#King Arthur’s Great Halls

[taliesin-the-bored]

The Grail Heroine leading Galahad to the ship, where Percival and Bors wait

Stained glass by Veronica Whall for King Arthur’s Great Halls at Tintagel

[illustratus]

''The Holy Grail, covered with white silk, came into the hall.'' by William Henry Margetson

[misterbaritone]

Aquaman 2 is like… Thor Ragnarok crossed with a Step Brothers/Rush Hour fusion spliced with the first Aquaman movie. Could’ve been worse but it could’ve been a lot better too. Solid 7/10. 6/10 on its worst day.

[anxiouslyfred]

Never mention Arthurian Legends to Roman.

He has views and he has rants and sometimes it seems that depending on the day he'll be set on what the actual story of King Arthur is.

The only thing he's actually sure about is that the BBC show 'Merlin' does not match Arthurian Legend no matter how good the story is, or how they attempted to bring it in with the bigger plots.

This is brought to you thanks to last weeks visit to King Arthurs Great Halls, like, just look at this stained glass? and the audiobooks I got for £0.50 each

[arkangelo-7]

Okay, but, Bruce gentle parenting the fuck out of the Justice League is literally such a funny concept. Like, the only reason it works so well is because of the overwhelming amount JL Daddy Issues; they’re all secretly desperate for some parental affection and Bruce is so naturally a Dad that he can’t help himself.

That gold star thing he used to do with Dick? Where he gave him a little star every time he kept himself safe during a patrol? Same thing works perfectly for Clark. He’s literally indestructible (but Bruce worries) so whenever he comes out unscathed from a battle (which is most of the time) he’ll hand Clark a little golden star sticker. Clark collects those things like they’re priceless artifacts and sticks them on his laptop.

The anger management therapy he did with Jason? Where he’d run through katas (a series of choreographed martial arts movements) whilst doing breathing exercises? Works like a charm on Diana and Dinah. They’re both super powered, so anything Bruce puts in front of her they’ll destroy, so going through a good old fashioned kata before a big mission will help them both focus without risking the destruction of the Watchtower.

The mindful meditation he did with Tim? When they’d sit in silence until Tim’s brain finally trained itself to know rest? It’s the perfect thing for Barry. He’s a speedster so his brain moves at about the same pace as Bruce and Tim’s (though maybe not quite as analytically); the post-mission meditation sessions are the perfect thing to help him calm down.

The art therapy he did with Damian? Where they’d paint memories that brought them pain/loneliness/loss/sadness because talking about it was too hard? Surprisingly, both John and Hal are into it. (Must be a Lantern thing.) Neither of them are great artists, but John paints about his time in the army and Hal about his time in the Air Force. They’ve both lost friends and comrades, have seen the worst of humanity up close, and just can’t always verbalize that feelingly of powerlessness even though their the galaxy’s greatest warriors—but they can paint it.

The silent chess games he’d play with Cassandra? Where’d they’d sit there and pick each others brains without having to say a word, could communicate an immense amount of emotion with the slide of a pawn? Great for Jon. He can’t talk into Bruce’s mind (not without considerable effort) and he can’t really talk to Bruce about everything that happened to him on Mars, but they can sit and play chess until they both have a mutual understanding of one another’s trauma.

All the crocheting he’s done with Steph? Where they’d sit in front of a fireplace in Wayne Manor and discuss their similarly complex relationships with their parents? Loved to do this with Arthur, of all people. They have to get waterproof Atlantean yarn, but the efforts worth the creations they make during Monitor duty, and it’s one of those rare time when Arthur can really vent about all of his troubles leading a life above and below sea, being a king, his love life—anything. Bruce will always listen.

And then, all of the soccer that he’s played with Duke? Where they’d let loose and just be competitive? Cyborg similarly appreciates this, but prefers football, naturally. Now, Bruce is too old to tackle a Mother-Box-Enhanced human, but that doesn’t stop him from covertly setting up pick-up football games on the front lawn of the Hall of Justice every other week.

So yeah. Bruce and his gentle parenting.

[akelafang]

Fic idea up for grabs

A feast is held to celebrate Camelot forging a new peace treaty with another kingdom but someone doesn't want the treaty to be put in place. They spike the wine with truth serum hoping to cause enough offense or embarrassment that the deal will be called off.

A few secrets start to get revealed and as realization spreads around the hall Arthur becomes noticeably tight-lipped. He's got a hand over his mouth and is visibly restraining himself from blurting something out. The person who spiked the wine gets excited thinking the king must have some deep dark secret he's holding back and starts trying to goad him into saying it. Surely whatever terrible thing the great King Arthur is so desperate to hide must be enough to destroy any chance of a peace treaty.

The knights try to stop them but they're held back by magic. Merlin desperately wants to help but he's terrified that if he opens his mouth to cast a spell his own enormous secrets will start spilling out.

The sorcerer keeps needling Arthur "Come on your majesty, what is it that you're so desperate to avoid saying?" until finally he can't hold back anymore and blurts out "I'M IN LOVE WITH MERLIN!"

Everyone in the hall freezes. The sorcerer is stunned because that is not what they expected the king to say. Merlin's brain short circuits and he needs a moment to process that Arthur returns his feeling. Arthur hides his face in his hands cause this is so not how he wanted to tell Merlin, if he ever did.

The silence is broken by Gwaine calling out "Percy you owe me so much money!"

[novaursa]

Please please please 🙏🏻🙏🏻 publish your Arthur Dayne and Targaryen stories! I have always wanted to read those but there were never enough of them. For me it would be ultra win because I absolutely LOVE your writing and have been following you for quite a while and have read almost all what you have published

The Price of Fire (1)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is second child born to King Aerys II and Queen Rhaella. Timeline and plot are all over the place to suit the story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (all warnings are up for this one, Aerys II is a warning on his own)

- Word count: 6 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy

- A/N: So, here it is. I hope you enjoy it. This was made as a one long chapter, but I had to separate it due to the character limit here. For more parts of this story and my other works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Next chapter: 2

You stand in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, at your brother's side, beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne. The dark room echoes with the low murmur of lords and courtiers, their whispers mingling with the crackle of distant torches. Your head is bowed, your gaze directed to the cool stone floor, every inch the obedient princess that King Aerys II expects. But as the flicker of torchlight catches on polished steel, your eyes drift upward—just for a heartbeat.

Ser Arthur Dayne, resplendent in his armor, stands tall and unyielding among the Kingsguard. The white cloak draped over his broad shoulders reflects the firelight like the dawn. His expression is the picture of calm, yet his eyes—those pale, lilac-gray eyes—meet yours in that fleeting moment. Warmth curls in your chest, unbidden and unmistakable. There is a softness in his gaze reserved only for you, a silent promise hidden within those depths, something tender amidst the ironclad duty.

Rhaegar shifts beside you, the smallest of movements, but enough to bring you back to the present. His silver hair glints under the dim light as he turns his head ever so slightly. You feel the weight of his gaze, even without looking. He caught it, just as he always does—the silent exchange that passes between you and Ser Arthur. Your brother says nothing, but you know Rhaegar too well. He fears for you, not because he disapproves, but because of what your father might do should the king’s fractured mind discover this delicate thread of affection. Aerys has grown unpredictable—dangerous—in his madness since Duskendale, and the court is rife with suspicion and fear.

"Y/N," Rhaegar’s voice is gentle, barely a whisper, but it pulls you from your thoughts. You glance up at him, noting the concern that shadows his violet eyes. "It is nearly time for Father’s entrance. Be mindful, please."

You nod, an obedient response, though your heart is still tangled in that single look shared with Arthur. "Of course, brother," you murmur, the words escaping like a breath you didn’t know you held.

Before you can say more, the heavy doors groan open. All conversation dies instantly, and the tension in the hall thickens like a storm cloud. King Aerys sweeps in, his once regal bearing now marred by the gauntness of his frame and the wild gleam in his eyes. His silver hair, long and unkempt, hangs like a veil, doing nothing to mask the haunted expression etched across his face. The court bends the knee, yet you remain standing beside Rhaegar, who doesn’t flinch. You sense Ser Arthur’s presence still, always close, but your eyes remain trained forward. For now.

“Where is my son?” Aerys’ voice rings out, sharp and edged with paranoia. His eyes dart wildly around the hall before settling on Rhaegar. “Here you are, at last,” he sneers, the words twisted with mockery. “And your sister, too. Always so… dutiful.” The king’s gaze slides to you, and you force your face into an expression of perfect neutrality. The madness lurking behind his eyes makes your skin prickle, but you do not falter.

Rhaegar steps forward, ever the prince and heir, with a grace and poise that belies the tension simmering beneath. “Father,” he addresses Aerys with that same calm tone, though you can hear the tightness underneath. “The court gathers to hear your will.”

The king’s laughter bursts out, a brittle sound that echoes unpleasantly. “My will?” he repeats, almost mocking. “Yes, my will indeed… I shall have it obeyed.”

You feel it again—Arthur’s eyes on you. You dare a quick glance toward him, longing to feel the comfort of that gaze, the reassurance that you are not alone in this court of shadows. For the briefest instant, your eyes meet his, and despite the chaos that surrounds you, there is something grounding in that unspoken connection. Rhaegar shifts again, but this time, he does nothing to draw attention to your exchange. Perhaps he understands that in this court, where every move could be watched and twisted, a single kind look is the only sanctuary you have.

The tension in the room grows as Aerys' mood shifts again, unpredictably. “They plot,” he hisses, half to himself, half to the court. “Everyone plots.” His eyes land on you again, a flash of something sinister crossing them. But before he can speak, Rhaegar smoothly steps forward, drawing his attention away.

“Father, the lords await your command,” Rhaegar says, with a tone that brooks no refusal.

Aerys blinks, seemingly caught off guard by his son’s boldness, then barks out another shrill laugh. “Yes… yes, they do. We mustn’t keep them waiting, must we?”

The king’s focus shifts to the matters of the realm, his erratic mind drawn elsewhere, and the danger passes—for now. But you know better than to assume safety within these walls. As the court proceedings drag on, your mind drifts back to that moment—just a glance, but in it, you found strength.

You have long wondered how much longer you can endure the gilded cage of the Red Keep. And how long Ser Arthur can maintain the distance that duty demands. There are lines neither of you should cross—lines your brother understands all too well. But as you catch one final glimpse of Arthur at the edge of the hall, you can’t help but wonder if one day, one of you will step over that line, consequences be damned.

The gardens of the Red Keep are a rare oasis amidst the dull and somber atmosphere of the castle. The scent of blooming roses and honeysuckle mingles with the warmth of the afternoon sun, a welcome contrast to the cold, shadowed halls you’ve grown accustomed to. It’s a rare gift, this stolen moment of freedom. Your father’s whims are unpredictable, and more often than not, he keeps you locked away like a caged bird, much like your mother. You shudder at the thought of her—of the haunted look in her eyes and the endless hours she spends trapped in her chambers.

But today, you walk among the flowers, the soft crunch of gravel beneath your slippers a soothing rhythm. Beside you, Ser Arthur Dayne maintains a respectful distance, his hand resting on the hilt of Dawn, but you can sense his ever-watchful presence. His silent vigilance offers a comfort that words cannot. Even in a world as perilous as yours, with schemes and shadows lurking around every corner, there is a rare peace in these stolen moments with him.

You pause by a fountain, letting your fingers trail through the cool water as your gaze lifts to the sun-dappled trees. For a moment, you think you see a flicker of movement in the shadows—something, or someone, watching. You stiffen, narrowing your eyes, but whatever it was vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Varys, you wonder? The Spider is known for his silent comings and goings, slipping through the cracks in the walls like a wisp of smoke. Your heart skips a beat, unease rippling through you.

Ser Arthur steps closer, sensing your discomfort. “Is something amiss, my lady?” His voice is low, a quiet rumble that always soothes you.

You hesitate, searching the shadows once more, but find nothing. “Perhaps just a trick of the light,” you murmur, though you are not entirely convinced. “These gardens hold more eyes than petals, it seems.”

He gives a slight nod, acknowledging the subtle warning in your words. “In the Red Keep, one is wise to assume they are always being watched.” There’s an undercurrent of concern in his tone, though his face remains as composed as ever.

You continue walking, this time with him closer than before, and the silence stretches between you, comfortable in its own way. You want to speak, to say something meaningful, but the walls of the Red Keep have ears that are eager to twist even the most innocent of conversations. Still, you crave the solace of his voice, the reassurance that he is not merely your sworn sword, but a kindred spirit in a place devoid of trust.

“Do you ever miss the lands beyond these walls?” you ask, keeping your tone light, as if you were asking about nothing more than the weather. “The Dornish marches, the green fields of the Reach… there must be so much more color there than in this dreary castle.”

Arthur’s expression softens, and for a brief moment, the stern knight disappears, replaced by the man beneath. “There is beauty in those places,” he replies, his voice laced with a wistfulness that rarely surfaces. “But it is not the land that makes one long to return. It’s the people—the bonds we forge. Even the most barren desert can feel like home if it is shared with those who matter.”

Your heart stirs at his words, though you must force yourself to remain composed, even as a longing thrums in your chest. He has always spoken carefully, never crossing the invisible lines that bind him to duty, yet somehow, you hear more in his words than what is spoken aloud. It’s a delicate dance, this back-and-forth between propriety and affection, a dance you’ve grown far too familiar with.

“You speak of home,” you reply softly, allowing the faintest of smiles to curve your lips, “but I wonder… can such a place be found within these walls?” You meet his gaze, searching his eyes for an answer he cannot give outright.

He holds your gaze, the sunlight catching the dark strands in his hair, and for a heartbeat, it feels as though the world narrows to just the two of you. But even here, in the relative seclusion of the gardens, you both know better than to let such moments linger too long.

Arthur’s expression shifts, returning to the disciplined mask of a knight sworn to serve. “Home is not always a place, my lady,” he says, with a hint of something deeper beneath the words. “It is where we find those who understand us, who see us for who we truly are.”

You swallow, your pulse quickening. For a moment, you wish you could strip away all pretense, speak freely, and tell him what you truly feel. But such wishes are dangerous. Instead, you look away, focusing on the roses lining the path, their petals a vibrant red, like spilled blood.

“We must be careful, Arthur,” you say at last, your voice barely above a whisper. “The more we understand one another, the more dangerous it becomes.”

He nods, a subtle acknowledgement that you both tread a perilous line. “I will always protect you, Y/N,” he says, his tone so low that it is almost lost beneath the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves. “Even if it is from dangers neither of us can see.”

The sound of distant footsteps snaps the moment back to the harsh reality of your lives. A servant rounds the corner, head bowed, but you know better than to believe you’ve gone unnoticed. Eyes are always watching, ears always listening. The game of shadows never ends.

“Come,” Arthur says, his voice now cool and formal again. “We should return before your father sends for you.”

You nod, but as you walk back toward the keep, you steal one more glance at him from the corner of your eye. He remains steadfast, a silent guardian, and yet, in that brief look, you know the truth: you are not alone in this twisted web of power and duty. In a world where trust is a luxury, you have found it in the one man who should be least able to give it.

The sun has dipped below the horizon, casting shadows through the torch-lit corridors of the Red Keep. The air cools with the onset of evening as you walk in silence beside Ser Arthur, each footstep a measured echo in the darkened hall. The weight of the day, of the court’s endless politics and the careful masks you must wear, presses down on you, but beside him, there is a comfort in the silence. It is an unspoken understanding, the kind that has grown between the two of you over time. Your heart aches with the tension of things left unsaid, desires left unrealized, but this is the life you’ve been given—duty, restraint, sacrifice.

You reach your chambers at last. The door, carved with intricate dragon motifs, looms before you, signaling another night alone, locked away as though you were a fragile thing in need of constant guarding. Arthur moves ahead to open the door, his hand brushing against the wood before he pauses, turning back to you. The look you exchange in that moment says more than words ever could. His eyes, that soft lilac-gray, are filled with a longing so deep that it nearly undoes you. You catch your breath, torn between the duty you know he must uphold and the yearning that flares every time you see him.

“Goodnight, Ser Arthur,” you say quietly, your voice betraying a tremor of emotion despite your best efforts.

“Goodnight, my lady,” he replies, the words careful, yet heavy with something unsaid. His eyes linger on yours, as if he is memorizing the moment, a stolen fragment of time he can carry with him through the dark hours of the night.

Reluctantly, you step inside, closing the door with a soft click. On the other side, Arthur remains, taking his place as your silent sentinel, guarding the one person he cannot bear to lose.

Arthur stands there, unmoving, his hand still resting on the hilt of Dawn as he watches over the door. The corridor is empty, save for him, yet he knows better than to relax. The Red Keep is never truly quiet. Whispers travel faster than ravens, and secrets are carried by the very walls. Yet, as the minutes stretch into hours, it is not the shadows that gnaw at him—it is the battle raging within his own heart.

How long has he been fighting this? The pull he feels toward you, the forbidden warmth that rises in his chest whenever you so much as glance his way? As a knight of the Kingsguard, his vows are clear: to protect, to serve, to remain untainted by the desires of the flesh. But those vows are meant for ordinary service, for loyalty to the crown, not for resisting the affection that has grown between you. Not for denying a feeling that has grown stronger with every quiet conversation, every fleeting look.

Arthur draws in a deep breath, trying to quell the storm within him. He recalls the words he was told as a young knight: Duty above all else. He has lived by that creed, upheld it in every way, yet here he is, torn by feelings that are as dangerous as they are undeniable. You are more than just a royal charge to him; you are a woman with whom he has shared moments of unguarded truth, glimpses of a bond neither of you can fully express. And it is agony.

His thoughts betray him, wandering to what might have been if he were not bound by duty. If he could cross that threshold, take your hand, and offer something more than just the cold protection of a sword. In those rare moments when the world seems to fall away and it’s just the two of you, he wonders—could there ever be a place for them, a world where duty does not shackle his heart?

But these are dangerous thoughts, traitorous even. A man in his position cannot afford such indulgences, not when a single misstep could destroy everything. And yet… he cannot help but wish.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls him from his thoughts. Ser Barristan Selmy, clad in the white cloak of their shared brotherhood, strides down the corridor with the ease of a man who has seen the passage of many years and many battles. His expression is unreadable, but there is a knowing gleam in his eyes as he comes to stand beside Arthur.

“Ser Arthur,” Barristan greets with a nod, his voice low and gruff.

“Ser Barristan,” Arthur replies, nodding back.

For a moment, neither man speaks. The silence stretches, thick with unsaid words, until Barristan breaks it, his gaze shifting to the door you just passed through. “She’s been locked away more often lately,” Barristan comments, almost absently, though Arthur can hear the edge of concern in his voice. “It’s a cruel thing to keep a young woman caged like that.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens. “It is for her protection. You know as well as I do that her father’s mind is… unstable. She is safer in there than at court.”

Barristan grunts in acknowledgment, but his eyes remain on Arthur, assessing. “Perhaps. But protection comes in many forms, doesn’t it? Sometimes, what we think is shielding someone can be its own kind of harm.”

Arthur turns to look at him, something shifting in the air between them. “What are you saying, Ser Barristan?”

“She cares for you,” Barristan says, his voice lowering, almost a whisper in the stillness of the corridor. “Anyone with eyes can see it. Even Rhaegar knows, though he does nothing about it. Perhaps he understands more than we give him credit for.”

Arthur’s heart hammers in his chest, but he forces himself to remain composed. “It is not my place to speak on such matters,” he replies, his voice tight with the effort to maintain control.

“No,” Barristan agrees, “it isn’t. But there are times when duty and honor are not the only things worth considering.”

Arthur turns to look at the older knight, caught off guard by the unexpected words. “What are you suggesting, Ser?”

For a moment, Barristan is silent, his gaze distant as though lost in memories of his own. Then he fixes his eyes on Arthur, a sharp gleam in them. “Go in to her,” he says, each word deliberate.

Arthur stiffens. “I cannot.”

“You can,” Barristan says, his voice firm. “And you should. I’ll stand guard.” He steps closer, his tone softening as if offering Arthur a lifeline. “I’ve fought beside you, watched you for years. You are the finest knight I’ve known, but even the finest deserve something for themselves. Go to her, if only for tonight.”

Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but the words die on his lips. The longing he’s kept buried surges to the surface, nearly overwhelming him. Barristan’s words cut through the chains of duty that have held him in place, offering a glimpse of a path he’s denied himself for so long.

“Do not hesitate, Arthur,” Barristan says, his tone almost fatherly now. “She is alone, and there is no telling how long she will be safe in this place. Give her what comfort you can.”

Arthur’s breath catches, his resolve crumbling under the weight of his desires. He knows what it will mean if he steps through that door, the line he’ll cross, the oaths he’ll bend. But in this moment, with Barristan’s silent permission, he feels a rare clarity.

“I’ll stand guard,” Barristan repeats, a final push.

Arthur nods slowly, his decision made. He turns toward the door, his hand hovering over the handle. There is no hesitation this time, no second thoughts. The pull is too strong, the ache too deep.

With one last look at Barristan—who merely inclines his head in a gesture of understanding—Arthur opens the door and steps inside.

And as the door closes behind him, sealing the two of you away from the world outside, all pretense of restraint falls away.

The door clicks shut behind Ser Arthur as he steps into your chambers, the soft sound echoing in the silence. For a moment, neither of you speak. The tension hangs in the air, heavy and electric, the culmination of all the glances, all the stolen moments, all the words left unsaid. You turn to face him, your heart pounding, your breath caught somewhere between anticipation and fear.

Arthur’s eyes meet yours, filled with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. He takes a single step forward, his expression torn between his unwavering sense of duty and the undeniable pull toward you. “We don’t have much time,” he murmurs, his voice hushed. “Ser Barristan is standing guard, but even that might rouse suspicion if anyone notices.”

The words are practical, laced with urgency, yet you can hear the longing beneath them—the way his resolve wavers just at the sight of you. Slowly, you approach him, your movements deliberate, as if savoring every second that this forbidden moment allows. You reach up and gently place your hand on his cheek, the roughness of his stubble beneath your fingertips grounding you in this reality. It’s a tender touch, yet it speaks volumes—of trust, of yearning, of the unspoken bond that has grown between you.

Arthur closes his eyes briefly, leaning into your touch as though he’s starved for it. “I’ve fought this for so long,” he confesses, his voice low and filled with a vulnerability he rarely allows himself to show. “But I can’t fight it anymore, not when you’re right here before me.”

“There’s nothing to fight,” you whisper in return, your voice trembling with emotion. “It’s just us, Arthur. Let it be just us tonight.”

He opens his eyes, and in them, you see the struggle slip away, replaced by something far more powerful—desire, affection, and a need that can no longer be contained. The distance between you closes as his hand reaches up to cover yours, pressing it more firmly against his cheek, his gaze never leaving yours.

Without another word, he dips his head and captures your lips in a kiss, the contact sending a rush of heat through your entire body. It’s soft at first, tentative, as though he’s afraid of breaking the fragile moment. But as you respond, leaning into him, the kiss deepens, filled with all the pent-up longing you’ve both kept hidden for so long. There’s a sense of inevitability to it, as though everything has been leading to this very moment.

Arthur pulls you closer, his arm wrapping around your waist, and you lose yourself in the taste of him—the warmth, the tenderness that gives way to something fiercer, more urgent. The shackles of duty, of propriety, fall away with every breathless kiss, every brush of his lips against yours. You feel the way his resolve crumbles completely, giving in to the desire you’ve both tried so hard to deny.

Your fingers move to the clasps of his cloak, undoing them with trembling hands, and he mirrors your movements, his touch reverent as he loosens the laces of your gown. There is no haste, no rush, just a careful savoring of each step, as though this moment is too precious to hurry. His gaze never leaves yours, even as he helps you slide out of your garments, the fabric pooling at your feet. His eyes hold a mix of awe and devotion, as though he’s committing every detail to memory.

When at last you stand before him, bared to one another in every sense, the air between you crackles with an unspoken intensity. He leans in to kiss you again, and this time, it’s different—slower, deeper, filled with a longing that borders on desperation. His hands roam over your skin, gentle but with a hunger that betrays the careful restraint he’s clung to all this time.

You guide him toward the bed, your steps slow and deliberate as if savoring every heartbeat that passes. He follows, his gaze locked on yours, his breath uneven. When you reach the bed, he pauses, a moment of hesitation in his eyes as he considers the weight of what you’re both about to do.

“Are you certain?” he asks, his voice hoarse, laced with concern. “I don’t want to rush you, to take something from you that can never be undone.”

You shake your head, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you pull him closer. “There’s nothing to take,” you reply, your voice firm with resolve. “I want this, Arthur. I want you. We’ve waited long enough.”

His eyes darken with emotion as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. “Then I’ll be as gentle as I can,” he promises, though you can see the struggle within him—the battle between the desire to cherish you and the need to finally give in to what he’s denied himself for so long.

He lowers you onto the bed with a care that makes your heart ache, his hands steady as they explore every curve of your body, learning, memorizing. His touch is soft at first, as though mindful of your innocence, but you can see the restraint it takes for him to hold back.

But you don’t want restraint—you want to feel all of him, every part of him that’s been hidden behind layers of armor and duty. You urge him on, your hands running down his back, pulling him closer, until there’s nothing left between you but skin and breath and the shared heat of your desire.

“Don’t hold back,” you whisper, your voice laced with urgency. “I don’t want to waste this moment away, Arthur. Not when we don’t know how long we have.”

That’s all it takes for his control to finally snap. The tenderness gives way to something more primal, the repressed desire that has simmered beneath the surface for far too long. He kisses you with a fervor that leaves you breathless, his lips trailing down your neck, your shoulders, igniting every inch of skin he touches. The world outside ceases to exist—there’s only the two of you, the night wrapping around you like a cloak, hiding you away from prying eyes.

When he finally joins you, the connection is nothing short of profound—a culmination of all the longing, the stolen glances, the silent promises. He moves slowly at first, every motion careful, measured, as though determined to savor every second. But the intensity between you builds quickly, and the tenderness is soon overtaken by the passion that neither of you can hold back any longer.

Your hands grip his shoulders, your bodies moving in perfect sync, lost in the rhythm of your shared desire. The quiet gasps and whispered names fill the air, mixing with the scent of sweat and skin, creating a heady blend of sensations. Arthur’s restraint slips further as he gives in to the raw need you both feel, his movements becoming more urgent, driven by the fear that this moment could slip away too soon.

There’s a desperation in the way he holds you, as though he’s trying to make up for all the time lost, all the years spent denying himself what he truly wanted. The pleasure builds between you, cresting like a wave ready to break, and when it does, it’s a shattering release, a culmination of everything held back for so long.

In the aftermath, you lie tangled together, breathless and sated, your hearts pounding in time with one another. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths, the feel of his warmth against your skin. He traces his fingers down your arm, a touch so gentle it feels like a whisper.

“I would stay with you forever, if the world allowed it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.

You press a kiss to his chest, closing your eyes as you savor the feel of him beside you. “We’ll hold on to this, for as long as we can,” you reply softly. “No matter what happens after tonight, this will be ours. No one can take it from us.”

The night stretches on, but the weight of reality begins to creep back in. You know this can’t last, that dawn will bring with it all the complications of duty, honor, and the dangers that linger beyond these walls. But for now, wrapped in Arthur’s arms, you allow yourself to forget all of that and simply live in this moment—this rare, fleeting moment of stolen bliss.

Outside the door, the world continues its relentless march forward, but in here, time has stopped.

The door closes with a soft click as Arthur steps out into the dimly lit corridor, leaving the warmth of your chambers behind. The cool air of the Red Keep wraps around him like a shroud, dragging him back into the reality he’d forgotten, if only for a few stolen hours. His breathing is still unsteady, his mind caught between the echo of your touch and the ironclad duty that now presses against him like a vice. 

Ser Barristan Selmy stands just a few paces away, as stoic as ever, his white cloak still and pristine in the faint torchlight. The older knight’s eyes flicker briefly to Arthur, assessing, but there’s no judgment there—only understanding, a silent acknowledgment of what has passed.

“You’ve stayed longer than I expected,” Barristan says quietly, his voice carrying no hint of reproach, only a simple statement of fact. He steps closer, his expression a mix of resolve and sympathy. “I hope it was worth the risks.”

Arthur swallows, finding it difficult to summon words after everything that has transpired. The remnants of emotion still cling to him—longing, guilt, the ache of knowing that he must return to the rigid lines of his duty. “It was,” he replies, his voice rough with a mixture of exhaustion and conviction. “But it doesn’t change what we are sworn to do.”

“No,” Barristan agrees, his gaze steady. “It doesn’t. We are bound to our oaths, but that doesn’t mean we must be devoid of humanity.” He pauses, a slight softening in his expression. “What you did tonight, Arthur, was not an act of betrayal. It was an act of compassion—a rare thing in this place.”

Arthur nods, grateful for the older knight’s understanding. “Still, I fear what may come of it. The Spider watches from the shadows, and the King’s paranoia is ever-growing. If word of this reached his ears—”

“It won’t,” Barristan interrupts firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “I’ll see to that. We both know the risks, but we also know what she means to you—and what you mean to her.”

There’s a pause, heavy with the weight of shared knowledge. Arthur knows that Barristan isn’t just speaking as a fellow knight, but as a man who’s seen too many lives ruined by the cruel machinations of the court. Perhaps that’s why Barristan gave him this brief window of time—to allow him something that might never be allowed again.

“I’ll take over here,” Barristan continues, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’ve done enough for one night. I’ll ensure she’s safe.”

Arthur opens his mouth to argue, to insist on staying by your door as he always has, but Barristan cuts him off with a raised hand. “You need rest, Ser Arthur. You’ve carried more than your share of burdens. Go now, before the dawn comes. Clear your mind.”

For a moment, Arthur hesitates, torn between the instinct to stay near you and the reality that his own inner turmoil needs time to settle. Barristan’s gaze is firm, the kind that speaks of years of wisdom and experience. In it, Arthur sees a quiet reassurance—the knowledge that your safety, for this night at least, is in trusted hands.

Finally, Arthur nods, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Thank you, Ser Barristan,” he says, the words laced with genuine gratitude. “For understanding.”

Barristan inclines his head. “Go on now. I’ll see you at first light.”

Arthur takes one last look at the door that separates him from you, as though he’s memorizing every detail, before turning away and walking down the dim corridor. Each step feels heavier, dragging him back into the rigid role he must play—knight, protector, but no more than that. And yet, beneath the weight of his duty, there’s a quiet resolve growing within him, stronger now than ever.

As he moves farther away from your chambers, he whispers to himself words he cannot say aloud, promises he dares not utter in the open air: I will protect you, no matter what it costs me. I won’t let this night be the last of us.

When Arthur is finally out of sight, Barristan remains by the door, his expression hardening into a steely mask. He knows what must be done, knows that tonight’s brief lapse in duty was a risk, but he also knows that for people like you and Arthur, such moments are the only refuge you’ll ever find. In this pit of vipers, compassion is a rare weapon.

Barristan draws his sword just enough to feel its reassuring weight before sliding it back into its sheath. He positions himself firmly by the door, his posture unyielding.

Anyone who might come near—whether servant, spy, or shadow—would find no easy entrance tonight. He would see to that.

The night stretches on, and as the first tendrils of dawn begin to creep through the narrow windows of the Red Keep, Barristan’s resolve solidifies. Whatever trials lie ahead, whatever darkness waits in the days to come, he knows one thing with certainty: he will stand guard here, not just out of duty, but out of a fierce determination to protect something fragile and rare in this world—a connection forged not in power or ambition, but in something far deeper.

For now, the corridors are quiet, and the weight of the world rests on Barristan’s shoulders alone. As the morning light begins to cast long shadows down the hall, he remains vigilant, his eyes sharp and his stance unwavering. There are few allies in this place, but for tonight, there is one more who stands between you and the dangers lurking just beyond the door.

The great hall is awash in flickering candlelight as servants move briskly between tables, offering plates of roasted meats, spiced wine, and fruits glazed with honey. The scent of rich foods mingles with the dampness of stone, a constant reminder of the Red Keep’s shadowed, ancient halls. King Aerys II sits at the head of the table, his gaunt figure draped in extravagant robes, the crown of sharp, twisting steel glinting on his brow. Beside him, Rhaegar sits with a composed air, the prince’s expression calm despite the underlying tension that hums in the room.

Standing behind them, silent and vigilant, are Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Gerold Hightower, their white cloaks stark against the gloom. The Sword of the Morning keeps his gaze trained forward, a mask of cool resolve firmly in place. But beneath that practiced exterior, unease coils in his gut. He knows better than to trust the rare moments when Aerys seems almost lucid, for they are often the prelude to something far darker.

Dinner passes in relative silence at first, save for the clinking of cutlery and the occasional murmured words between lords seated at the distant ends of the table. Aerys, however, remains fixated on his son, his eyes glittering with a manic edge. The King has grown more erratic in recent years, the grip of paranoia tightening its claws around his mind, but tonight there is a sharpness to him—a deliberate cruelty that seeps into the air like poison.

“My dear Rhaegar,” Aerys croons, his voice dripping with false affection as he dabs at the corners of his mouth with a silk cloth. “You’ve always been the good son, haven’t you? Always so… composed. Yet, I wonder, do you keep such composure even in matters of the heart?”

Rhaegar meets his father’s gaze with the practiced calm of someone who has weathered countless unpredictable storms. “I seek to serve the realm, Father, in all things,” he replies evenly, though Arthur notices the subtle tightening of the prince’s grip on his goblet.

Aerys chuckles, a sound like rusted metal scraping against stone. “Yes, yes, always the realm. But what of family, hmm? What of your sister?” His voice drops, taking on a conspiratorial tone, though it carries across the hall with chilling clarity. “Y/N, so delicate, so precious. A jewel I keep locked away from prying eyes.”

Arthur’s heart skips a beat, but he forces his expression to remain impassive, even as a chill runs down his spine. Aerys’ words are laced with something vile, a twisted obsession that’s grown more apparent with time. He knows the King’s madness festers around those he believes are his to control, and his daughter has become a particular fixation.

Rhaegar’s eyes darken, though he keeps his tone polite. “My sister is as devoted to our family as I am, Your Grace. Her loyalty is unquestionable.”

Aerys sneers, his smile twisting into something ugly. “Loyalty? Oh, I do not doubt her loyalty. She knows her place, after all. But I wonder, Rhaegar, is that enough for you? Is her… loyalty enough to bind her to our House as tightly as it should be?”

The prince doesn’t flinch, but the tension in his posture speaks volumes. “What are you suggesting, Father?”

Aerys leans back in his chair, tapping a finger against the armrest as if considering some hidden amusement. “She is of age now, and a Targaryen of purest blood. Shouldn’t her future be ensured with the right match? Someone who understands our bloodline, our legacy—someone who can keep her in line, if need be.”

Arthur’s fingers tighten around the hilt of Dawn, his knuckles whitening beneath his gloves. He can feel the weight of Ser Gerold’s gaze on him, a subtle warning that he cannot allow himself to react. It takes every ounce of discipline to remain composed, to bury the surge of anger and fear that rises within him. He knows too well what the King might consider as a “suitable match”—someone who would reduce you to a tool, a possession to be used and controlled.

Ser Gerold shifts slightly beside him, catching Arthur’s eye. His expression is stern, a silent command that needs no words: Hold your composure. Do not betray yourself.

Rhaegar’s voice cuts through the tension, cold and measured. “You speak of her future, Father, yet she has always served our family well. Surely her well-being should come before any considerations of… arrangement.”

Aerys’ laughter is sharp and sudden, making several of the lords at the table flinch. “Well-being? She is a Targaryen, Rhaegar. Well-being is a luxury we cannot afford! The blood of dragons flows in her veins, and it must be preserved—strengthened. Perhaps a union is exactly what she needs, to remind her of her place. Don’t you agree?”

Arthur’s heart thunders in his chest, but he dares not move, not even as his grip on his sword hilt threatens to snap the leather beneath his hand. Ser Gerold’s warning glance sharpens, and with great effort, Arthur forces himself to relax his hold, exhaling slowly to regain control.

Rhaegar’s expression remains unreadable, but his voice carries an edge when he speaks. “You are right, Father. The blood of dragons must be preserved. But that decision should be made with care, not haste. Y/N is a valuable asset to our House, and any match must serve our family’s interests above all else.”

Aerys stares at Rhaegar for a long, tense moment, as if searching for some hidden defiance. But when he speaks again, his voice is a dangerous whisper. “You would do well to remember that I am the one who decides what is best for this family. Your sister’s fate is mine to command, just as yours is. Do not think to challenge me on this, my son.”

Rhaegar lowers his gaze, an acknowledgment of the dangerous ground they tread. “Of course, Your Grace. I would never dream of questioning your judgment.”

The King watches him for a moment longer before a twisted smile spreads across his face. “Good. Very good.” He turns his attention back to the food before him, the conversation seemingly forgotten, but the tension remains thick in the air.

Arthur feels Ser Gerold’s subtle nudge—a reminder to stay focused, to not let his emotions betray him. He nods slightly, regaining his calm exterior, but inside, a fire burns, threatening to consume him. The thought of Aerys dictating your fate, of you being handed over to some vile lord who would see you as nothing more than a tool, fills him with a rage he’s never known. He wants nothing more than to protect you, to keep you from the clutches of a madman’s whims, but he knows how precarious his position is. One misstep could ruin everything.

As the dinner drags on, Ser Gerold shoots him one last, pointed look—a reminder that their duty is to the King, no matter the horrors they must witness or endure. Arthur clenches his jaw, burying his emotions deep within. He has no choice but to play his role, even as the weight of it threatens to break him.

But one thing is certain: the king’s words have only steeled his resolve. Whatever it takes, he will protect you—from Aerys, from the court, from anyone who dares to harm you. Even if it means risking everything he holds dear.

As the dinner finally draws to a close, Arthur and Ser Gerold move to escort the King back to his chambers, their white cloaks trailing behind them. The hall falls silent, but the echoes of Aerys’ twisted words linger in Arthur’s mind, a grim reminder of the battle yet to come.

And as he steps into the shadows once more, Arthur vows silently to himself: No one will decide her fate but her.

[arthurian-texts]

When the youth [Mordred] saw [Gawain's] wounds, he turned away, grieving as bitterly as any man could ever grieve [...] He went to another chamber and fell down upon a bed and wept and cried and wrung his hands and tore all his clothes. [...] [Agravain] found the youth tearing his hair and his clothing. And when the youth saw his lord [Agravain] before him, he neither moved nor left off his grieving. "What is this, you bastard," said the lord, "what are you grieving about? Don't you see that I have been healed?" "Indeed," he replied, "I don't care, because for that good I see a greater ill." "And what is that?" asked the knight. "Ah, noble man," he replied, "in there they have mortally wounded Sir Gawain, your brother and mine." "Gawain?" he exclaimed. And thereupon his grief was so great that he fainted.

-Vulgate Lancelot, c. 1220, trans. Samuel N. Rosenberg and Carleton W. Carroll

They pushed and shoved at one another and Mordred fell backwards from the force of Gawain’s spear and landed on his shoulders, badly wounded. Sir Gawain leapt onto the man and seized him by the head. His grief was ready for this moment but so, unfortunately, was destiny. He pulled out a short knife from a silver sheath intending to stab Mordred in the throat with it; but the cut never occurred. His hand slipped and slid on the shiny chainmail as Mordred slyly shot a hand under the man on top and heaved him off, then drew a knife of his own and stabbed Gawain through a gap in his helmet, through his head and up into his brain. Sir Gawain was gone, that good man of arms. [...] "He was a giant amongst men, that’s for sure," Sir Mordred [said]. "This was the good Sir Gawain, the most considerate, the most gracious man ever to live under God’s Earth, the strongest with weapons, the happiest in battle and the noblest and most courteous in the king’s hall. He was openly praised as having the bravery of a lion and if you had known him, sir king, in the land where he lived, his wisdom, his knighthood, his accomplishments, his leadership, his courtesy, his courage, his fighting skills, then you would lament his death for the rest of your life." This traitor allowed a tear to trickle down his cheeks. Then he turned around and said no more but went away weeping, cursing the day that destiny had dealt him such a blow.

-Alliterative Morte Arthure, c. 1400, trans. Richard Scott-Robinson

I love weaving together strands from different Arthurian versions, because you can find incredible parallels like this. In the Vulgate Cycle Lancelot, we see young Mordred (in his pre-villain days) breaking down in terror at the thought of losing his older brother, so grief-stricken that he "fell down upon a bed and wept and cried and wrung his hands and tore all his clothes."

And yet in an ironic twist, in the Alliterative Morte Arthure it's Mordred himself who ends up killing Gawain at the end of their story. Yet we still see the same love and hero-worship for his brother that the younger Vulgate Mordred had, and like his younger self, Morte Arthure Mordred breaks down in tears at Gawain's death (no longer a prospect but now a reality), despite having been its cause. He "went away weeping, cursing the day that destiny had dealt him such a blow" - filled with grief and remorse at what he's done, but too late to undo it.

[hopelessromantic5]

Merthur Drabble

Essentially, Gwen and Arthur have told everyone they're in love when really they both have feelings for people they assume they could never have.

Merlin had never run so fast in his life.

He was dodging worried looks from other servants in the halls, ducking under strings of garland being hung in the corridors and accidentally knocking trays to the ground but not having the time to apologize.

He ran so fast his lungs were having trouble catching up.

He’s running because something is wrong.

He was in the Great Hall with George, finishing preparations for the ‘big feast’ in honor of the ‘big news’.

He’d just finalized the food when he felt it.

Something deep in his chest caved inward. Forming a dark hole.

And he heard it. His own name being shouted by that voice, almost exactly the same as he’d heard it a million other times, but this one was panicked, scared.

It came from nowhere near him, it may not even have been a real noise. But it echoed in the manservant’s mind.

It was his King.

Something was wrong.

He ran before he could even think twice, dropping the lists, trusting George to gather them.

Oh gods, what is it? Is he dead? Please don’t let him be dead.

He’d never felt anything so hollow before. He knew it was Arthur, but he didn’t know what could’ve caused this damage in his own castle with Merlin’s own wards (unknowingly) protecting every square inch of the keep.

Merlin arrived at the right corridor gasping for air, but not stopping.

The door to the king’s chambers remained open, the manservant halted before he approached as he heard voices.

Arthur and Gwen.

“Shouldn’t they be more…I don’t know…bright. Happy.” That was Arthur.

“Arthur, every wedding that’s been held here for the last century was bathed in red and white. It’s tradition.” She scoffed a little but even Merlin could hear the sweet smile she accompanied with it.

“Of course.” Arthur trailed off, distantly. The deep dark feeling tugged at Merlin’s chest again, so hard that he had to close the few feet between he and the King’s chambers. If only to ensure that Arthur was, in fact, alright.

Merlin stood in the doorway, finally seeing Gwen at the desk, sorting through papers (the ones Merlin had just organized the way Arthur wanted them last week) and Arthur standing by the cupboard, leaning against it, more like.

The King was already staring at the open door when Merlin walked in front of it.

Their eyes met, and all at once the feeling in Merlin's chest dulled to a small ache. Closing up, for now, but still throbbing like a bruise.

Arthur sent him a small smile before blanking his face and officially greeting him.

“Merlin.” Causing Gwen to look up too.

“Oh, hi Merlin! How is everything coming along?”

The manservant finally forced himself to move into the room but only a few feet.

“The preparations are nearly finished.” He gave her a small bow of his head and a forced quirk of his lips. Still feeling odd and uneasy.

Arthur seemed to sense it, or maybe Merlin has that look on his face because Arthur asks with the most sincerity Merlin thinks he’s ever heard from him,

“Is there something you need?”

No venom, no insults lurking just behind. He was genuinely asking if Merlin needed anything.

“No, sire.” He shook his head, eyebrows furrowed before continuing. “It’s just…you didn’t call for me, did you? Just a few moments ago?”

Arthur mirrored his expression of pinched brows.

“No, I didn’t.” He shook his own gorgeous blonde head, chewing his lip in thought, but still watching Merlin with worry. “Why?”

“Nothing, honestly. Just thought I heard…” Merlin shook his head again to clear his mind of the thoughts, nearly giving himself a headache, and went to leave. “It was nothing, sire. Must’ve been my imagination.”

“It does have a tendency to get carried away.” Arthurs idea of a joke.

“Very funny, your majesty.” He answers dryly reaching for the doorknob. “Honestly, can’t believe it took you this long to find someone to marry you with that sense of humor.”

Gwen thought this comical and laughed, however neither Arthur nor Merlin laughed at his joke.

Both were out of sorts; Merlin didn't know Arthur's reasons in the slightest. With his wedding in a fortnight, the King should be ecstatic. Merlin should be ecstatic for him. And yet, here they both were. Not laughing.

When Merlin turned back, once more, to find Arthur’s eyes on him, with that indiscernible look, he forced himself to go. So that his imagination would taunt him no longer.

[fahye]

book recs: oct/nov 2023

I read an obscene number of books during my weeks travelling in the USA, so here are some highlights!

A GENTLEMAN UNDONE by cecilia grant - I actually read all three in this excellent series, but this is the highlight. a tense, engrossing regency romance between a gentleman desperate to make money in gambling halls and the woman who teaches him to count cards, who unfortunately happens to be someone else's mistress. extremely horny and very smart.

SHADOW MAGIC by jaida jones & danielle bennett - after HAVEMERCY I desperately needed the rest of the series, and happily I had dinner with jaida and dani and was given them! this one is classic political fantasy: assassins, ambassadors, a devoted bodyguard and his beautiful prince, and a flamboyant little chaos magician who wonders why nobody else in his delegation is enjoying the beautiful local Fashion Robes. this book has never had a heterosexual thought in its entire life.

AMERICAN QUEEN by sierra simone - okay, this is a rec for the entire series (AMERICAN PRINCE & AMERICAN KING follow), a modern arthur-lancelot-guinevere retelling where they're american politicians and they're all in love and kinky and fucked up about it. mostly smut, lots of angst, occasional plot. maybe the hottest thing I've ever read in my life?? damn, sierra simone knows what she's doing.

THE MOON IS A HARSH MISTRESS by robert a. heinlein - what if we were a moon colony and we decided to stage a revolutionary war and we asked a bored AI computer to run the logistics for us? I'm such a sucker for logistics, and heinlein delivers in spades. very funny, great worldbuilding, fun characters. has aged surprisingly well, I think.

10 THINGS THAT NEVER HAPPENED by alexis hall - a pure shot of gay grumpy/sunshine delivered via FAKE AMNESIA TROPE and a plot lovingly and lampshadily borrowed from the classic sandra bullock vehicle while you were sleeping. alexis hall's protagonists and glorious supporting casts always grab me, and this was no exception.

THE FALL THAT SAVED US by tamara jerée - do you like the good omens setup of bookshop angel vs. snarky demon, destined to be enemies but oh no we're in love, and you'd like to add some recovery from family trauma + sex scenes + also they're sapphic? yes. good. enjoy.

CHAIN-GANG ALL-STARS by nana kwame adjei-brenyah - holy shit!! finished this one yesterday and will be thinking about it for a long time. premise: criminals can choose to compete in deadly televised gladiator matches instead of remaining in prison. this is an absolutely brutal examination of the prison industrial complex and the violent commodification of bodies (especially bodies of colour) under our capitalist hellscape. lyrical, wonderful, cutting. very queer and very angry. I flew through it. what a fantastic book.

[bebravedearheart]

mergwaine + 48, for that ship+number prompt!

This has made me so happy! Sorry it's taken me so long, life has been busy, but I hope you like it!

Merwaine kiss ...out of habit

As first meetings went, theirs made for a good story at least. Although, when Gwaine told it he would of course add more heroics on his part, and leave out the fact he was unconscious with a knife embedded in his thigh.

He'd been grateful to Merlin since then, and Merlin had patched up far more scrapes and cuts since then, though luckily none as serious. Each time he'd woken in Merlin's cot in the anteroom of the physician's chambers he'd wanted to smile and flirt and show his appreciation, but he could never quite bring himself to. He feared ruining their friendship, couldn't bear it if Merlin turned away, or tried to say something to make him feel better in that awkward, endearing way of his.

Gwaine had never had a true friend before, and he valued it beyond measure. He took care to check in with Merlin when he looked glum, really listened to everything Merlin told him and felt chastised in a way he was not used to when Merlin was disappointed with him.

Merlin for his part seemed to be able to see through Gwaine; to pick apart his glib remarks when asked how he was. Gwaine hated it, and was more thankful for it than he could say.

And gods he wanted Merlin. Not just for a tumble. To wake up with each morning and kiss softly in the dawn. To fall asleep wrapped around, bodies entwined into one entity. To whisper in the dark all he couldn't say out loud when he was being looked at.

He would not breathe a word of this to anyone, of course. Merlin deserved far better than him, deserved someone beautiful, someone who knew how to say the right thing, someone who didn't cause so much trouble--even if Merlin didn't mind that.

To celebrate the King's coronation a feast was thrown--the first in many months; Arthur had been too preoccupied with his duties as regent and worrying about his father to keep up with anything more than the bare minimum of the courtly calendar. Now though, he seemed freer, like the shadow of anticipation was no longer weighing heavy on his shoulders.

Merlin was invited as a guest, not a servant. Gwaine grinned at that news, clapped him on the shoulder and told Merlin he'd have to come and borrow something nice to wear (though added that Merlin was the only person he knew who looked good in rags).

Merlin declined his offer with a laugh, giving him a playful shove and telling him Gwen had it well in hand.

Gwaine did not think a great deal of it, standing between Leon and Percival in the hall when the celebration came around with is customary cup of wine--sweeter than the usual vinegary swill they were served but still somehow better than the ale. He glanced up as the door opened to admit a latecomer, almost dropping the goblet. He saved himself from embarrassment, though he did not take his eyes of Merlin as he walked in with all the regal bearing of a man born to nobility. He wore an unspoiled white linen tunic, over which there was a jacket in pale green silk, belted at the waist and flaring out at the hips, falling to mid-thigh. On his legs Merlin wore deep, forest green breeches in velvet, fitting tightly to accentuate his slender legs. His hair was oiled back, smoothed and swept back from his head, far from its usual wild waves.

Gwaine was not the only one unable to tear away his gaze but he was the first to reach Merlin, bowing low. His noble manners came easily; old habits die hard, as they said. Gwaine did not think twice about taking Merlin's delicate hand in one of his own--too rough, calloused palms--and pressing a kiss to the back of it as if he were a lady. He heard Merlin's sharp intake of breath at his surprise and straightened up, catching a glimpse of the pink tinge high on Merlin's sharp cheekbones. With his usual grin, Gwaine snatched another goblet of wine from the tray of a passing servant and downed it without pausing for breath before he pulled Merlin in by the collar of his ridiculous coat and kissed him properly; deep and filthy. Old habits died hard, after all.

When they broke apart, Gwaine made to leave, to go and find something else to drink, someone else to bed to avoid any awkward conversation beginning with the words "I'm flattered but..." He got no further than a single pace when a hand curled around his wrist to stop him, pulling him back into a much gentler kiss. Merlin tasted of spices and smelled of herbs. "You scrub up well," Gwaine said against Merlin's lips. "And you had manners hiding somewhere."

[taliesin-the-bored]

Veronica Whall’s depiction of Galahad ascending, from King Arthur’s Great Halls at Tintagel

[nitrateglow]

Spooky Season 2024: 12-22

Phantom of the Mall: Eric's Revenge (dir. Richard Friedman, 1989)

The opening of the new mall is hampered by one thing: a Phantom hiding in the air vents, and committing robbery and murder. It turns out this Phantom is really a teenager named Eric (Derek Rydall) disfigured in a fire set by the mall's developers to clear out any remaining houses impeding their dreams of commercial development. Now, Eric plans on having his revenge and watching over his girlfriend Melody (Kari Whitman), now an employee of the mall. But what will he make of her burgeoning romance with a journalist?

Talk about pure '80s cheese. This film feels like it was made to capitalize on the slasher cycle and the popularity of the Andrew Lloyd Weber Phantom of the Opera megamusical. It's not a particularly good movie, but it is dumb fun. I love how this Phantom makes free use of the goods available in the stores and how he spams his spin kick attack like he's in a video game.

Also, Pauly Shore is in this. He has a great scene talking about subliminal messaging in department stores, but is otherwise the usual Pauly Shore.

Hangover Square (dir. John Brahm, 1945)

Musician George Harvey Bone (Laird Cregar) is disturbed by long sessions in which he blacks out. He fears he may be committing murder, but is reassured by the police when he goes to them that isn't likely. Detective Dr. Allen Middleton (George Saunders) advises the overworked George take a break from composing. George does so by going to a pub where he meets the lovely Netta Longdon (Linda Darnell), a music hall entertainer who dreams of fame. George and Netta enter into a toxic relationship in which she uses him to advance her career while seeing other men on the side. When George discovers her treachery, his blackouts return-- this time in a far more violent form.

I'm starting to become fascinated by John Brahm, a director best remembered for his moody, macabre dramas in the 1940s. Hangover Square was his second and final collaboration with the talented but doomed Laird Cregar, who died two months before the film was released. It's as much a noir as a horror picture, drenched in that chiaroscuro lighting and urban dread so common to the classic cycle.

Cregar is astonishing in the lead role. Though handsome, he was a bigger man, so Hollywood refused to allow him to transition into leading man parts. He is marvelous here, passionate and sensitive, yet also sinister once his jealous rage takes over. I've seen Cregar in multiple films and he was truly fantastic, able to be comic as well as dramatic. Hollywood didn't deserve him.

Lastly, Linda Darnell's character sings this really catchy song when Cregar first sees her. I saw this film weeks ago but it is STILL STUCK IN MY HEAD.

The Sealed Room (dir. DW Griffith, 1909)

In some nondescript time period (everyone's dressed like it's either the early 18th century or the middle ages), a king (Arthur V. Johnson) learns his mistress (Marion Leonard) is smooching with a musician (Henry B. Walthall). Jealous to the point of rage, he has the couple sealed in a small room where they suffocate to death.

The Sealed Room is a gem from the nickelodeon era, though I admit my liking for it comes from how extra all the performances are, even by the standards of the early silent period.

It also has one of my favorite instances of what I like to call "silent film logic"-- that is, scenes featuring action that would be very loud in real life, but in a silent film, you may not think about it as much. Here, the king has the lovers walled up alive in a small room, where they lounge unaware. And yet, there's workers slapping up a brick wall not ten feet away from them! It's very amusing.

Frankenhooker (dir. Frank Henenlotter, 1990)

When his girlfriend Elizabeth (Patty Mullen) gets hacked to death by an automatic lawnmower he built, medical student Jeffrey (James Lorinz) decides to resurrect her by killing sex workers for their shapely body parts then sewing Elizabeth's severed head on top. He does this by having his victims smoke explosive crack.

No, I'm not making this up.

I first heard about Frankenhooker from James Rolfe of Angry Video Game Nerd fame. It sounded so insane that I knew I had to watch it. It's-- well, it's definitely a bizarre movie with lots of crude humor and pitch black jokes.

Would you believe me if I said it was kind of an unsung feminist work? I definitely did not expect THAT angle coming in, but that messaging is definitely there. Jeffrey is a villain-protagonist through and through, even before he starts committing murder. We learn he was already demanding Elizabeth modify her appearance to suit his tastes before she got killed. He views women as more a collection of body parts than proper people. However, his misogyny does catch up with him in the end and his fate at the resurrected Elizabeth's hands is the very definition of irony. I don't want to spoil it.

It's definitely not for everyone, but if you have a sick sense of humor and some friends that share that humor, you'll have a good time.

Friday the 13th: Part 2 (dir. Steve Miner, 1981)

A summer camp close to the infamous Camp Crystal Lake is about to open. Little do the young, horny counselors know, Jason (Warrington Gillette and Steve Daskewicz)-- the boy that allegedly drowned long ago-- is still alive and he's mad his mama got decapitated in the previous film. Lots of people die.

I confess I have a hard time getting into these Friday the 13th films. I've read it took a few entries for the series to find its footing as gloriously dumb schlock, but the first one and this sequel were mostly boring for me. About all I liked was the last twenty minutes, when the heroine's background in child psychology comes into play. Otherwise, this gets a big meh from me. Not horrible, but nothing I can imagine I'll ever rewatch.

Corridor of Mirrors (dir. Terence Young, 1948)

A party girl (Edana Romney) becomes involved with a Renaissance era-obessed artist (Eric Portman). Their fetishistic relationship leads to heartbreak and murder.

Already discussed this one is great detail at my Wordpress blog. It's a great romantic thriller in the vein of Vertigo and Rebecca.

The Old Dark House (dir. James Whale, 1932)

During a thunderstorm, a group of unwary British travelers are marooned at the crumbling mansion of the Femm family, a collection of eccentrics who may be insane. Everything goes wrong: the hulking butler gets drunk and preys on the women visitors, the area may flood, the lights go out, and there may be a homicidal maniac imprisoned in one of the rooms upstairs. Will anyone survive the night?

I have raved about this film for a long time now. It's truly a favorite of mine in general, not just for the Halloween season. Both witty and chilling, it's an atmospheric masterpiece. The damp and mold are palpable.

What fascinates me most is the Femm family itself and the gaps in their backstory. This is one movie where I feel like there's a Tolstoyan novel's worth of drama with the Femms. It's hinted that the 102-year-old patriarch of the house (played in drag by actress Elspeth Dudgeon) used to host orgies there. The death of the seductive sister Rebecca at the age of 21 may or may not have been due to inter-family foul play. Morgan the butler has a close, even weirdly tender relationship with the homicidally insane brother Saul, suggesting a myriad of possible connections between them. It's very interesting-- I like that the movie doesn't fill in all the blanks.

A Game of Death (dir. Robert Wise, 1945)

Don Rainsford (John Loder), big game hunter extraordinaire, finds himself shipwrecked on a mysterious island. The owner is Erich Kriegler (Edgar Barrier), an urbane German who also enjoys hunting, though with a slight difference-- he likes hunting humans. Teaming up with other shipwreck survivors Ellen (Audrey Long) and Robert (Russell Wade), Don tries finding a way to escape before they become Kriegler's next wall trophies.

This movie is a pallid, watered down, shot-for-shot remake of The Most Dangerous Game, one of the crown jewels of 1930s horror, so of course, I am not fond of it. And yet, I rewatch it every few years, so it must have something going for it. So instead of tearing into it as I normally do, I'll list a few things I think are actually good about it:

I like that the main character initially tries tricking Kriegler into thinking he will hunt people with him. Very pro-active.

I think Kriegler is a good villain. Not as memorably deranged and campy as Leslie Banks' Zaroff in the original film, but chilling in a more low-key way. His "the strong deserve to prey upon the weak" philosophy fits in nicely with Nazi ideologies-- no doubt what this wartime horror flick intended.

Um... I think Audrey Long is really pretty. I like her flow-y outfits.

... Yeah, that's it.

The Most Dangerous Game (dir. Ernest B. Schoedsack and Irving Pichel, 1932)

All-American big game hunter Bob Rainsford (Joel McCrea) is shipwrecked on the unlisted island of Count Zaroff (Leslie Banks), a Russian aristocrat and master sportsman who claims he now hunts "the most dangerous game" of all. Being a himbo, it takes Bob a while before he realizes that game is human beings. Unwilling to hunt alongside Zaroff when given the offer, Rainsford and fellow prisoner Eve Trowbridge (Fay Wray) wage a game with Zaroff: let loose into the island's thick jungle, if they survive the night without Zaroff or the terrain killing them, they'll go free. If not, Rainsford dies and Eve will become a rather different kind of quarry for the evil count.

Now, here's my favorite "hunter hunts people" movie! While "The Most Dangerous Game" has been adapted and ripped off multiple times for a century, the original is still hard to beat. The castle set drips with gothic grandeur. The jungle soundstage is thick and suffocating, and once the chase intensifies, it becomes like something out of a nightmare.

I actually think the climactic hunt is among the greatest sequences in all cinema. The editing is so dynamic and the images are brilliant. And when you consider this is still an early talkie, when films were still trying to rediscover their footing after silent cinema came to an end, it becomes even more remarkable.

Going on Letterboxd, I was shocked to find a lot of people on there have mixed to negative opinions about this movie, largely because they think it's too over the top and that it's messaging is too on the nose.

I mean-- yes, these things are true, but I don't see them as flaws. It probably helps that I love camp and melodrama, and am not ashamed to admit it. And regardless of the fervent camp on display, I still think the trophy room scene is creepy and the chase is super intense. I have probably seen this movie close to a hundred times and yet, the chase still has me shouting at the TV, willing the characters to run faster. That's damn fine filmmaking.

The Haunting (dir. Robert Wise, 1963)

A researcher of the paranormal brings a motley crew of ordinary people into the allegedly haunted Hill House. Both potential ghosts and the neuroses of the visitors bring on sinister events and ultimately tragedy.

I love this movie more and more. I already wrote a bit about my reaction this time around, though since then, I started rereading the source novel, Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House. Obviously, the book delves more deeply into Eleanor's psyche, but the film does a fantastic job of this as well. Given film is a visual medium, it can be a challenge to depict a character's interior state without delving into expressionism and this film does that well.

The Phantom of the Opera (dir. Terence Fisher, 1962)

Aspiring songstress Christine Charles (Heather Sears) and producer Harry Hunter (Edward de Souza) are drawn into a mystery at the London Opera House. A phantom is sabotaging any attempt to produce Joan of Arc: A Tragedy, a show allegedly written by the cold, snobby, rapey Lord Ambrose (Michael Gough). After some investigating, it turns out the Phantom (Herbert Lom) was once the meek-mannered Professor Petrie, whose music was stolen by Ambrose. Now, he wants only to see his opera done justice and only Christine's voice can make that happen.

I am very fond of this version of The Phantom of the Opera even though I think it has a myriad of dramatic flaws. Let's get the flaws out the way first. I think the film is a bit repetitive in retelling us Petrie's story over and over, at first through onscreen description and then through filmed depiction. I also think the ending is anti-climactic, like the writers didn't want to go the usual route of making the Phantom a homicidal maniac but they weren't sure how to make a properly dramatic finish without that characterization.

That out the way, this is a unique, even refreshing retelling in many ways. The Phantom/Christine relationship is no longer one of unrequited love-- in fact, Petrie seems wholly uninterested in romance or sex at all. He views Christine and himself as victims of the truly despicable Lord Ambrose: Petrie had his music stolen and Christine was sexually harrassed. Therefore, it is up to the two of them to wrest the opera back from Amrbose's influence and make it the production Petrie wanted. Petrie is one hard taskmaster. He is relentless in training Christine and at one point throws filthy sewer-water in her face when she faints.

But the Phantom is hardly an out and out villain here. He doesn't even kill people-- he has a convenient hunchbacked assistant to do that. No, the real baddie is Ambrose, among the nastiest villains in the Hammer canon. Ambrose never even kills anyone, yet he makes the blood boil with his wanton cruelty. Michael Gough (who I always remember best as Alfred in the Tim Burton Batman movies, as well as Batman Forever and Batman and Robin) is so good at being bad.

This version of POTO also has my favorite version of the Phantom's compositions. Usually, he writes a "burning" piece called Don Juan Triumphant, fitting his romantic obsession with Christine. Here, Petrie writes an opera about Joan of Arc, a virginal saint persecuted by powerful men-- a fitting subject for Petrie given his own persecution by an aristocrat. Joan's aria "I Hear Your Voice" is gorgeous and always brings me to tears, it's that beautiful.

Not a perfect film, but still a very good one.

[random-imagines-blog]

Imagine Arthur Curry inadvertently hurting your feelings.

Earlier that week, he was at it again. Arthur, with his constant talk about how Atlantis is so full of adventure and excitement, when he’s not sitting on the throne anyway, so many different stories about a whole separate life that he lived down there. “You don’t get it - they almost started taking me too seriously down there!” Which sounded like the truth, because the council was always pulling him away from his fun and games - but most importantly, you. So it hurt when he would stay down there for longer than he needed, just to ride Storm around and try to race other creatures.

Yes, Arthur was the King of Atlantis, but as a human woman, you would never get to be the Queen, therefore half of his life was separated from you. He didn’t have to keep reminding you of it though - the empty bed in the morning, the dishes left in the sink, the stories he’d tell while drinking beer after beer on your couch - they did that for him.

Arthur, though he hadn’t meant to, hurt you whenever he forced you to remember that you weren’t ever going to be a part of every facet of his life, like you had invited him to be in yours.

The final blow was when he had come in three hours late for your anniversary dinner, and seemed like he had entirely forgotten about it. You had already eaten the nice dinner that you had made, changed out of the dress that you bought for this occasion into your pajamas, and were laying out by the television, watching Legally Blonde and totally agreeing with the scene where she throws the chocolates at her own television, claiming men are liars. In came Arthur, proving that point.

If the neighbors didn’t call the cops, you would be lucky at that point, because you sat up with tear tracks running down your face, and you let him have it. “Arthur, I get it, okay, you’re the King and you have all of these responsibilities and I’m so proud of you, really, I am. Your accomplishments are great, but - do you know how much it just hurts me, exhausts me, to know that … that you don’t belong with me up here, that you’ll probably fall in love with someone down there who can experience all of those things that you love and .. one day you’ll just leave me here, all alone?”

From the look on his face, he really hadn’t known a thing about how you were feeling.

“And another thing! Arthur, you missed our anniversary, to do .. what? You better have a good reason for it, for not even trying to call me because … because it broke my heart tonight,” You said, letting out a deep breath that it felt like you had been holding onto for ages. He looked surprised, and then he looked guilty and ashamed of himself, which - as bad as it sounded, made you feel validated.

“I’m sorry. Your night was wasted and - I’m really sorry for that.” Arthur hung his head down, his bushy brown hair creating a curtain around his head. Then he knelt down in front of the couch, taking both of your hands in his, stroking the back of them. When he finally looked at you, there was only apologies and love in there, and it made your heart beat faster, the sensation of what his presence had always done to you taking over again.

Arthur’s eyes were so light right then, like the ocean on a sunny day. “If there’s anything that I can do to make it up to you…”

Secretly, you had a whole list of things in your head that he could do. Arthur could get on his knees and beg your forgiveness, or he could make you dinner instead of you doing it for him, or he could bring you to the old dance-hall and give you a twirl on the dance floor like he had on one of your dates, but at the same time, you wanted him to come to these realizations on his own.

He looked so earnestly at you. He looked so ready to do anything that you would ask of him, even if it was something silly like do the chicken dance or run to the only open store on the other side of town and get your favorite snacks. For you, anything.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” You sighed, bringing his hand up to your cheek and nuzzling it softly - almost using him as a tissue to get rid of the last of your tears. He didn’t seem to mind this either, his thumb grazing under your eye to catch the smudged mascara. “Some of me wants to know what you were doing out so late, should I even ask?”

“Shit, I was being an idiot,” He admitted, looking away bashfully. “You said you might have had to work today so I spent most of the night preparing for us to celebrate tomorrow…”

Your eyes went wide as you remembered that you had told him that. That you hadn’t told him you took the night off, because you were hoping that this was going to be a surprise. He continued on. “I don’t know much beyond burgers and beers but I was at that new place downtown, the fancy one - I had to go there and talk them into giving me a reservation for tomorrow night - apparently they were booked up but for me, they’ll put in an extra table.”

Oh, you felt the love then, how could you not? You let go of his hands and flung your arms around him, holding him tight after cursing him all evening, mentally chiding yourself for doubting this amazing man for even a moment.

Requested by: Anonymous

[delphiniumpacificguinevere]

A very little part of my collection from my Arthurian-Arthuriana visit. I’m doing this basically because of my Queen lady Guinevere <3

-King Arthur’s Great Hall, Tintagel

-Glastonbury Abbey & Glastonbury Tor, Glastonbury

-Winchester Castle, Winchester

[websterss]

DATING TEDROS PENDRAGON INCLUDES…

REQUEST: I was wondering if I could request a Tedros x afab reader headcannons for dating! It could go in any way you like!

WARNING(S): none. fluff.

PAIRING: Tedros Pendragon x afab!Reader    

A/N: Hope you enjoy it! <3 Feedback is always welcomed!

MASTERLIST

At first, you had no interest in the future prince of Camelot. Too busy and too unbothered to pay the boy any mind. You mostly kept to your books, nose delved deep into an enchanting love story that seemed too good to be true. But these were your history. All the fairytales and love stories that your mother told you to help you sleep, were all written within the pages your eyes scanned, and fingers glided down. They were far more interesting than that of King Arthur’s son.

Tedros started to finally take notice of you one day, eyes shifting onto your figure that sat alone in a corner table during breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Each time you got up to leave the great hall. His eyes would trail after the swift movements of your gown swaying side to side with each step you took. 

You intrigued him. You had him wondering why you appeared to be the only one who didn’t fawn over his looks, his title, or who his father was. 

Why did he only just start to see you? He pondered whether you were new but you weren’t. You had been there just as long as the rest of the Evers were.

His guilty conscience made him feel bad for never knowing your name. Knowing who you are because you appeared to be a wonderful soul.

It made him question so many things. So he set out to befriend you.

It first began with the introduction of one another. He hoped you would shake his extended hand but you only set your book down and stared quizzically at him. An eyebrow raised at his odd behavior.

“Hello, I don’t think we’ve formally met-“

“We have.” You cut him off bluntly. Tedros winces and retracts his hands.

“W-We have?”

“Yes.” You blink expressionless at him.

“I don’t believe so. I would’ve remember a pretty face such as yours-“

“Well, you didn’t. Otherwise you would’ve remembered that you bumped into me on the first day, told me to watch where I was going. Quite the impression you’ve set…” You gave him a light tip smile.

His face falls. Mouth opening and closing, in hopes to make things right. “I-I’m so sorry. I didn’t-“

The hand you raise cuts him off. You save the poor boy from embarrassing himself. “No need to apologize. All is forgotten.”

“What about…forgiven?” He looks up through his eyelashes with hope.

“I suppose that depends on how you make this interaction.” You smirk. Then avert your eyes back onto your book. This causes him to smirk.

“May I sit?” He gestured to the chair beside you. You meet his gaze, pursing your lips in thought. Then turn to your book.

“No.” You want to laugh at his puzzled face.

“No?” He scoffs, but laughter follows after. “Are you reserving these chairs for someone then?” He teases, gesturing to the vacant table and chairs around you.

“No…” You chew your bottom lip. To keep from laughing.

“Well, then how come I can’t sit?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to spoil your image.” You shrug.

“Is that what you’re concerned about? My peers seeing me being social?” He claimed the chair to the left of you.

“I thought of it as more of you being concerned. We don’t exactly sway in the same social group.” Your eyes vacantly flicker to the table a few feet down from your shadowed one in the dark. They seemed to be casting snickers and judgemental glances towards you, or rather where Tedros’s attention was on.

“Then allow me to be the first to be in yours...” You grow flustered with a loss for words. You scoff out a laugh, then finally set your book faced down. You extend your hand and he gladly accepts it. Shaking yours with a firm but gentle grip. 

“I don’t believe I got your name, my lady.”

“That’s because I never gave it.” You smirk. He mirrors it. 

“You’re gonna make me work for it...I assume.” He lets his head fall. 

“In due time...You’ll learn to love rewards.” You tease and rise to leave. He follows suit and stands up beside you. 

So it began. A love story in the making. One slow, but rather enchanting, and endearing. You knew you were being unfair, gatekeeping your name, but your heart fluttered each time he put in the effort to get to learn one new fact about you. One new trait or scrunch or twitch of your nose or hands. The journey to get to know all of you was one challenge he was willing to face.

You didn’t exactly make it easy on him now either. 

It took him a while but as soon as he found out where you liked to spend most of your free time. He had a hard time leaving you alone. Your peace was disrupted by his charming grin, and loud persona. Not that you minded though, the distraction was rather appealing to look at. 

“Thought I’d find you here.” You squint up, the sun half in your eyes. You lift your hand up to your face to cast a shadow over your eyes. Once you finally reel in on who approaches you, you roll your eyes. Though it was hard not to know who came trollying about. He was too loud to miss. 

You shrug, gesturing to the tree you were leaning back against. A green flower embroidered blanket laid out underneath your gown. Your slippers slipped off to help you find comfort more easily. Though your desire for peace and quiet was long forgotten as the prince himself plopped down onto your blanket. He laid on his side, a cheesy smile casted your way. You tried hard to fight your own, but your teeth peeked out from your lips. 

“It’s Saturday.” You go back to reading the page you were on. 

“Yes I know.” He nods. “As opposed to yesterday being Friday, where you picnicked by the wishing pond. Though you never wish for anything.” He quietly mutters, like he was telling you a secret. It was true though. After learning the history behind the pond due to Agatha saving that poor girl and freeing her from her captivity. You refused to partake in any wish making. “Only sit and ponder-”

“And read my book.” You finish for him. “I see you’ve been paying attention, but what about tomorrow? Where might you find me then?”

“Well, it’d be Sunday. Some princesses might find themselves at the great hall looking out for a prince...” He trails off. His hands tracing over an embroidered pattern on the hem of your dress. He smiles as you tuck your feet in, letting your dress swallow their visibility. 

“But?” You eye him over the top of your book. He meets your eyes for a fleeting second then looks away, his face flushes red. 

“But not you. I’ll find you in the library. Tucked away in the farthest corner from eyesight...You think you’re well kept hidden from sight, but I spot you right away.” 

Your face becomes visible as you lower the book down onto your lap. Your eyes soften. “You see me?”

“I do.”

You gain the trouble to suddenly breathe correctly. Tedros subconsciously reaches for your hand. A tingle runs up and down your spine upon his light touches. He smooths his fingertips over your own. You gasp as he sits up tall. Your book falls carelessly onto the blanket as you watch him inch closer. Closer than he’s ever been. You catch his eyes flickering down to your lips, then up to your eyes, begging for you to allow him to press a kiss onto your lips. A plea more like it as he turns into a puddled mess. He breathes out a laugh as he reaches up to cup your face. He pressed his head against yours.

“I’m gonna kiss you now.” A faint nod from you was all he needed to proceed. His lips felt soft against yours. Yet the way he held you. Cupping your face, thumbs caressing your skin delicately. Holding you gently like you were a flower in a meadow, hoping not to be stepped on and ruined. 

When he asked you to be his princess. You had said yes. 

As much as you enjoyed being Tedros’s friend. There was something about being his girlfriend that brought out a side to you, one you never imagined you’d have. 

Call it jealousy, perhaps troubled doubts. They were all there, but as scared as you felt. You revel in the small things. The way he reaches for your hand when seated during assemblies. How his eyes search for yours in the great hall. How he brings your hand up to place a kiss upon them. How he tries to sneak you out for a stroll in the gardens. 

You’re quite fond of the memories of your dates at the wish fish pond. You could still feel the gentle grip on your chin as he turned your face to kiss you gently, leaving you breathless each time.

Your timid giggles were enough to have him groan in delight. You made his heart soar. He was in awe of your beauty, your laugh, your affectionate smile. The way your kisses lingered as well that he’d chase your lips each time you pulled back with a smirk.

Though he too had his own troubled doubts. That he’d wake up from a dream, and you’d have only been a part of his imagination. He was scared shitless. Incredibly so that one night during your date by the pond, he dipped his finger into the water. You laughed at his antics, telling him from where you sat on your blanket, that the wishfish only showed you what you most desired, that the fish couldn’t really grant him the thing he wanted most. It was something he had to make happen himself. 

So that’s what he had set his mind to afterwards. 

He fully believed that you coming into his life was no coincidence. He had never felt as connected to someone as he had with you. It was almost like...

Like you were his true love. And he didn’t waste time to tell you either. 

It had been the night of the Evers Snowball. 

When you hadn’t arrived into the great hall. He left to find you watching the snow fall through the high raised arched windows. Though he stopped a few steps away from you. He hadn’t seen your pretty gown yet. A soft baby blue matching his own royal jacket. You had heard his familiar footsteps before you even turned to see that it was him.

“I understand why they called it the Evers Snowball now.” You giggled. You then turned to face him with a beaming grin. “Hard to believe since it was clear blue skies and puffy white clouds yesterday. Though this is a magical school. Nothing’s ever impossible.” You stepped forward. Offer your hands for him to grab. He smirked because you were in fact right. He curls his fingers into your palm. Your hands curl into each other. Your smile remains as you try to meet his eyes. Head tilting in confusion as to why he wouldn’t meet your gaze. He turns to eye the falling snow. 

Quite the perfect evening. A magical aura wrapping itself around you both. This moment with you truly felt like one from a well known fairytale. Though Tedros knew as much this would be your own fairy tale to tell in the future.

“Tedros?”

“Mmm.” He turned his head to meet your eyes now. He chewed on his bottom lip as he hummed in thought.

You only laughed. “You okay?”

“I’m great!”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. It’s all perfect. Being right here with you.” 

You only rolled your eyes thinking he was trying to be a sap again. You playfully slap his shoulder clad with blue epaulets. 

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s head back to the great hall, no? I’m in the mood for a dance to be honest.” You breathe out a laugh. You pass him with a hand on his shoulder. You had taken a few steps forward only to look back to see his back turned to you. You halt and frown. “Tedros?”

“No.” He shakes his head. Your heart skips.

“No?”

“No. Let’s not head back just yet.” He turns around to face you. 

“Okay...” You step closer. “We can stay here for a bit if you prefer.” 

“No I do- I do want to head back, but I just. There’s something I’ve been wanting to do...” You raise a brow at him confused. You open your mouth to ask what he wants to show you, but your only left gaping as he lowers himself onto one knee. “Well...ask you really.” He laughs out nervously. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a black velvet box. You were all too familiar with these kinds of scenarios. What surely was a ring beneath the closed lid didn’t pass you. You place your hand over your mouth in shock. Your other hand holds your stomach. You were thankful at that moment, you hadn’t eaten dinner yet. 

“Tedros-” You begin but he cuts you off.

“B-Before you say anything. I just want you to know that you are sure not like anybody I’ve ever met before. Until I got to really know you. I had no faith in falling in love because of what happened with my father and mother. In fact the concept of love scares me. It still does...” He gives a faint smile, one you reciprocate lightly. “But if there’s one thing I’m positive about is that you’ve made me want to be better. Make me want to see the world for more than just black and white, for more than just evil and good. You’ve been a wonderful best friend, but you have been the best love I’ve ever had.” He pops open the small box. You cry out a laugh. Tears brimming your eyes. “My true love.” 

“True love?” Your eyes widened.

“You are my one true love. I believe that this, right here. You and me. Us. It’s meant to be, that the universe brought us together, and if that’s not true then I don’t know what to believe in anymore because I can’t imagine my life without you. You, Y/n, are my one true love, and I’ll be damned if someone who’s writing our story thinks otherwise.”

You were a crying mess at this point. You tilt your head, a beaming smile on your lips as you look down at him on a knee before you.

“Is that all you wanted to tell me?” You breathe a laugh out. Tedros lets a tear slip down his cheek, his charming smile gracing you.

“I’m getting to it!” He laughs. 

“Sorry...go on.” You composed yourself. Nodding and gesturing to continue. You couldn’t stifle your laughter though. 

“Will you marry me?” He takes the ring out of the box and gestures it to you. “Be my ever after?”

“Yes!” You beam. Gently cupping his face, and pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. He slips the ring onto your ring finger and stands to his full height. Cupping your face this time and pressing a hard but slow kiss on you.

“She said yes!” Multiple cheers and hollers startle you, causing you to pull away and look back towards the great hall entrance doors. 

You scoff out a laugh seeing multiple Evers, a few buddies of Tedros, and surprisingly a few Ever girls. Applauding you and Tedros. 

You look back to him, a cheesy smile on your face now, as your hands slide to cup the back of his neck. He leans forward to press your heads together, eyes closed, cherishing each other’s touch, and embraces. 

You can’t help the laugh that emits past your lips as the cheering only grows louder. It’s not long before you’re drowned in confetti. You gasp, blinking up to the ceiling as little pieces of plastic fall all around you, but the bigger surprise is when they start to dissolve before they can even touch the ground. It only adds to the magical feeling that swells in your heart. 

You lean in to give him another small peck. He chases after your lips. Then sighs in relief when you allow them to get caught up with his own. “I love you...” He mutters out gently, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I love you more, my ever after.”