds, and then, to his amazement, a perfect smoke ring. 

You grinned at him, eyes bright, and warmth spread through his stomach. 

-

You tugged at the borrowed robes and wished you had some sort of mirror. They were soft and fine, the pale blue fabric iridescent in the starry elvish lanterns. It was gracious of the elves to extend the invitation of a formal dinner to the fellowship, but it seemed like everyone except Legolas and Aragorn felt a little ill at ease at the prospect of dining with the elves.

“Come on,” Boromir called, “we are waiting for you, my friend.”

You smoothed the fabric down and stepped out from behind the changing screen. The rest of the company were standing around, already changed, by the base of the steps. You walked towards them, forcing your eyes to stay trailed on Boromir instead of straying to Aragorn.

No, it did not matter what he thought of you. It did not matter at all.

The past couple of weeks in Lothlorien felt strangely like a dream, a world removed from everything else. Sheltered by the elves and swathed in trees, it seemed as though Aragorn could lay down his sword and rest. It had been odd, seeing him joke with the hobbits, egging their bickering on with his wry comments, or watching him laugh with Legolas while they spoke in Elvish. 

Was this who Aragorn truly was? He had more than shown his valour and strength in the past few weeks, his firm words to Boromir on Caradhras in the presence of the ring, his unwavering patience and calm in Moria, but this… 

Boromir clasped your shoulders and grinned. “You look amazing. These robes are more difficult to put on than our formal wear, but more comfortable I should think.”

You nodded, your eyes darting to Aragorn anyway. His eyes swept over you, expression barely changing as he inclined his head, and continued his conversation with Legolas. Disappointment pooled in your stomach as you followed the rest of them up the stairs towards the dining flet.

 Disappointment? At what? There was nothing to be disappointed about. He was a companion, just another member of the fellowship. It would be a foolish notion to expect his regard of you to change simply because yours of him had.

And what was it that changed it? Some promise of caring for your homeland, some moments of laughter and levity, the shared grief of losing a companion? You shook your head. How could you let yourself be swayed by such things? He was still yet to prove himself a good king.

Dinner was an uneventful affair. The food was good and any dips in conversation were filled in by Legolas who told tales of Mirkwood to the elves. Eased by the wine and bolstered by the delicious meal, Pippin shyly asked if there was to be music and dancing, and the company was led to another flet with musicians. 

The hobbits had paired up, and Legolas, cajoling, baiting, and challenging Gimli, managed to get the dwarf to at least attempt the steps. Boromir and you had stood off to the side, choosing to watch first, and Aragorn was speaking to Haldir. The flutes and the harps were clean and clear, but the hand drum beat more rapidly than you anticipated.

“It is like our waltzes back home,” Boromir said.

“But faster.” Your eyes darted between the pairs, trying to puzzle the steps. “And it is to the beat of four and not three.”

“It is not so different,” Aragorn said. “In practice.”

“You know how to dance?” You turned to him, astonished.

“Of course.” He broke into a smile. “I was raised in Rivendell.”

You blinked at him and looked away. How did you forget? It was so easy, looking at Aragorn, to see the wild, skilled Ranger and forget the noble circumstances of his birth. Yes, he was a king. The disappointment from before corroded through you. Yes, you must not forget that. No matter his trappings — a good man, a good ranger — Aragorn was a king.

And a good man did not necessarily mean a good king. And Gondor… Gondor would need a good king.

Boromir nudged you with his elbow. “You should dance, my friend. You were always better than Faramir and I. Valar knows I’ll trip over my feet with this new music.”

“It has been many seasons since I last danced.”

“It is easy,” Aragorn said, offering his hand to you.

For a moment you stared at his palm, the creases in them still smudged with errant dirt despite the comforts of Lothlorien. The hands of a man who knew strife, who knew work. 

Before you knew what you were doing, you placed your hand in his and he walked you to the edge of the dance. He laid a hand on your waist, large and warm, and stepped closer to you. You could smell him, leather and soap and sweet pipeweed.

“Your other hand on my shoulder,” he murmured, breath rippling the errant strands of your hair. 

He led you through the steps, his fingers flexing on your waist, his voice low and close. You stared at your feet, at his chest, at the trees beyond his shoulder. Your heart sped up and you willed your breaths to lengthen, hoping he could not sense the change in you. 

“You are a good dancer. A quick learner,” he said. 

You nodded, not trusting your words. Warmth radiated from him, and it seemed as though your hand seared with the heat of his skin. He was solid and steady, and so, so close.

The dance was blessedly short, and when the final chord rang out, you stepped back from him, bowed stiffly, and walked away.

-

Aragorn cradled your head, his hand growing wet with your blood, and stared down at your pained face. Your breathing was laboured and erratic. Had they come too late? He glanced up to see Gimli and Legolas bent over Boromir. A black arrow stuck out from his shoulder and he let out a weak groan. Slain orcs lay around the clearing, their crude weapons scattered on the ground, and the hobbits were nowhere to be seen.

He looked back down at you, willing you to open your eyes. He couldn’t help but sweep his thumb over your muddied cheek. “Please,” he whispered. “By the Valar, please.”

How was it that it was only a week or so ago that he held you in his arms, warm and close, cheeks flushed from the dance? He had kept that memory close  in his mind, guiltily revisiting it in the quiet of the night, fingers twitching to reach out across the moss to touch you again. You had been strangely distant since that night. You were polite and friendly, but your glances had become fleeting and furtive and you hardly sought him out to talk in the evenings like you had done before. 

Did you catch a glimpse of the affection in his eyes? Were you discomfited by it? Possibly. Why else would you withdraw from him? Perhaps you felt it would be too risky to reject him outright, given his position as the future king, and thought it would be best this way. 

You groaned, brows furrowing, and mumbled something unintelligible. He whispered your name and to his relief, your eyes fluttered open. “Boromir,” you muttered. “The little ones…”

He looked up and saw Legolas and Gimli tending to Boromir, discussing how to remove the arrow. “He is alive. The hobbits have been taken by the orcs.”

“You need to save them.”

“I need to save you first.”

“There is no time… The Ring…”

“No. I will not leave you here.”

You muttered some garbled swear at him but did not protest when he began to inspect your wound. He parted your hair carefully, fingers combing through the matted strands. It was a fairly large wound, but not deep. At least, nothing that would be immediately fatal. It would have to be cleaned and bandaged properly to prevent infection. Legolas was already starting a fire and Gimli had gone off, presumably to camp to gather water and whatever spare cloths they could use as bandages. 

It was an hour later when you and Boromir were finally fully awake. Your wounds were bandaged but the both of you were pale and weak.

“The little ones,” Boromir said. “You must go after them.”

Aragorn looked at you. Your eyes were glassy and glazed, the collar of your cloak still stained with blood. “We cannot leave you like this.”

“Cannot? Or will not?” you asked, lifting your eyes to meet his. Your gaze was strong and defiant despite the pain. “The hobbits need to be rescued. Boromir and I cannot go on in our condition. We may yet live as we are, but Merry and Pippin do not stand a chance if you do not go.”

He exhaled sharply and glanced away. You were right, of course. But how could he leave you like this? Weak and bleeding, at risk of attack, at risk of infection. What would a good ranger do? What would a good king do?

“We could split,” he suggested uneasily. “I could remain while Gimli and Legolas go ahead.” 

But even as he said those words he knew it was not the best course of action. Gimli and Legolas, as skilled and strong as they were, would not be able to confront a pack of orcs by themselves. One glance at Legolas’ dubious expression confirmed his thoughts. 

“We are not on death’s door yet,” Boromir said with a grim smile. “I doubt that the orcs will return to this place; they already have what they came for. We can rest here for a day or two, then make our way back to Minas Tirith.”

The both of you, alone and injured? There were so many things that could go awry and it would be at least a three or four day journey to the city, longer even, in the condition the both of you were in.

“You know Boromir is right,” you muttered, your gaze steely.

It was then that he felt the way he did the night he spoke to you by the fire. That in your eyes there was a right thing to say or do, and anything else would lower your esteem of him.

He nodded slowly. “But we will not leave you here among these corpses. Let us at least get you back to camp with a fire. It will not take us long.”

You shared a look with Boromir and agreed. Between the three of them, it was quick work to help you back to camp. He would see you again, he knew, he hoped, but even then, as he followed Legolas and Gimli away from the camp, he could not help but look over his shoulder for one last glimpse of you.

-

A cool wind blew through the window of your room at the Houses of Healing, carrying with it the sound of the army marching out to Osgiliath. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, groaning and wincing, and slumped back against the headboard, craning your neck towards the window. If you could not see Faramir off on his deadly errand, then you would at least watch him from your room. 

How had it come to this? Boromir, delirious and incapacitated with fever and infection. Faramir, sent off to Osgiliath, surely to die. And you, weak and helpless, unable to do anything but watch.

Faramir had said he was relieved that you were not coming with him, that if he and Boromir were to die, he could trust that you would ensure Minas Tirith would be well defended and cared for. 

There was no comfort in that. There was no comfort in all of this. 

Duty and honour and calling. What did anything matter if you were left alone in the world? Without Faramir, without Boromir, without… 

Without Aragorn. 

For a moment, you laid any sort of obligation to your station, to your city and country aside, and allowed yourself to indulge. When did he become someone so close to your heart? How? 

It was all those moments of softness. Those rare moments where he was simply just a man, when he set down the mantle of ranger and king. Like when he smoked with Merry and Pippin, nestled between tree roots, discussing the characteristics of the various pipeweed strains. Or when he devoured one of Sam’s dinners of potatoes and wild mushrooms faster than anyone else, shrugging with amused resignation when everyone stared at him. Or when he sat up with you during your turn as the night watch, talking about his boyhood misadventures. 

And that moment when he had danced with you, his strong arms around you, his grey eyes bright in sparkling lights of Lothlorien. He had smelled like soap and cedar, and you were close enough that you could smell the sweet wine on his breath when he spoke. There was something in his eyes you had not seen before. Tenderness? Affection? 

You shook your head and laughed at yourself. Affection? There was little chance of that. You had challenged him that night by the fire, silently made him work for your respect and approval on the journey. It was necessary, perhaps, to prove to him that as a servant of Gondor you were not so easily swayed by someone who claimed to be king. But as a person, as yourself… There was no way that such behaviour would endear you to him. 

He was friendly enough, yes, but he was friendly with everyone in the fellowship. That was all there was to it. Camaraderie and friendship. And it was not as though he had given any indication of… feeling more. And as king, he would have to select a suitable partner. In Rivendell, there were rumours of his long friendship with Elrond’s daughter. Yes… Someone like her would be suitable. And you…

You would stand by as always, the protector and servant of Gondor, and watch him be happy with another.

The bell tolled and you snapped out of your musings. The army was just leaving the gates of the city, their armour gleaming in the sun. You muttered a silent prayer for them, hoping that Faramir would return whole and safe.

Yes, whole and safe. That was all you would ask for Aragorn too. It did not matter if he did not return your feelings, all that mattered was that you would see him again, healthy and smiling. 

-

The cragged stone walls of the narrow path began to look the same to Aragorn. The horses’ clops echoed off the high walls, and Legolas’ and Gimli’s muffled chatter strangely amplified. The air grew cooler and, somehow, more still as they continued forward. He glanced behind and Legolas gave him a short nod. They would be close to The Paths of The Dead soon. 

Andruil bumped his calf with each step the horse took and he felt for the pommel with his fingers. For so many months he had tried to ignore the truth of his heritage. To the hobbits he was Strider, and to the rest of the company he was simply a ranger. But now… there was no hiding, no denying, what he was. Who he was.

Would the others treat him differently now? Would they see him as other, higher, than they were? The thought of Merry and Pippin, usually so affectionate and playful,  growing distant and formal made his heart ache. Would Boromir retreat back into his position of Captain and Steward, rebuilding the walls that they so carefully took apart on their journey? And you…

He thought back to that night by the fire. He had not missed your subtle dig, your silent display of suspicion, and he had tried to reassure you, to show you that he was just the same as you and Boromir. And over the months it seemed that you had softened, sitting with him while he smoked, splitting your rations with him when he had offered some of his share to the hobbits, sharing amused looks with him when Gimli and Legolas were bickering about something inane. 

You even let him dance with you.

In that moment, he felt that you finally saw him as he was. A man. Just a man. But then your eyes had shuttered and you walked away from him. He sighed. There was no hope for him now. With the sword returned to him and him on his way to invoke the debt as the heir to the throne. You would be lost to him, he knew, the moment he was crowned. 

-

The city was in an uproar — singing, drinking, dancing — celebrating the destruction of the ring. It seemed that ever since Aragorn returned from the Fields of Cormallen, there were always people around him. You had recovered enough to return to your own rooms in the Steward’s House in the citadel, though Boromir and Faramir were still recovering in the Houses of Healing.

Aragorn had stopped by your rooms once, expressing relief and joy at your recovery, but had not come by since. So it had begun, then, the inevitable distancing that would happen. He had proven himself a worthy heir and king, marching with the Rohirrim, going to the Paths of the Dead, facing the Enemy at the Black Gate, just as you wished at the start of the journey. Gondor would be in good hands. But what of yourself and your heart? At the beginning, nothing mattered more than his suitability as king, but now… 

You let out a frustrated huff and shook your head. Maybe a walk would clear such futile thoughts from your mind. Maybe you should go see Boromir, he always had a way of cheering you up. It was a short walk down to the Houses of Healing and you found Boromir sitting up in bed, reading through some documents.

“Ah, my friend,” he said with a smile, setting the parchment aside. “You have good timing. I am sick of these papers.”

You peered at them. “Trade agreements?”

He shrugged. “Faramir and I have decided that he will take the post of Steward, but he still values my input on such things.” He took you in, eyes searching your face. “You are upset about something.”

You opened your mouth to protest but deflated instead. You sank into the chair next to his bed. “I am vexed by something. That is all.”

He stared at you for a moment before the corner of his lips twitched upward. “Is it Aragorn?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?”

He chuckled. “We have been friends for many years now, and have been by each other’s side for months. Besides, I have had my suspicions for some weeks.”

You shifted in your seat. “What suspicions?”

“That perhaps your feelings towards him have changed. Softened. I have seen it with my own eyes. I knew for sure that night in Lothlorien.”

You stared at your hands and sighed. “Even if I admit to it, it matters little. He will not return my feelings, and even if he did, I am not a suitable match for him.”

Boromir threw his arms up. “I know you are stubborn but you are being deliberately obtuse and difficult now.”

You bristled and frowned at him. “Do not tease me, I am not in the mood.”

“First, your argument of unsuitability is nonsense — your family is well regarded in the city, and do not forget your own title as Captain. And second, is it so hard to believe that he might return your feelings?”

“I don’t see why he would,” you muttered petulantly. 

He rubbed his forehead and let out a long breath. “I am not usually one to meddle in such… things, but a man can only take so much. You are not the only one who has come into my room, sulking and moody.” You blinked at him and he shook his head. “Aragorn is one to keep things close to his heart, yes, but even he cannot completely hide what is in his eyes.”

Your heart sped up a little. “What… what are you implying?”

“That there is reason to hope. And that maybe Aragron, like you, feels as though his feelings may be unrequited.” Your brows furrowed. “Ah, do not act confused — do you not remember how cold you were to him at the beginning? And how wary you were in the first weeks?”

“But I have been friendly since then.”

“Maybe so, but I would not fault him for being… careful. Some encouragement would not go astray.”

Encouragement? At the risk of looking like some fool? But Boromir was not one to make up stories, and his assessment of character and behaviour has not led him, or you, wrong so far. Perhaps you could… try. Try to show a little more interest, and see if Boromir was right. 

-

Aragorn leaned back against the cool stone wall and took a long drag from his pipe. He had escaped to some high tower in the Citadel, yearning for the open, unbroken sky, and wishing for a moment of peace. The stars winked above him, shimmering just the same as they did in Rivendell, and a fragrant breeze blew from the plains below. 

In a few days, everything would change. 

He had accepted it the moment they entered the Paths of the Dead. His lineage, his duty. He had known since the beginning that he would eventually return to the throne but those decades in Rivendell, those years of roaming the wilds made it easy to forget. He let out a long stream of smoke, watching the pale white puffs evaporate into the night. He inhaled, relishing the sweet scent of the pipeweed, and on a whim, blew some smoke rings.

He smiled a little, remembering that night with you in Lothlorien. It seemed like a whole lifetime ago. His heart had wrenched in his chest when you had opened the door to your rooms, and you stood, haloed in warm light, safe and whole and real. It had been nearly too much to sit in your rooms, talking and smiling, with you so close. The gravity of the mission and the perpetual looming peril during the journey helped keep his feelings buried, but seeing you at home in your rooms stirred his imagination and images of you, of a future with you, plagued his mind for days. 

He had tried to keep his distance, for his own sanity, but for the last week it seemed as though you were determined to seek him out. With the coronation coming up, it was inevitable that he would see more of you — you were assisting with some of the preparations — but you always lingered to talk when discussions were finished. You urged him to take breaks, suggesting he walk with you in the gardens or courtyards, and you even called on him one evening.

It was… confusing. Were you just being friendly? Or was there more to your actions? He knew he was not a man prone to delusion and it certainly seemed as though your feelings had changed. Warmed. But he wished to know for sure. Could he ask you? Would you be receptive to such a thing?

It felt as though he was running out of time. That his coronation would somehow alter things forever. 

He took another drag of his pipe and closed his eyes. He had faced death at the Black Gate but did he have enough courage to face you? To bare his heart, to be open, for the chance that you might reciprocate?

Yes, he thought, or he would forever regret that he did not. 

-

You rubbed the smooth fabric of the silks you were to wear for the coronation. It shone in the warm light of the candles and you stepped back to admire the handiwork of the seamstresses. Intricate embroidery decorated the hems of the sleeves and the collar, the design more ornate than anything you had worn before, and you traced it with your finger. It was beautiful, something more fit for royalty than one of the nobility, and you had protested, but Aragorn and Boromir insisted upon it.

You sighed and turned away, wandering towards the window. The city spread itself in front of you, the flickering torches on the parapets forming concentric circles leading down to the plains. Aragorn would take a partner eventually. Would they care for the city and Gondor? Would they appreciate her beauty and her people? 

The city was flooded with visitors, the citadel more busy than before housing the dwarves and elves and other nobles. Lord Elrond’s daughter had come with him and your heart shattered at the sight of her. But to your surprise, Aragorn had made no overtures to her. They were friendly, yes, but the little you saw of them together, they seemed more like siblings than lovers. Was it possible that you were mistaken? Or perhaps the elves had a more modest way of displaying affection?

Boromir still continued to insist that Aragorn had feelings for you but the evidence of it felt weak. True, he had taken you up on all your offers for walks, and had talked long with you when you called on him that one evening, and once or twice you thought you had seen the tenderness in his eyes but you could never be sure. Maybe it was too little too late?

There was a knock on the door and you called out.

“It is me,” Aragorn said, his voice muffled through the thick wood of the door. “I know it is late but I wish to speak with you.”

You opened the door and let him in. His eyes flickered towards your clothes hanging on the wall before he focused on you. He was dressed in one of his more casual tunics, still not changed for the evening, and your eyes darted to the open V of his shirt collar. “I am surprised you have not turned down for the evening,” you said, glancing away and gesturing for him to sit by the fire.

“I could say the same for you.”

He joined you on the cushioned bench and stared at the fire. His face was impassive and his jaw was tense. What was so important that he had to see you on the night before his coronation? Were there any last minute changes to be made?

”Aragorn?” you whispered. “What is the matter?”

“I was thinking about our first few weeks together when we left Rivendell,” he murmured. “You were not very fond of me then.”

You nodded slowly, unsure where he was going with it.

“And as you said, Gondor is your home.”

Your stomach lurched. “Aragorn, surely you know I do not hold any reservations about you anymore. If I had caused offence then, I —”

He shook his head. “No, I understood then, and I understand now. But still, given the coronation tomorrow, I simply wanted to be sure.”

“Then let me be clear,” you said, a little exasperated. “My feelings about you as a king have changed.”

He nodded slowly and stared into the fire. It crackled and popped in the silence. You wanted to ask if he had more to say, but something stayed your tongue and you waited.

“And of me as a man?”

“As a man?” You met his gaze and your heart started to thump.

His eyes were unguarded and soft, the silver steel of his eyes warm and molten. His lips were parted gently, as though he was ready to say more, but was waiting for your reply. What could you say to him? Was he asking what you thought he was asking? 

What could possibly convey the hidden depths of your affection?

You wanted to reach out, to place your hand on his cheek, but the space between the both of you felt like a chasm. Slowly, ready to snatch your hand back at any time, you moved it from your lap and offered it to him, palm up, on the bench. You avoided his gaze, scarcely daring to breathe.

He reached out, fingers curled and uncertain, and softly clasped your hand. His skin was rough and warm, familiar and foreign at the same time. You let out a ragged breath, sounding strangled. How was this possible? Was it even real?

“I was not certain,” you muttered. “But Boromir —”

“Boromir?” Aragorn chuckled and you looked up. He grinned and shook his head. “I did not take him as a meddler.”

“He simply… encouraged me to be open about my feelings.” Feelings. The reality of the situation dawned on you and a smile crept onto your face. “I cannot believe this.”

“I am in greater disbelief than you are. I was struck from the moment I saw you.”

“And I you.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”

“You are not the only one who knows how to conceal your feelings,” you said with a laugh, shifting closer towards him. 

His other hand came to rest on your cheek. “There shall be none of that now. For too long have I been apart from you.”

He dipped his head and captured your lips. His lips were soft and tender. He kissed you slow and languid, savouring and tasting. He smelled of cedar and musk, and his breath held the lingering sweetness of pipeweed. You tried to pull back but he followed you, his lips seeking yours again. His kisses grew passionate, impatient, as though trying to make up for the time they did not have you.

He paused for a moment, breathless, and muttered, “Join me tomorrow, in front of everyone. Walk with me after I am crowned.”

“You would have me with you then?”

“I would have you with me always, meleth nîn.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Will you have me?”

“Yes. Anywhere, anytime, my love. Forever.”

[shierajones]

Rise of Red

So I’m watching this movie and doing Simone Biles levels of mental gymnastics to make this all connect to the original story and have the plot holes fill in. Here are my attempts at cohension from the beginning:

SPOILERS!!!!

It’s been 30 years since Auradon was founded.

The math isn’t mathing but sure, let’s say after D3, everyone went on adventures, Ben and Mal got married and they all took time to mature and grow in their roles. As the years have passed, they recognize what a terrible job Beast did as a leader and they want to increase trade and foreign relations with other countries.

Uma says that Ben and Mal put her in charge of everything while they (along with Evie and Jay) are making alliances with other countries.

Of course! Because Beast sucks as a leader so they don’t trust him to take back over even if only temporarily. Gil and Harry (and most of the pirates we’ve seen) are missing from Uma’s crew, because she asked them to help Ben and Mal on their journey. Hook is serving as Captain in Uma’s absence and Jay and Gil have grown very close since traveling Auradon together through the years so it makes sense.

Chad is Cinderella and Charming’s son, but Chloe will one day be queen of Cinderellasburg.

Cinderella and Charming had fertility issues at first and Chad is adopted. Chloe is their miracle baby and, though younger, is the true-born heir to the throne. They love and support Chad in all things and have pampered him his whole life. Given the struggles they had to conceive, they don’t regret showering Chad with love but they recognize he’s a bit spoiled and not fit to be king one day.

The future shows Red and the Queen of Hearts ruling on the throne together. I guess we’re assuming since she’s black and red it means she’s evil.

We never actually see that this future is prevented. The ultimate endgame may still be the same, that Red rules with her mother. I’m going to say, this future was not prevented, just that the Queen of Hearts turn to evil was delayed.

In the past, many of the heroes and villains that we know are in high school together.

Many but not all. This is just a blip in their histories and the stories to come in the future are still canon. We don’t actually see any of the villain/hero pairs (Maleficent & Aurora) (Hook & Peter Pan) (Hades & Hercules) so outside of two couples being established (Jasmine and Aladdin in love and Ella and Charming flirtation/mutual pining) there’s nothing that makes some of the stories automatically false. I’d say some of the events in high school just blacken their hearts more and turn them into real villains.

Bridget and Ella’s personalities seem to be switched (with a more evil skew on Bridget’s end as an adult). This one is long.

Ella was Bridget’s only friend and because she was grounded, she wasn’t supposed to be able to make it to the Castlecoming. She cancels on Bridget and leaves her alone. However, Fairy Godmother is also friends with Ella and has been practicing her magic more and is now in possession of a powerful spellbook (more on that later). She wants a way to help her and is finally successful casting an enchantment that gets Cinderella to the dance for a short time. When her curfew hits, the spell will be reversed and send her home. When she gets to the dance, instead of finding Bridget, she gets caught up in Charming and after the song playing changes to So This is Love, they share their first dance. The two are so engrossed in each other and discovering their feelings are mutual that she doesn’t notice anyone or anything else. However, Bridget sees her and is excited at first until she realizes Ella isn’t seeking her out. She’s stuck on Charming. The song playing when Ella walked in is Shuffle of Love and Bridget is trying to focus but makes a mistake. She turns again to Ella to see if she’ll jump in and help but she’s still too distracted by Charming. Left heartbroken she moves and just watches them on the dance floor while staying isolated on the sidelines. She tries to ignore her feelings because she should be happy for Ella but she can’t stop crying a little. She should’ve been there for her. Isn’t that what friends are for? Then, Uliana comes to talk to her and seemingly comfort her. For a second, she thinks she’s coming around to be her friend. She doesn’t think twice when she offers her a cupcake. Suddenly she’s transformed to a monster and everyone around her starts laughing. Ella and Charming’s attention is finally broken from each other and they turn to see what’s going on. Upon seeing this monster, they laugh too thinking it’s just a prank—with no idea who the monster is. But Bridget’s last shred of hope is broken seeing her only friend laugh at her pain after ignoring her the whole night. When Ella finally realizes who it is, she tries to run after her and loses her shoe. She almost catches her to comfort her but then is whisked away by Fay’s spell and finds herself back at, sitting in the barn. Ella, still grounded is left feeling a mixture of joy, love, pain and regret from the events of the night. She can’t contact Bridget or see her until school starts again on Monday. By Monday it’s too late. Bridget, having spent the weekend with no one to talk to or comfort her decides Love Ain’t It and takes on a new mantra for her life. She looks into the Looking Glass and sees her evil future with her daughter. Fine, if that’s what she becomes, why try? At school, Ella tries to apologize and beg for forgiveness but it’s too late. She tries to tell her how her kindness made her strong, how she’s always respected that about her and loves her like a sister but it’s not enough. She tries to show her with her actions. She takes on the persona Bridget always had because it was good, it was kind, it was true strength. She doesn’t want to suffer for one mistake and doesn’t want Bridget to allow that night to define her, but again, it’s too late. Bridget already knows how this story ends and it’s not with love and friendship. She decides to let the fear and power be her friend and becomes the worst bully they’ve ever seen.

Uliana and her crew were troublemakers so would never have been able to open the spellbook and prank Bridget.

Before Red and Chloe showed up, Uliana and her crew were going to lure someone else in to get the book. Fay! They manipulated her with fear and hope—the promise that she could use the Sorcerer’s book when they were done to perfect her magic. So she did it, just like her daughter tried to take the wand in D1.

Merlin just lets Red and Chloe into school, partners them with their mothers “coincidentally” and sees the open window after the break in but doesn’t try to find out who else was able to escape.

He’s aware that Red and Chloe are time travelers and knows there’s a reason to change the timeline as they have. He knows what’s to come with Beast banning magic and shipping off the villains. He wants to change that story too and these girls are the catalysts. This change in history is going to open the doors for magic to be welcomed back to Auradon in the future as they return and have to fix what they’ve changed.