#and he presses for some kind of grip on the crown that she says she gave up on (i don't think that's entirely true but that's another post)

[korzionarchive]

People keep on tearing down Rhaelys in the tags (or, rather, Corlys), and it's making me mad.

[ehlnofay]

Martin thinks that he always kind of knew he was going to die today.

But by Akatosh, he didn’t think it would be like this – like Kvatch all over again, Kvatch folded in on itself, the streets overrun with monsters triple-time as thick, all metal and sulphur and blood. They were supposed to make it in time. He was supposed to light the fires. He was supposed to be crowned, and let some new, less visceral kind of horror begin – they were supposed to make it through – they were supposed – they supposed – but the streets are shaking with Dagon’s footfalls, and Martin can’t take a step without kicking a corpse, and the Hero of Kvatch is heavy-too-heavy against his shoulder, and it was always going to be like this. It never could have ended any other way.

He can feel prayer bubbling up from his scraped-raw throat, bitter as bile, held behind his teeth. O Akatosh, first of the gods, steady my hand… He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t mouth it. Tries not to think it, though it’s a rhythm born of years of habit, once a comfort, now just – empty. But it unspools in his head all the same. Pax is leaned heavy against his shoulder, one arm hooked loosely around his, hand pressed against the sticky-dark spot on their armour; they’re short, but they’re not light, and Martin’s arms burn as he tries to hold them up. The sky flares red. His eyes sting with smoke. Grant me the strength to endure. Onward, onward, onward.

Pax’s feet skitter uselessly against the blood-slick cobble. Martin almost trips over a leg, its silver-polished greave shining in the hellish light. The rest of the body is not there. He can taste smoke. He can taste bile. He can see the stained glass, the altars, the prayerbooks, his throat flayed raw begging for a salvation that would never be granted; this is not Kvatch, this is not Kvatch, but the sky burns and the streets are filthy with bodies and there is too much noise to talk, and Pax is damn near dead weight against his side, still holding out their blunt little excuse for a sword. Martin drags her on through the street. Just to the temple doors – just to the temple doors – the side of her head presses fierce against his ear. Martin’s knuckles are white with effort. There is blood on his fine silken robes.

Again, the streets shake; Pax staggers at his side. Akatosh, protect us. Martin doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see the red-stained sky blurring against body – he can already see the cobbles cracked under the weight of feet too massive for his mind to make sense of it, a body – man or monster, he doesn’t know – crushed beneath the heel. Pax is gesturing at the colossus’ ankle with their sword as if they could possibly do anything at all. They’re bleeding.

“Come on,” Martin says, shallow and jagged; it stings to speak, and there’s so little point, his ears so filled with the clashing of metal and horrible, inhuman screams that there’s not room for anything else. His grip tightens around Pax’s shoulders. Her face is set, stubborn and pale – and she’s so stupidly young – and Martin –

There is an emotion so large it threatens to split him at the seams, and they don’t have time for that, so Martin runs. Staggers past the barely sketched-out shape of the devil menacing the skies, child hero in tow; every breath stinks of fear and ash. His throat prickles. If he doubles over with coughing, Pax will fall, there, onto bloody cobblestone, with their toothpick of a blade and their empty quiver, their sharp-spined bow slung carelessly over their shoulder, pearl-grey gambeson slowly darkening with blood, so Martin doesn’t cough. Blessed are we, the faithful…

They don’t fall, and they aren’t crushed, darting around the earth Dagon stands upon, slow and sluggard and so astonishingly lucky, and Martin gasps, and he does not cough, and Pax kicks at a scamp that gets too close and waves the sword at it just enough to slice a shallow cut down its scrabbly little arm. Martin’s so focused on holding them up that he can’t even cast. It isn’t even the one prayer running inescapable through his head – it’s a mess of them, all twisted and torn to pieces, shreds of one, half a sentence of another. He nearly trips over on the stairs. In the crowd, armour flashes, bright as steel and thoroughly outnumbered. He should pray for the Blades, too; he would, if he thought it would do anything. But it didn’t, last time. And this time, he has something better up his sleeve than prayer.

“Almost there,” he says through the din, and Pax keeps their sword arm raised even though they don’t know how to use the bloody thing, and there’s blood on their Kvatch gambeson, and there’s blood on Martin’s regal robes. (It was going to be him – that dremora’s blade whip-thin and wicked and dark as soot, jabbed thin as a sewing needle through the slippery-soft fabric, hooked under his ribs or pierced through the soft meat of his gut. Pax, empty-quivered, still drawing his sword, angled his own body to intercept; caught it in the thick pillow of his armour, in his own skin. Martin spat a spell from his fingers that sent the thing crashing to the ground and grabbed Pax well before they began to follow.) The earth shakes, again, and Martin’s shin hits the edge of the next step. He can’t hear anything over it all, but he sees Pax suck in a breath, sharp and pained. She takes another step. He follows.

When they reach the dark-stone door, someone screams, high and terrible, and there is no time to stand on ceremony; Martin throws himself at it, shoving it with all his weight behind his shoulder, and together, they stumble inside the temple, ash blowing in behind them to scatter itself on the sacred, stagnant floors.

The door swings closed again; the sound is swallowed up, faint and muffled. Martin can hear them both breathing, ragged, loud. Pax hasn’t lowered their sword. It looks even more dull, here, contrasted against the stonework. They’re so quiet. He hates that he’s learned how they act when they’re in pain.

(It’s holy ground. It won’t be enough – it barely was in Kvatch, it’s nowhere near it now – but it’s not nothing. There’s blood spilling over the tile.)

Martin sucks in a desperate, dragging breath. He doesn’t let go of them.

There’s not much light in the Temple, but it’s enough; it’s clear of smoke and that all that burning reddish tint, outside, and now that Martin has a moment to look them in the face Pax looks awful. His skin is ash-pale and slick with sweat, fringe sticking to his forehead, brow creased as if with concentrated effort and jaw taut. Every breath rattles in his chest and whistles out between his teeth. One palm sticks to the place in her side where her armour is dark and sodden; Martin is afraid to peel it away. It can’t be a wide wound, the cut not even enough to tear more of the gambeson than is covered by her hand, but shit it’s a lot of blood. It’s so much blood. He was never an especially good healer and he can’t even begin to accurately estimate it but it’s too much; it’s entirely too much. And it was because she was protecting him. It’s enough to make a man sick; but there’s no time, so Martin isn’t.

It's so much blood. Pax’s eyes are unfocused, drifting somewhere over his shoulder. His face is so clammy and so young – by the Nine, he’s a child. He’s a child and a hero and Martin’s friend and he’s bleeding out on the Temple floors. Martin hates himself, a bit, for going along with any of this in the first place, for letting them send a fifteen year old child out to risk killing themselves, only to get them here – this place, bleeding out onto sacred marble, where they always would’ve ended up anyway. All roads lead to this.

Inevitability. It’s an idea that showed up often in the sermons Martin used to help give. The Amulet is blood-warm and heavy round his neck.

“Pax,” Martin says; one arm is threaded under her armpits, and he lifts the other to press gently to her cheek. Just under her eye there’s a dark spot of ash; he swipes it off with his thumb, watches the slow, sticky blink she gives in response. “Hey. Are you with me?”

“Always,” she mumbles; her voice is sludgy, like it’s caught in treacle, but the word comes without delay – like it’s instinct, like there’s nowhere else she’s ever imagined being, and doesn’t that just make a man want, a bit, to throw himself off a cliff. (She’s gone to hell, on his word, who knows how many times over; Martin doesn’t need her half-dying drive to affirm her loyalty to him. He knows. He knows. He thinks he might be sick.) She blinks again, and then her eyes sharpen; she throws a tired look over her shoulder at the cool stone of the door, the world beyond muted, as if this moment occurs on its own; like they’re flies, frozen in amber. She says, “It won’t keep them out forever.”

Holy ground was barely enough in Kvatch; it will be barely anything here.

Martin’s arm is aching. He’s not that strong. “Long enough,” he says, with far more brusque certainty than he feels, and he casts a glance over the smooth marble floors, the well-wrought stonework of each plinth and pillar. “Come on. Sit down.”

Arms burning, he helps them to the side of the room, leans them against the leverage of the smooth white wall; still, they don’t sit, and Martin has to help lower them down. Pax grunts like a shot animal as he slowly sinks down to the ground, Martin’s hands still bruising tight on his shoulders, sword slipping from his sweaty grasp to clatter on the floor. His bow, slung over his shoulder, presses awkward against the wall; his empty quiver lies at his hip, useless. His hand is still pressed to the stain on his gambeson.

Martin watches him breathe out through gritted teeth, his tongue pressed ragged against the gap behind his lower canine. His head tips back against the wall. His gambeson, blood-spattered, barely protective, is tied with a row of neat leather cords; Martin reaches for one intricate knot and begins to tug on the ends.

Maybe it’s because he’s a bit frantic, that he just can’t get it to untangle – maybe it’s that the whole world is ending outside the door and they have a minute to stop it, if they’re lucky. Maybe it’s that Pax’s head is lolling, a little. Maybe it’s that it’s all on his head – has been on his head since any of it began, since he knew any of it at all, and now another city is falling, and he can still smell smoke, and he has a minute, if he’s lucky. He feels like they should have more time. He needs to undo the gambeson. He needs to make sure they’ll be all right. Martin was always going to die today – he feels it, settled comfortable and hazy over him, an unerring certainty in the very marrow of his bones, a knowledge passed down from the man they call his father – but Pax sure as shit isn’t. Not if he has anything to say about it, which he does, because it’s been on his head since the beginning and he’ll shoulder it all but he won’t bear this. His fingers scrabble, desperate, at the ties; every moment he waits is a murder, but leaving them here would be murder, too, and Martin won’t have that blood on his hands. And the knots won’t just come easy. He’s lost so much time and he hasn’t even gotten half.

Pax is looking at him, her eyes blood-dark. “You’re not going to get it,” she says, and her voice slurs, a little, in her mouth; pain or blood loss or shock, almost definitely, but Martin was never a particularly skilled healer and the magic he spent to get them through that horrible crush outside has left him too tapped to be able to probe. “They’re tied too tight.”

Martin can hear the ringing of metal outside. The earth is still shaking.

“Fuck,” he says, voice cracking on the vowel, and turns to rifle through their quiver. He hears them exhale, long and shaky, as he searches.

They don’t even have any fucking potions – he’d take anything, at this point, anything at all, he’d take the foulest cheapest draught as long as it would slow the bleeding, or even just a bandage, but there’s no bottles or flasks and no loose cloth. There’s one salve, pale and sticky in a purple-stained pot, but that can’t be used without access to the skin and probably can’t be good in an open wound in any case. There isn’t anything. There isn’t anything at all. Time is slithering away between his fingers. There are broken bits of prayer sticking like glass shards under his tongue, again. He doesn’t want to say any of it; it sticks in his throat, anyway. Lord Akatosh, sacred dragon, walk ever with me; under your gaze I will not fall short. Pax is looking at him, brow creased, face the very picture of dedicated focus; their hair, done in a long, simple braid back when they were just supposed to be speaking to the Council, has come half-loose, looping strands hanging about their face and trailing over their eye. Martin lifts a hand – notes, with detached interest, that it is shaking – and brushes it out of the way.

“I’m sorry,” he says – and he is, by the Nine, it settles with all the rest of the guilt in his gut, all to be burned soon enough – “there’s not time for me to heal you properly. How are you feeling? Are you all right?” Their skin is still clammy to the touch, sweat-damp wherever he touches; their eyes are more focused now but still screwed up with pain.

Pax gives a short puff of air. It’s not a laugh, not in his state, but it’s not all that far off; his voice is gravel-rough. “Got stabbed, Martin Priest. ‘S not great.”

Stabbed in the gut, while protecting him – bleeding all over the sanctified floors, the grout will never recover, and why is he thinking about that when the blade could have caught an organ and Martin would never know because he’s never been that good a healer. The ground is shaking again. They’ve been in here a minute, maybe, and he already feels like they’re stealing time. The seconds are slipping away quickly. He’s digging his fingers fiercely into the cloth of Pax’s shoulder; if he doesn’t hold onto her somehow he thinks he might fall down.

(He’s glad she’s here, and he hates himself for being glad. She’s bleeding. It should be his blood.)

His face must be doing something truly impressive, because Pax cracks a grin, wide and crooked and sticky-mouthed. “Calm down,” she says, the words thick as treacle in her mouth, “I got at least ten more minutes in me. What’s the plan?”

“The plan,” Martin echoes. That statement is nowhere near as reassuring as she seems to mean it to be; he shakes his head. Looks back at the doorway, still closed – noise of battle still raging, earth still trembling, but none of it imminent, probably, not within the next three seconds – and surges forward to wrap their shoulders in a fierce hug, careful to keep away from their abdomen, his cheek pressed against their hair. They smell of sweat and smoke and blood; he takes a deep breath, anyway. “I’ll do the rest, Pax, just – rest.” His voice cracks, again. “Be okay.”

(There’s more prayer pressed into those two words than in anything else he’s thought today.)

Pax reaches a hand up to pat his sleeve; her head, still, is resting against the stone, the set of her shoulders a little tauter, a little more alert. “I can still help,” she insists. The sword – blunt little instrument that it is – lies on the floor, tacky with monstrous blood; she doesn’t even try to reach for it. The bow slung over her shoulder is jabbing him in the collarbones. Martin pulls back enough to shake his head.

“No,” he says; because they can’t. The rest is for him and him only, so no-one else has to get hurt. Pax got him this far – got him out of the wreckage of Kvatch – got him out of the stagnant mire in his head – got a blade in the gut, for their trouble, and even if Martin had anything else to ask of them he couldn’t ask for more.

Pax glowers, at that, the crease reappearing between his brows; Martin could laugh, if it was another day, if they had another moment. He presses his face to the top of Pax’s head, instead, nose dug sharply into his hair; and he breathes, and he breathes, and he breathes.

He’s not an orator, but the way Pax talks they seem to think he’s accustomed to giving grand speeches; he’s certainly had enough practice lately. His breath shudders. He dredges up what words he can. They’ve been in the Temple a minute already; he doesn’t think they can ask another.

“I,” he says, and breathes; “I cannot stay to help rebuild Tamriel – that must fall to others.” He couldn’t have been Emperor, not ever – he’s never been able to fix things, not on this scale. The weight of the Empire would have run him into the ground. He would have hated it. It would have killed him. (Didn’t it?)

Pax’s hand skims the fine cloth at his elbow again. Voice slow, they say, “What –”

“I know now what I was born to do,” Martin says, and he tries to smile. He doesn’t know if they can feel it. His hands clasp the sides of their face; their hair is tickling his nose. They feel cool to the touch, dead-fish clammy; but it will be all right, because once it’s all over the healers will come in, better at flesh-craft than Martin’s ever been, and they’ll fix it. They’ll fix it all. And the Blades are here, however little Pax usually chooses to engage with them, so he won’t be alone. And the Elder Council, the whole Empire, will owe him a debt of such gratitude – he won’t be alone, again. He’ll have options. He’ll miss him – but he’ll live. And Martin will, for once in his sorry life, have actually fixed something.

His friend’s hair smells like smoke. Their skin is shining with sweat and grime. “You’ve been such a good friend in the short time that I’ve known you,” he says, and he’s smiling, he knows it, a melancholy thing pressed into their hairline. His voice is shaking, just a little. “I’m sorry I couldn’t – I couldn’t stay to know you better.”

“Martin,” Pax says, and he pulls back. Their face is creased, ash and blood smeared over their cheekbone. Suspicion lines the tilt of their brow.

Martin smiles, still. His palms, rough and dry, cradle her face. “But now I must go,” he says, gentle; “The Dragon waits.”

And Martin, for one, is done waiting.

He pushes what magic he has left into his hands, sunshine-bright; Martin is no great healer, particularly not when his reserves are tapped, particularly not when he can’t even see the wound, but he can at least soften the edge, dampen the overwhelming pull of the pain. His hands sting with the effort, his head spins, the ground shakes; and one of those has nothing to do with expending himself. Right on time, it seems; the Amulet of Kings hangs warm and heavy around his neck.

Martin stands, though his legs shake; stumbles a step backwards; turns to face the dais in the middle of the room, the shallow marble dish of it lying cold, the pillars around it as stark and foreboding as the bars of any cage. He runs.

“Martin!” he hears behind him, because Pax is Pax and of course they won’t let him go easy; the earth shakes, anticipation winding up into a wiry coil in his gut. The Amulet is hot enough to burn, bright as the sun – he heaves himself up onto the raised platform, reaches to unloop it from around his neck –

The ceiling caves in, and Martin throws an arm over his eyes, closing them against the implosion of dust and grit, scraping in a breath thick enough to choke. His ears are ringing. He manages to squint up, catches a glimpse of a massive fist swiping the rubble away from the hole, the glint of a battle-axe, a silhouette against the burning red sky, roiling and howling like a column of storm. Martin can’t even make out a face, but he knows, somewhere deep and solid, that it’s looking at him. He meets its gaze, the Amulet raised high in his hand.

All prayer has deserted him, now, all the rote lines and careful patterns he leant on for so long slipping away from his fingertips as if they were never there at all. All he has is please, weighty, guttural, and he thinks it might mean more than any of the rest of it. Please. Please. You owe me this. The Amulet of Kings burns in his hand.

“Martin!” he hears again, hoarse and desperate; he looks. Just once. Pax has dragged himself across the dust-coated floors, bow and quiver abandoned somewhere behind him; his face is covered in dirt, hair come half-loose, eyes stubborn and fierce and wild. He feels his eyes crease, the lightest echo of a smile. He’ll miss them, wherever he goes next. Pax screams, “Don’t!”

Martin Septim was always going to die today. It is, perhaps, one of the first things he’s ever done right.

Martin smashes the Amulet of Kings on the cold marble dais, and the world erupts in gold.

[sethsclearwater]

can you pretty please do a poly!paulxreaderxjared where she gets her period and is in a ton of pain and these two - who are usually always playing pranks on her and just messing with her to fluster her and whatever when they're not absolutely RAILING this poor girl - are just trying their best to be so gentle with her and cuddling with her and really doing their best to help her

y'all need to send in more requests for these two🥺🥺

...

"jared," you whimpered, curling into his side as you sniffled, doing your best to wrap your arms around his figure as you buried your face into his side.

he let out a soft sigh, sliding on hand under your neck so he could wrap his arm around you and hold you close to him, "'m sorry babe," he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the crown of your head.

you just let out a heavy sigh, your grip on him momentarily tightening as your cramps intensified. your other imprinter's touch came on your side then as the cramps slowly died down a bit enough for you to lift your head from jared and peek over your shoulder to see paul getting into bed with the two of you, "you want some midol?" paul asked, resting his hand on your hip.

you frowned and shook your head, "can't take more yet," you murmured before burying your face back in jared's side again. paul sighed, getting under the covers with you and jared so he could at least try and be of some kind of emotional support to you.

jared gently ran his hand up and down your side, "just..." he started, voice trailing off as he tried to offer some kind of solution for you, "actually nevermind i don't know what you should do," he mumbled which had you letting out a soft giggle against his t-shirt, both boys smiling when they heard your laugh.

jared hummed in approval while paul grabbed the remote, "you wanna put a movie on?" he asked as he turned the tv on, already knowing you'd definitely want to watch something.

you nodded, still not lifting your head from jared's side, "okay i'll get something on," paul reassured, gently squeezing your hip with his free hand as he got netflix on so he could find something for the three of you to watch.

"see not so bad, right?" jared asked after a moment and you scoffed, offended as you lifted your head to shoot him a dirty look.

"don't ever say that again," you grumbled, rolling over so you could curl into paul's side again, paul letting out a victorious laugh as you buried your face in his side.

jared just rolled his eyes at your antics, already knowing you'd get over it very quickly, "sorry babe," he said after a moment, smiling when you immediately reached your hand back blindly until you were able to lace your fingers together with his, your silent way of forgiving his dumb comment.

jared pressed a gentle kiss to your hand as paul hit play on some random movie, "just try and relax a little bit, i'll let you know when you can take your next dose of midol," paul reassured, voice much softer with you than normal considering the current predicament you found yourself in.

you nodded, still not lifting your head from his side as you gently squeezed jared's hand, smiling to yourself when he rolled over so he could spoon you and untangle his hand from yours to rest his hand atop your abdomen to act as a makeshift heating pad.

[stromuprisahat]

Regarding Nikolai. it’s insane how the author and the fandom close their eyes and baby him. When he SA Alina, pushed her in a carriage so she could react, and then immediately gaslit her to think out was okay. He’s the one who actually used her and manipulated her to and succeed in getting the Ravkan crown. but the worst crime he has is the one where right after Genya tells him his father* and king is a rapist…..Nikolai rewarded the king. Nikolai covered up the king’s crime, made sure he received no trial at all, that no girls received justice, and to rub salt in the wound he gave the King a full expense paid retirement vacation with a “life full of luxury….safety” and even let the king choose where he would retire..oh sorry…LB calls it “exile.” So the King who never wanted to rule the nation, only wanted a life of luxury and attacking girls…gets a life of luxury far far away where he has no care or worry and he is free to attack any and all servants I’ve had in his luxury retirement. Leigh Bardugo should have re-read chapter 11 of ruin and rising. Rich white savior born with a silver spoon that manipulates, SA, and uses Alina go get in power let’s his father figure who literally SA’d genya and other girls go free and rewarded.

*father figure - publicly his father privately not really the bio dad And I call BS on the R&R proclamation that Nikolai didn’t know the king was a rapist. Nikolai was raised in the same halls, if the king’s reputation was so well known like LB keeps claiming it was in RoW then Nikolai would 100% know about it before he left for the military.

I have a problem with understanding Nikolai's actions.

It's caused by his moral alignment.

I simply cannot grasp how can someone put rules, established by other humans- therefore possibly faulty-, above preventing possible injustice. (Yes, I'm true neutral.) How can "a good" person be stopped by immaterial concept? If he believed there's some higher power, eventually judging all human actions, but he's an atheist!

What makes it more complicated, is his seeming moral flexibility. I'm not even halfway through Siege and Storm, and he doesn't seem bothered by lying, stealing, manipulation... is a piece of paper truly such a difference? Nobody wrote down rules about particular situations, so he can do whatever he pleases?

A bit of a hypocrite, isn't he?

... As he was helping me back into the coach, he slipped his arm around my waist. “Please don’t punch me,” he whispered. Then he yanked me hard against his chest and pressed his lips to mine. The crowd exploded into wild cheers, their voices crashing over us in an exultant roar. Before I could even react, Nikolai shoved me into the shadowy interior of the coach and slipped in after. He slammed the door behind him ... I turned on Nikolai and kicked him hard in the shin. He yelped, but that wasn’t nearly satisfying enough. I kicked him again. “Feel better?” he asked. “Next time you try something like that, I won’t kick you,” I said angrily. “I’ll cut you in half.” He brushed a speck of lint from his trousers. “Not sure that would be wise. I’m afraid the people rather frown on regicide.” “You’re not king yet, Sobachka,” I said sharply. “So don’t tempt me.” “I don’t see why you’re upset. The crowd loved it.” “I didn’t love it.” He raised a brow. “You didn’t hate it.” I kicked him again. This time his hand snaked out like a flash and captured my ankle. If it had been winter, I would have been wearing boots, but I was in summer slippers and his fingers closed over my bare leg. My cheeks blazed red. “Promise not to kick me again, and I’ll promise not to kiss you again,” he said. “I only kicked you because you kissed me!” I tried to pull my leg back, but he kept a hard grip. “Promise,” he said. “All right,” I bit out. “I promise.” “Then we have a deal.”

Siege and Storm- Chapter 11

This isn't gaslighting. It's another kind of manipulation, if anything. He's playing it down, but in his case I'd say it isn't caused by some malevolent intentions, but different view on the matter. He's playing a part. While he isn't repulsed by the idea of kissing Alina, he didn't do it for his personal enjoyment, but to cement their union in eyes of the people.

Alina, on the other hand, doesn't intend to become anything more than her own private person. She views the kiss only as a transgression against her.

Nikolai is a people-pleaser, who obviously displeased Alina. While he might be manipulating Alina so he doesn't have to deal with her anger, it might also be an attempt to make it better. Children often do this. I did a bad thing, but if we both agree it wasn't SO bad, it will get better.

His swift reaction outside the carriage was about preventing Alina to ruin the image he just painted. It's not hard to figure out she's quick to anger and much slower to think. He already tried to introduce her to the concept of being a public person. When pure theory fails, apply more practical approach?

This is another example of Nikolai "The Diet Darkling" Lantsov in action. Collar Alina to take over her world-changing abilities to end wars is absolutely despicable, while mere kiss to use her status of Living Saint for run on position of power's possible to overlook, because Nikolai's motivations are noble. I guess that's the difference between Royalty reaching for the Crown and serf reaching for the chance to live.

The rape confrontation feels weak and unsatisfying, thanks to NIkolai's lack of spine, or fixation on Ravkan law, depending on your POV. Apparently he acted according to their legal system. I have a half-written post on this, but since we're on the topic, I agree it's one on those examples, when law guarantees neither justice, nor prevention of future crimes, so instead of cheering for Nikolai's fairness, we're left upset with his decision.

“You will write the letter, and tomorrow you will leave on the Kingfisher. It will take you to Os Kervo, where you’ll be seen safely aboard the Volkvolny and across the True Sea. You can go someplace warm, maybe the Southern Colonies.” “The Colonies?” the Queen gasped. “You will have every luxury. You will be far from the fighting and the reach of the Darkling. You will be safe.”

Ruin and Rising- Chapter 7

Sure, it's exile, loss of power and prestige... but how is luxury a punishment? How is relocation to a peaceful place instead of constantly warring Ravka a punishment? And most importantly- how does it prevent the rapist from raping more servants? Or other helpless, young destitutes?

It's like sending a serial killer on a paid vacation, weapons of choice included.

[moonrisecoeur]

cw: knives 🔪

she/her pronouns used, no parts mentioned, degradation

leon knows you’re not going to hurt him.

he objectively knows that you won’t. he knows you love and care for him, you would be upset with yourself if you even gave him a papercut, much less a gash wound on his chest with the knife you’re gripping or even worse.

but he’s still afraid.

your knife presses to his neck as you stand behind him, holding it firmly but adjusting your grip every now and then, enjoying the way it drags against his skin. you’re taunting him.

he’s still afraid of you. of what you could do. he knows you wouldn’t hurt him, and yet he’s afraid you might. he feels the pit in his stomach grow as your free hand touches his cock over his clothes, and he’s painfully hard under the tight fabric, more so than he’d like to admit. of course it’s from the knife you’re holding. he didn’t think he’d like this as much as he does. but god the way you’re holding it against his neck, in a wholly threatening manner has him dizzy.

“please,” he whimpers, “don’t hurt me.”

you know it’s an act, to some degree. his fear. you know he knows that you’re not actually going to hurt him. he’s doing it for you, acting more afraid than he actually is because you like it, like watching him tremble and stutter, “such a pretty little thing when you beg…” you mumble, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck from behind.

“you don’t… you don’t have to hurt me… i’ll do whatever you say,” he says. he’s kind of playing it up, again, because you like it, but he’s afraid. he can’t help it. one wrong move and he’s dead.

god his fear and terror is so palpable you could consume it whole.

“i won’t hurt you if you’re good,” you say, and his breathing becomes shorter and faster, not trusting himself to take deep breathes, “will you be good?”

“p-please! i… please, i’m- i’m yours, i’m yours only, okay? is that what you want to hear? just… get that thing away from my—”

you do the opposite, pushing the knife even closer to him, the metal of it touches his neck, lightly grazing his skin. it’s not enough to cut him but still, he stops breathing all together.

“fuck, i-i’m sorry, ple-ease….” he stutters, squeezing his eyes shut, begging the universe for the chance to live.

maybe it’s because he trusts you that he lets himself be afraid. he thinks if you didn’t talk about this beforehand, got his expressed consent, and just pulled a knife on him, and he really thought you were trying to kill him, he’d let you. he knows he could probably beat you in a fight, he’s stronger than you are, he knows he is.

something in him would say she wants this, she wants to kill you, and you always give her what she wants, don’t you?

but because he knows that glint of danger in your eyes isn’t real, that you don’t really want to slit his throat, that the cold metal against his hot neck is not going to dig into him with ease, that his body feels safe to let go, to feel that fear.

he knows you’re delighting in his fear. he’s seen what you’re into, you’ve talked about it. he knows you like feeling like a hunter, like a predator. he just didn’t think it was this intense to be the prey.

his legs give out on him, and he falls to his knees, still facing away from you. your knife moves with him, staying steady against his neck. god, you’re good.

he looks up at you, and you when stop touching his cock over his jeans because it’s now out of reach, you wrap your hand around his jaw from behind, your knife still held to his neck just below.

he can feel the excitement radiating off of you, the utter euphoria of bringing a man like him to his knees. he’s never seen such darkness grace your features before.

you look good when you’re evil.

“who do you belong to, baby?” you murmur, leaning into him, cheek pressed to the crown of his head, your free hand moving from groping his aching cock to resting on his shoulder for stability.

this was easy. you made it easy for him because he clearly can’t think too hard right now, “you.” it’s simple. easy.

“i should carve my initials into you, shouldn’t i? just gotta decide where…” you say, and he gasps, clearly overwhelmed by the idea. you’re… you’re not going to do that right now, are you?

“maybe your collarbone? so everyone can see when you wear those slutty fucking dress shirts like the whore you are?”

god… you’ll kill him someday. he’s sure of it.

[ladylooch]

can I request maybe some Nico fluff. maybe some comfort too 👉👈

A/N: Thank you for this 🥰

Nico fluff may be the best fluff. This is part of the What My World Spins Around AU

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: She's drunk, fluff, mentions of male genitalia, a lil handsy- above the clothes stuff.

The key hole of mine and Nico’s apartment swirls in my vision as I attempt to stab my key in. I blink, trying to steady the circle in my line of vision. The world keeps spinning and my eyes close again. I sway into the door and giggle. 

Drunk might be an understatement for me.

The Devils ladies all went out on the town to celebrate our Bachelorette, Drey. Fully decked out in penis attire, we tossed back shots of vodka, tequila, and something else pink and sugary that I can’t remember the name of. It was entirely too much fun and alcohol. I barely made it out of the Lyft without falling on my face.

I brace my hand against the door to push off. I look down at the penis swinging from the gaudy pink necklace around my neck. I giggle again, then attempt to shove the key back in. I gasp in excited surprise when it goes in. I flip the lock and stumble through the door. I wince, noticing my disturbance of our dark and silent apartment. It’s well after 2:00am and it’s good Nico is asleep. Tomorrow is another game day.

I carefully grope my way in the dark to the kitchen counter. I settle my purse there then reach down to unzip my black ankle bootie.

“Fuc-” The whole word doesn’t make it out of my mouth before I’m falling over onto the oak floor. I clasp my hand over my mouth as giggles assault me again. Tears pool in my eyes as I gasp for breath between my fingers. My abdominal muscles crunch with tension at trying to hold the noise in.

Nico’s chuckle from above me has my eyes flying open in surprise. I release my full laughter when I see him awake. 

“I fell over.” I tell him between breathy giggles.

“I see that.” He responds, smile stretching his cheeks wide.

“I think I need help.” I croak at him, holding my foot up towards his face. He secures it in his hands, holding the heel with one and sliding the zipper down with the other. He pulls the shoe off, tossing it to the floor behind him. He releases that foot, then motions for me to put the other up. I do so silently, watching the way he looks at me. While I’m drunk on alcohol, he’s drunk on love.

All night while we celebrated Drey, I couldn’t stop the yearning for my day. I could see myself dressed in white, a cheap crown on my head and big, pink heart sunglasses pressing to my face. When it’s my turn, I want it all. I want a large cut out of Nico’s face and my favorite kind of cookies and a silky, pink sash with Future Mrs. Hischier in gold, glittery letters.

“Do you like my necklace?” I ask Nico as he tosses the other boot away. I spin the large penis around my finger, flicking my tongue out at him. Nico laughs loudly, raising his eyebrows at my suggestiveness.

“You like dicks bigger than that.” He jokes. My head falls back to the floor as I laugh loudly. 

“I do!” I exclaim as he holds his hands out for me to get up. I grip them tight and he tugs me standing. “Oh no…” I sway to the right, but Nico steadies me. My nose scrunches up and I grip his biceps hard. “The room is… spinning.” I sputter, gritting my teeth against the nausea I feel. “Bleh.”

“Yeah, the beds probably going to as well.” He tells me. “Let’s get you some water. That should help.”

He helps me to the sink then shuffles between a few cabinets and the fridge. He returns with a cup that’s fizzing and swirling with ice cubes.

“W’as this?” I murmur, bringing it to my lips anyway and taking a glug. “Oooo it’s salty.”

“There’s a Nuun in there. I’m trying to get some electrolytes back into you.” 

“That’s gonna kill my buzz.” I say, extending the cup back to him.

“Drink, baby.” He says, using his no nonsense tone. I furrow my eyebrows together sarcastically with a pout.

“Oh, Captain Serious is here now.” Nico snorts laughter at me, leaning his butt against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Yeah and he says no bed until that glass is gone.” 

I try my best, but can only get half of the glass down.

“My legs are tired.” I whine to him, trying to slide down to sit on the floor.

“Okay, okay. Let’s just go to bed.” He is laughing at me again, my pathetic nature making his sweetness accelerate. His hands wrap around my body, pulling me tight to him. His lips hover over mine as he takes my necklaces off along with the feathered boa I forgot I was wearing. As he sets them on the counter, I feel a tug of uncertainty.

“You’re gonna marry me right?” I whisper against his lips when he leans down to kiss me. I hang from his shoulders like a baby chimp. Nico pulls back so he can see my full face. His strong hands squeeze my back ribs assuringly then slide down to tuck in the back pockets of my jeans.

“Yes, baby. I’m going to marry you.” He presses our lips together again.

“Right now?”

“No sweets. I want you sober when I promise forever with you.” He chuckles. His hands glide to lift me by the backs of my thighs.

“That is soooo sweet.” I sigh to him, resting my cheek on his shoulder. His assurance has a happy bubble building in my chest. I burrow my nose into his neck, enjoying the way his stubble tickles my skin.

We get to bed and he begins to undress me. Soft kisses are placed all along my body. First on my shoulder, then on my chest, followed by my thighs and calves. My skin buzzes from the connection. I watch with burdensome lids as he replaces my bachelorette clothes with pajamas.

“Touch me.” I ask him, biting my lip as he slides his large t-shirt over my shoulders. His thumbs come up, circling my nipples twice before pulling the hem all the way down. He’s too much of a gentleman to take it any further. He pulls the comforter back on my side. I crawl my way slowly up, settling against my pillow to wait for him. 

When he slides into bed with me, I snuggle up close to his side, curling my knees up into a comfort cocoon with him. My hand wanders down to the tie on his pants, fiddling with it.

“Tomorrow, love.” He murmurs to me, lacing our fingers together and moving them to rest on his chest beside my head.

“I think you’re too good for me.” I whisper to him, eyes lazily blinking as sleep begin to call for me. “I don’t ever want to lose you.”

“Me either.” His eyes don’t even open as he speaks to me. He’s so sure, holding his forever. I grin, pressing my lips to his pec over his shirt. When I place my cheek on top of my kiss, his hand comes to stroke at my scalp. His fingers weave their way between my now sloppy curls, massaging me into a deep, drunken sleep.

[vizishereig]

9 for the autumn prompts made me think of hide and seek with Ethan and rose so could you to that? 🥺

helloooo! :D it's kind of short, but I don't think I needed to be long? I could've made this angsty, oh, I got so close to making it angsty.

9. Hiding in the closet from this prompt list

She’s in the closet, curled into a little ball, trying to make herself as quiet as possible.

He’s looking for her.

She can see through a crack in the closet, watching him search the room. He messes with the covers, checks under the bed. He turns to look at the closet.

She curls up a bit more, hoping the clothes will give her some sort of cover.

The closet door opens. She holds her breath, as if that will help.

“Got you!” he says, and she bursts into a fit of giggles as her dad grabs her, squirming in his grip. Ethan drops her on the bed, and she’s still laughing, too happy to pout at her loss.

Ethan waits for her to calm down a bit before gathering her in his arms, kissing the crown of her head. It prompts another fit of giggles, small hands bunching into his shirt.

“Did I do good, Dada?” she asks as she looks up, blue eyes sparkling. He makes a small sound, pressing a kiss to her forehead this time.

“Yeah, of course, baby. You always do,” he says, holding her so, so carefully. Aware of the gift that is in his arms.

She makes a happy sound, wriggling again, trying to escape his grasp. He lets her go, following her as she leaves the room, turning to look at him with a smile.

“You’re turn, Papa!” she giggles, moving to cover her eyes.

He can’t help the small laugh as he moves to find a semi-okay hiding spot, knowing his little girl is too smart for his own good.

His turn indeed.

[sailorshadzter]

some post battle of the bastards jonsa

cause you know....

thats everything

“Where have you been?”

She stops in her tracks, cloak falling from her shoulders, blue eyes widening. Turning, she finds herself face to face with him, with Jon, who sits in the chair nearest the fire- neither of them know now, but it will become his place in her rooms- his Stark gray eyes somber in their gaze. “Out.” She replies, shrugging out of her cloak and draping it over the empty chair she stands beside, her hands frozen, her heartbeat steady. 

“Is he dead?” He asks without preamble, thinking of the man just hours before he’d pummeled until there was almost nothing left. 

She thinks back to what she left behind, to the screams in the night, to the sound of flesh tearing from bones- she only wishes it were the first time she’d heard such a thing. “Yes,” she admits, because she can’t imagine he’s survived what she’s put him through. Jon rises up from where he sits, his bandaged hand reaching for her; his fingertips leave fire in their wake as they trace the curve of her cheek, his gray eyes never straying from hers. “I’m fine,” she insists, softly, brokenly, the pain she felt only traded for another kind. It would never end, she supposes, this pain of hers. “It’s what he deserved.” 

“Aye,” Jon answers with a nod, his hand slipping from her cheek. 

She feels cold, lost, without his touch; she wonders if he thinks less of her now, if she’s made some sort of mistake. “I did it for Rickon,” she continues, thinking of her beloved baby brother, the one she used to cradle to her chest, the one who once clung to her skirts. “I did it for him.” Jon closes his eyes for one long moment, thinking of the brother he’d lost, of the brother he couldn’t protect. When he opens his eyes, she’s still there, the one thing in this life he could save, the one person he could keep safe, no matter the cost. “I did it for him,” she whispers again, tears streaking her cheeks, fists clinging to the dirtied fabric of his doublet. 

“I know,” he says, arms slinging around her, drawing her in; she’s never been this close before.

When she buries her face into his chest, he feels complete, a feeling he’s never felt before. His arms tighten their grip on her lithe frame, realizing now how little weight she’s gained back since their reunion some weeks ago. Jon wants to think that they’re safe, that there is nothing left to fight against, but he knows as well as she does that this is only the beginning. There were lions and the undead left to fight, after all. “I love you,” she whispers, as a good sister should, and Jon feels his heart skip a beat. 

He holds her at arms length now, gray eyes meeting blue, and he knows that this was where he was meant to be. This was where he was supposed to be. “I love you, too,” he murmurs, leaning in so he might press a kiss to her cheek, dangerously close to the corner of her mouth. When she exhales, he could almost discern disappointment, but he thinks it must be his own imagination. “I’ll keep you safe, Sansa,” he adds, softer now, his voice but a whisper against the crown of her head. She laughs, softly, curling inward so she might place her head against his chest, so his heart might beat against the shell of her ear. 

“I know,” she says as he had said sometime before, believing in him as she’s never before believed in anyone before. 

It was only the beginning, she supposes, the earliest of days,  yet she believes in him as if she’s known him all her life- and she has, that’s true, but she’s never bothered to know him as she knows him now. His forehead to hers, she’s smiling, the warmth of his touch at the small of her back all she’s ever needed. 

It was all she’s ever wanted.

[wyn-n-tonic]

Days of You & Me: You, Me—Us

Word Count: 4.5k+ Warnings: Unprotected sex. Marriage talk. Slight cumplay. Slight breeding kink. Anything missed in the warnings was not done with malicious intent and I would appreciate if you could let me know kindly as I wish to do my best in keeping my readers safe. Author’s Note: This is a continuation of the last scene of Chapter June. Thank you to @tauralmie and @darnitdraco as well as @marvelousmermaid for being my continuous shoulders to lean on throughout writing this series.

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Days of You & Me Masterlist | ← June 

“So that’s settled?” I ask him, thunder soundtracking our words. “You’ve already decided on that and everything?”

Joel laughs and lays back. “Would you laugh at me if I told you I’ve pretty much been decided,” he breathes out.

“Only if you tell me something cheesy like you decided the moment we met,” I tease him. “Other than that, I can’t think of any other reason.” 

Another clap of thunder sends a shiver down his spine and he turns on his side with his arm tucked up under his head, eyelids heavy with sleep over his big brown eyes. “I decided on June first,” he whispers, like it’s a secret only for us. “When I came home scared out of my mind because I’d checked my messages and all I heard was that my little girl was hurt”—he reaches over as I turn to face him and pushes a strand of hair away—“and you told me to get my shit together because she was hurt but she was fine and she was fine because she had you.” 

“You sound like you’re going to cry,” I tell him.

“I might just do that,” he says. 

Everything about our relationship and the time we’ve been together is so much to me. So much and not enough and feels like it’s been years in the making . These moments especially feel like some kind of deep memory, like I’m seeing it all through the haze of years away. 

Almost like I’ve lived this moment and this conversation before.

“I wish I’d met you when I moved here.”

A small laugh and he says that he doesn’t think I would’ve liked him very much through a yawn as thunder shakes his body down again. “I think we met each other at exactly the right time, pretty girl.”

Honestly, he’s right. The version I would’ve met of him in 1992 is likely not a version I could’ve fallen in love with. It’s the time I wish we had though.

“We've had quite a few really big conversations lately, haven’t we?” He asks, his grip tightening on my waist where it’s snuck beneath my top again. “I'm honestly still waiting for you to tell me to fuck off.” 

A deep breath and I shake my head to the best of my ability against the pillows. “I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

Him and life.

Our lives together and how it even got here from lattes in liminal spaces full of shared silence and quiet laughter. I practically live with him and I love him and I would give anything and more to protect him and Sarah.

“About a lot of stuff,” I breathe out. “But mainly, I’m focusing on my hope that a condom will magically appear because maybe it actually will.”

“You're deflecting,” he counters. “But I’ll allow it.”

Leaning forward, I press a kiss into the scar on his nose, deciding after to burrow my face into the crook of his neck and take a deep breath. There’s such a safety I feel in his presence but especially like this, breathing him in in the early morning light.

Rain hits the windows harder than before and they rattle with more thunder but he doesn’t shiver or jump this time, just wraps arm around me and presses his lips into the crown of my head.

I feel safe here. Not just right now but in general and every time he mumbles how he could get used to this. I’m starting to understand that he says that when he likes something, not wanting to reveal that he does in case he faces rejection. Saying he could get used to something is merely a suggestion. He thinks he says if he likes something, it’s a demand.

“I hope so,” I murmur into the skin of his neck. “I don’t think we’re getting rid of one another.” 

It’s insane to me how this man who so confidently came back to my work for several days hoping to speak to me for two seconds shows me all the ways in which he’s not that confident at all. I remember that first coffee in my car, when I said he didn’t strike me as a man who doubts himself and he told me he doubts himself all the time. 

Even behind the clouds, it’s barely light outside and he relaxes down, laying flat on his back again and pulling me with him with a deep, contented hum buzzing in his chest.

Sometimes, I wonder how many times I can tell him I love him before he gets tired of hearing it but, every time, he only meets it with sped up heartbeat or a shiver or a smile or all three as he pulls me as close to him as possible. 

Now that I’ve said it, I can’t stop and his reaction never changes by much unless it’s in the low light of his bedroom with a lack of prying eyes. Like now, with his large hand gripping tight into the meat of my ass, arm flexing against my back as he doesn't just pull me closer but cages me in.

When I tell him he has to stop squeezing me like this, he looses a deep belly laugh that rolls in time with the thunder.

“I'll loosen up if you stop rubbing my belly like I’m a good dog, sweetheart,” he drawls out, arm coming up to cover his eyes.

“You purr like a cat, actually.” 

Another laugh, quiet. “I'll show you how catlike you sound in a minute if you don’t watch that mouth of yours.”

Teasing goes back and forth like our hands—mine on his stomach and down, his on my back and down—until our lips have found each other’s between the laughter. Abandoning his hold across the small of my spine, he threads his fingers through my hair and guides me to his lips that open easily for his own. 

“Took you long enough,” he whispers when my fingertips dip just below the waistband of his boxers. “Be gentle with me, I think I’m already on the edge just from feeling you throb against my thigh.” 

“So, I can touch you?” I ask, pushing deeper beneath the fabric.

A thick groan pushes from his throat and his hips lift against my touch, heating radiating from his face as he presses against my lips again. Already, pre-cum is leaking over my hand and his breathing is coming out shallow and hard. 

“Every time we do this,” he laughs out, “it reminds me of that day in your room.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I ask him, dropping my face into the crook of his neck.

He hums a negative and it vibrates through my lips and down between my legs still sore with the memory of him last night.

“You know, I could give you my mouth, Joel.”

“Uh-uh.” He squeezes tighter across my hips and trails his other hand down to meet mine where it’s working him over. “You give me your mouth and I won’t be able to feel you grinding that slick little thing against me.”

I ask him how he knows it’s slick before I bite down on his pulse point, his hard length jumping in my grip before I let go to trail my hand down further.

Joel’s reaction is a broken whine pushed out on a hard breath and an even hard grip as he fists his fingers back into my hair to pull me up and back to his lips. Even if the day is barely a day yet and even if it’s storming down around the house so loud it sounds like it’s gonna fall, he is so warm and bright. The pull I feel for him is gravitational, it has to be with the way I so easily gave in to the small feelings over and over until they were these big, mountain moving things.

“I need to be inside of you,” he whispers against my lips.

“But—“

“I know what I said but I changed my mind.” He sounds out of breath, like he’s run five miles, and his eyebrows pinch together in confusion. “Unless you changed your mind, too?” 

Shaking my head, I tell him that I haven’t. “Just don’t want you to think that I’ve done all this to make you change your mind.” 

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he pushes his head back. “Have a little faith in me, I am capable of resisting your feminine ways.”

Lips pursed, one eyebrow raises and he studies me, eyes darting around my face looking for an answer to the suggestion written all over his.

Barely a nod and he’s crushing your lips down on his again, pulling your hand up with his other and flipping your positions with ease and confidence. 

With a smile on his face, Joel sits back on his heels and peels my underwear down with his movements. “Have you done this before?” When I nod, he laughs a little and asks why I look seasick.

“Never been my idea before,” I tell him, opening my arms and legs to make room for his body to lay down against me again. “Never really trusted the guy I was doing it with either.” 

“Then why’d you do it?” 

His hesitation tenses up against the shrug of my shoulders and he smooths my hair back beneath his heavy palm as I take a deep breath. “Because they were really pushy and, honestly, I didn’t want the fight.”

Lip pulled between his teeth, I watch as the lightning illuminates his sun kissed skin before the soft hum of the house falls completely silent. “Power’s out,” he says. “What if I told you I was afraid of the dark, too? Hmm?” His smile stretches wide to one side, the dimple that usually makes him look boyish and playful doing nothing to hide how cocky he’s feeling.

Last week, I told him that I felt safe with him. Truly and completely safe with all of my trust and all of my heart placed in the palm of his gentle hands. I told him that he’s the only person I’ve ever felt like that with and that I think I knew it from that first day in my car.

Barely breathing beneath his gaze, I push at the waistband of his boxers. “You should take these off, then.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “If I get naked, I’ll no longer be afraid of the dark?”

His body collapses down on me in a fit of giggles, lips pressed into mine and my cheek and my neck as he braces himself on one arm and pushes his shorts down with the other.

“Don't just lay there, pretty girl,” he whispers. “Use your little feet to help me.”

Those whispers continue as I help him push the fabric down his legs, hot breath in my ear while his hand comes up to wrap just below my jaw. He’s telling me how pretty I am in the mornings, that sometimes he’ll wake up early or force himself to stay awake just so he can watch over me while I sleep. Not one word of how creepy that is comes out of me before he’s biting down on my earlobe, telling me to can it. 

Legs shuffling between mine as he kicks himself completely free of the boxers, his mouth opens around the kiss he’s pushing into my chin as his hips fall into the cradle of my own.

“I should take my shirt off,” I say but he’s shaking his head before I finished, telling me he already knows he won’t last and asking if I can give him half a chance.

“But I thought you were perfectly capable of resisting my feminine ways, Joel.”

He nudges right up against my entrance then, grip on my throat tightening slightly, and bites into my pulse point with a deep groan. Beyond that, he doesn’t move except to nuzzle his face into my neck and stroke his thumb across my bottom lip. Every time I try to say something, he quiets me. Says he’s concentrating.

A few beats turn into minutes as he pulls back up to find my lips again, hand sliding down the length of my body to settle on my hip and he pulls my leg up and around his own.

“I think the anticipation is making you hotter,” he says. “Your whole body is on fire right now.”

“That's because the air conditioning is off,” I whine out, waiting for him to take the bait and fall into laughter. Instead, he opens his mouth against mine to take the breath I’m losing as he pushes his hips forward against mine steadily. 

Holding his own breath until he’s fully seated, he finally releases a deep sound of relief like he’s finally sat down after a long day. There’s a pinch in his eyebrows growing closer to one another with every steadying breath. 

“Are you okay?” I ask.

Before I’ve even finished, his answer is a nod dropped into the crook of my neck with another deep breath. “This feels different,” he says after another beat.

“Good?”

Smile stretching wide against my neck, he asks how I could possibly ask him such a silly question; asks if it feels different for me, too. A nod to the best of my ability and he presses a soft kiss and then another and then another to my jaw; my cheek; my lips before smoothing his hand down my hair again.

Everything slows down with him on top of me, even the storm is sounds like it’s starting to Peter out. Not only does this feel different physically but emotionally, too. Like I’m wrapped up in him—all of him. 

Nose pressed right up against mine, lips dragging small sounds and broken words over each other through every kiss and thrust, I don’t realize I’m near the edge until he’s encouraging me over; whispering sweet nothings of praise right into me and begging me to look at him when I fall apart for him.

Which is easier said than done because the liquid coal of his dark eyes in the dark of the room are too much to handle; too studying; too vulnerable in their own right and I have to close mine again.

“God, you’re pretty,” he breathes out, hips stilling as his chest heaves against mine. He’s nudged right up to the space inside of me I all but begged him to stroke against that first night with him but that feeling’s different, too. 

I can feel my breath catching, skin on fire and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that my shirt is soaked through with his sweat and mine. His thumb trails along the swell of my cheek, brushing away sweat or a tear before moving down to grip into my thigh. Everything is teetering on the edge of that much needed clarity and he takes another deep breath.

“Are you okay?” I ask and he nods, hand lifted to swipe across the sweat to the side of his own nose. I ask if he wants to stop and he shakes his head.

Keeps shaking it and says, “I don’t know how to keep going for you without losing my cool.”

“Then lose your cool,” I insist. “I’m right here with you, Joel, and even if I wasn’t, there are ways I could still get mine after you’ve gotten yours.” 

One side of his mouth turns up and he pushes out a laugh which only pushes a half broken whine out of me. “That was hot,” he says. “You're so hot.”

Thunder rolls deep and loud and the shiver that runs through him pulls a deep groan of a longed for relief out of him as warmth pushes into me. I’m expecting laughter to follow in the slackening of his jaw, dropped in shocked, but he apologizes instead. Says he’s sorry because he should’ve asked if he could do that, he should’ve been more in control to even know that it was coming.

“You did know,” I reassure him. “We both knew, it’s okay,” I nod my head as if that will make the look on his face go away. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?” He asks, eyebrows pinched up in worry. “You can be mad at me.” 

Playing with the curls fallen over into the space between us, I ask him why I would be mad about something I liked. “Does that scare you?” I ask him. “That I like this feeling and I like being filled up by you?” 

I know it doesn’t by the way his eyes go soft, no longer concentrated or worried or confused. There’s not even fire in them right now, nothing near to the desperation or lust that blows his pupils out like earlier or last night or the night before that. This is that soft kind of adoration he wears like a badge in moments he thinks I’m not looking; big and brown with half a smile reaching into them.

Big and goofy, his grin stretches wide across his face and he presses his lips to my forehead and then my nose and then my lips, opening my mouth beneath his to push the flat of his tongue down on mine.

We stay like this for a moment, warm in each other’s arms as one hand stays up near my face and the other pushes up beneath my shirt, nails digging into my skin to scratch back down to the place where our bodies are connected.

I can feel him twitch inside of me and the laughter finally does come, followed by an apology for being overzealous; for wanting to get his twice before I’ve gotten mine once.

To the best of my ability, I shrug against the pillows; both shoulders pressing back and brushing up against my earlobes. “Maybe I like that, too,” I say as they drop back down. “Maybe I like that you look wholly relaxed right now.”

“You sure do like a lot of things today, pretty girl,” he says. “How do you feel about me?”

“Oh, I like you the most,” I respond. “Isn't it obvious? Everything else I’ve said I enjoyed this morning hinged upon your happiness but maybe I should be a little more explicit in the future.”

“More explicit than being naked beneath me?” He asks.

“I'm not naked,” I toss back at him.

“No,” he agrees, pressing another kiss to my lips and then pushing himself up to sit back on his heels. “But you are unsatisfied so let me”—he pulls himself from between my legs—“let me fix that for you.”

Lightning lights up the room again and I’m self conscious over the look in his eyes, hard and dark as they look down at the space where our bodies have been connected. When I try to sit up, push my knees together and up to my chest, he pushes me back down and separates my legs again before bending lower to settle his shoulders between my thighs.

“Joel, what are you—“

He shushes me, hot breath ghosting cold across my fevered skin, and looks up. “Would you believe me if I said I just wanted to look?”

“No.”

Smiling again, he nods. “You're right,” he confirms, pushing two fingers in without warning and stroking up. “Thank God for the thunder, though, I think you would be embarrassed by the sound you just made.”

“Joel—“

That cocky disposition drops in an instant and he asks if I want him to stop, eyebrow raised and body still as he waits for my answer. The only one I can give him is a shake of my head, filled up with cotton and white noise and overwhelmed with every bit of him.

Crooked smile, he hooks his fingers like he’s beckoning me to him as he places a kiss against my hip on a laugh. Because my muscles are seizing, tightening up and arching my back off the mattress in further search of him. Whatever words I thought I was capable of are lost and his other hand lays flat across my lower stomach to press down against the upward motion he’s making inside of me.

“Come on, honey,” he encourages. “Please, my dick is so goddamn hard again—“

Half a broken sob between us and he’s pulling away from me again; laying himself across me again and nudging my hands away from my heat blanketed face to speak his honey thick apologies directly into the cup of my mouth to ask if he hurt me.

“No.” Framing his face with my hands, I repeat it again. “No, you’re perfect, Joel.” I’d be embarrassed by the desperation in my own voice if I didn’t see it dripping from every pore of his face.

He lifts himself just enough to push the fabric of my shirt up and over my head and then pushes back down on me, every ounce of his body weight crushing into mine with his head in my hands and his hands dug into the meat of my sides. 

I don’t feel him so much as I relax into him as he pushes into me again, all of my energy and the constantly building and dipping anticipation melting down beneath his brown gaze.

Only months ago, I rolled my eyes at the television or the books when when sex was described or portrayed as something magical—ethereal. But then I slept with Joel and he didn’t just fuck me; didn’t just look at me like an object to find his own peace on and so much of the words I’ve read and heard and sung made sudden sense.

Because it’s that wide grin and the bright laughter that reaches up to his eyes so often they’re crinkled like folding fans that does it.

The soft, brown eyes; the worn hands that move with the intention of gentleness and care; the sun kissed skin in varying shades of gold through the season.

The first time he said he loved me, I swore I didn’t hear him right—convinced myself that it was a joke. When he all but yelled at me in the kitchen saying he doesn’t pressure me to say anything back because I show him every day, I still had half a doubt in my head. But it’s so obvious now, it has been this whole time, and he doesn't just push me to the edge because there isn’t one for the way we are right now.

All there is, is a low buzzing just beneath the surface of my skin; his skin; our skin. It’s less like chasing a high, it’s more like sitting in it and the only soundtrack that exists to it is heavy breaths and slow rolling thunder and desperate little whimper begging for this to go on; because the thought that anything could exist that isn’t him puts more tears into my eyes than any heartbreak I’ve ever had.

“Come on,” he encourages me again, voice raw and filled with half spent exhaustion. “You’re right there, baby, we’re right there.”

Buzzing starts again as the power comes back, cool air kicking in from the vents and the laughter it pulls from both of us—as if to say playtime is over—is what finally does it. Hips moving against mine, his pace stutters and he loses the strength to hold any part of himself up; movements stilling as warmth rushes between us again.

Quiet moments pass with just the sound of both our beating hearts in my ears until he finally mumbles something about being responsible and checking the weather to time when to go pick up Sarah. 

He stretches when he stands, hand outstretched on the suggestion of a shower and then breakfast. 

Under the spray of water, he pulls me close and kisses my forehead. “Do you want to go to the bookstore today?”

It’s such a simple question and it’s so warm. What hits me most about it is that it isn’t about sex or even about the sex we just had. We’ve spent so much time talking about what physical intimacy means to us; what it does to us; how it affects us. If this was anybody else but Joel standing with me in this water, my body and mind would be cracking under the weight of my insecurities that he doesn’t care for what I’ve just given over to him—what we just risked. Ninety-eight percent efficacy is still two percent possibility, after all.

But it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like the soft, lived in intimacy of two people who know each other and care for each other. It’s the kind I felt when I waited up for him that night Sarah got sick; the kind he said he felt when I called him for comfort from home. 

“I've been thinking about something,” I tell him, digging my chin into his chest as I look up at him. “I looked it up and you don’t have to take a test to become a contractor in Texas, my love.”

He fights a smile as he nods. “I know.”

“You know?”

His hands continue working soap into my back, all his concentration focused over my head on his task and he nods again. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “Just didn’t want to tell you.”

“Why not?” Even as I ask, I know the answer. It’s the same answer for all of it—he’s scared he’s gonna fail. But being a failure isn’t the scary part for him, the scary part is having it negatively effect the ones he loves.

He shrugs. “I already know I don’t have to spell that one out for you, Alison. I just—“

“Not a single person in your life is going to hate you if you do this and it doesn’t pan out,” I promise him. “It’s a job and I know you can do it and it’s not just because I love you but because I know what a capable, competent person you are.”

“Is that why you love me?” He asks, his smile crooked and cocksure to mask the deflection he’s giving me.

I could challenge it but I don’t. Because that wouldn’t be fair given how often he lets me off the hook, especially these days when the deflections are fewer and farther between. “Nah,” I tease. “I love you for this huge cock.”

Jaw fallen slack, he’s silent for a few beats; speechless as the water runs over his body and then he laughs. As if I’ve just told the best joke he’s ever heard, he laughs with his whole belly in that doubled over kind of way. “You are so goddamn stupid sometimes,” he teases. “You might as well go ahead and change your name to Alison Miller because I’m gonna marry the shit out of you.” 

All these conversations, all of today so far, really started with that prospect and if I didn't think it was real the first time he said it, I know it is now. 

[dino-fart]

maybe og stephen was not really the best bf and the only reason why hes with reader is to cope with christine but out of nowhere sinister just pops up and takes reader to his universe and maybe shows her how much hes better and how much he can love and take care of her just overall angst to smut- to fluff.

Oooo!

The only brightness in this dark and empty Sanctum that Stephen found himself in was you. You in your new small fairy form, kept in a glass cage so you wouldn't get hurt. He traveled all this way to stop Wanda and had completely forgotten that you were with him. How dare he?! You were his girlfriend!

He removed the cage from his sash and put it down on the table. He looked up to see another version of him and began to speak to him. You crossed your arms over your chest and huffed in anger, your whole glow turned red. After some time, you heard the cage door open and you heard Stephen shout. "Wait no!" He said.

You flew out immediately and headed to the Sanctum window. You gasped seeing the disarray of the dimension you were in. What was worse was when you looked down to see the red-headed woman that you couldn't stand because of Stephen. Why the hell was Christine here?! You turned around and flew toward Stephen with lightning speed.

Your glow was back to red and pointed your finger at him angrily. While you couldn't speak in this new form, the message was clear to him. Stephen grabbed you and pulled you away from him. You kicked your feet and slammed your tiny fists on his fingers. "And who is this, pretty little thing?" You heard Stephen's voice but it wasn't coming from your Stephen…

You turned your head to see a grim-looking Stephen standing across from you. "She doesn't concern you," Stephen said and you rolled your eyes.

"It's very rare to find fairies or any fae kind in your dimension. And it seems like you've upset her." Sinister Strange smirked. You nodded your head in agreement and Stephen released you. "Come to me, lovely," Sinister said to you and extended the palm of his hand. You flew down to land on his palm and noticed how different this Stephen was. He looked…Angry and sad.

You tilted your head at him and watched snapped his fingers to create a small rose crown on your head. Your cheeks and your glow turned pink and you gave him a bashful smile. "How did you find her?" Sinster asked Stephen.

"She was…Turned into this by Mordo…I got there too late. I've been trying to find a spell to change her back." Stephen said. You stuck your tongue out at him and huffed in anger.

"Ah, so you aren't always a fairy, hm? What are you to him?" Sinister asked you.

"She's a friend," Stephen answered and your glow went blue.

You turned around to face Stephen and seeing how uncaring he was brought tears to your eyes. Stephen looked away from you in shame then suddenly purple smoke surrounded you and the next thing you know you were in the arms of Sinister. "Better?" He said and you realized how close you were to him. You moved away from him and walked over to the window to see your reflection. You were back to your normal stature but you still had your fairy wings, the rose crown which was tiny on your head now, and your fairy outfit.

You turned around and hugged Sinister tightly. You tried to say thank you but nothing came out of your mouth. "It'll take a few hours for you to be completely back to normal." He ran his hands through your hair and gazed at you. Your cheeks turned red and you leaned up to press your lips against his. Sinister cupped the back of your head and kissed you deeply.

When he pulled back from the kiss you felt like fainting at how good of a kisser he was. Sinister caught you in his arms and kissed your cheek. "Ahem…" You heard behind him and looked to see Stephen getting concerned, "I think it's time for us to leave."

Sinister looked at you, "What do you think?" You pressed your body close to him and he gripped your hips tightly. "I think you can leave, Stephen, this beauty and I are fine here." Sinister waved his hand to portal Stephen away. Sinister turned to you and picked you up by your thighs to gently lay you down on the floor. "It's time I show you how you deserve to be treated." Sinister moved laid between your legs and kissed your neck.

You realized that this Stephen would make you happier than anyone ever could…

Tagging:@deepbatched, @vikingqueen28, @leonkennedyslefthand, @stewardofningishzida, @icytrickster17, @onlinecemetery, @marki-moo0, @absolute-not-original, @creamecafe, @scrubb, @nightingal3-tales, @alliethedaydreamer, @strangesthirdeye, @alexa-33, @zombiedixon89, @sunnsettee, @deliciousfestsalad, @kiaradaniell, @freyafriggafrey, @criticalroleobssedperson, @avengersfan25, @lunamoonbby, @androgynouspersonapricotfan, @foxcantswim, @namorkawaiiwife, @starkiller-queen, @kyuupidwrites, @luciamajer, @renatas10, @ayamenimthiriel, @gaiagurl05, @dipsylou, @pinkthick, @hansai, @andywinter16, @iambored24601, @3-cheese-tortellini, @cumbrbatchbenedict, @ironstrange1991, @aribas-stuff, @rianumochi, @vibaracal, @lostpirateinwonderland

[jacksgreysays]

35. things you said that made me feel real + Shikako/Gaara, royalty!AU

Anonymous asked: "welcome to the show," Kankurou and Shikako, chaotic political intrigue with a hefty dose of theater

First off, here are all eleven mentions/instances of the Shikaara royalty!AU that I could find because gods know I never came up with a title for that AU and thus have never tagged them for my own convenience: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11. But if you don’t want to read those (most of them are three sentence fic, so it’s not too long, but I get it) then just know that Gaara, youngest prince of Wind, and Shikako, a daughter of a minor noble from Fire, literally bump into each other during Crown Princess Temari’s coronation and the tabloids turn their meeting into the fairy tale romance of the ages.

Okay now that that’s done: Anon(s) I’m also sorry for bundling your prompts together, but this time it’s because they were LITERALLY RIGHT NEXT TO EACH OTHER in my inbox and also, the juxtaposition is SO FUNNY TO ME and also, also, adds additional nuance to both of them that I now cannot untangle them in my mind.

Well, I mean, I COULD. And you would theoretically get a very sweet, serene, straightforward Shikako and Gaara fall in love with each for real during the quiet moments behind what the rest of the world sees as their whirlwind romance via tabloids. Then a separate Kankurou and Shikako being bros and, essentially, grifting [insert number and which countries] daimyo(s) with some kind of stage performance as the cover/distraction while the actual mission is something else entirely. So not exactly The Producers, but a little bit? Also, a little bit like Ask Box Three Sentence Fic 8.2

BUT, what I think I like best about combining the two prompts is that the conflict of the narrative is built in with the softly budding, earnest Shikaara romance having to compete with the wilder, flashier PR scam that Kankurou and Shikako are running. Which does then get into the worldbuilding of: hey, actually, how much privacy do members of the nobility have and what is their duty to their countries and is publicity only good publicity when you control it?

HOWEVER, I’ll be honest, what REALLY got me into wanting to combine these two prompts is that, well…

In response to the first prompt (things you said that made me feel real) my brain immediately went to:

“Do you trust me?” she asks, hand outstretched. Gaara can hear the noise of the press, even muffled as they are by the door separating the green room from the stage. He doesn’t have a very good relationship with the press, his older siblings are more charming, more practiced, he mostly just wants to hide away from all the prying eyes. Though he supposes that’s what got him here in the first place. “Do you trust me?” Shikako repeats, hand still reaching out to him, and it’s now that he notices how it’s trembling, slightly. That she, too, doesn’t like the limelight. That she had also just been looking for a quiet place to hide, during their fateful meeting weeks ago. He puts his hand in hers, matching her grip in an attempt to ameliorate both of their nerves. “Yes,” he says, before they jump into fray together.

And then, because I will always, ALWAYS be in love with Chapter 95 (which even kicked off my whole recursive fic writing in the first place) my brain glommed onto the magic carpet-esque sand platform after the fight and what I’m saying is:

Shikako is Aladdin and Gaara is Jasmine, which ULTIMATELY makes Kankurou the Genie which I think is great :D

And so the second prompt comes in with Kankurou in the Genie role, just doing his best to make this PR machine work in their favor so that he can prove that being a royal doesn’t have to mean being miserable all the time (and also so that he can abdicate his place as first in line after Temari in relative peace)

Because if you really think about it—Gaara is second in line for an entire country (for now, though if Kankurou has his way, he’ll probably be bumped up to first). And, yes, his place will probably drop if/when Temari has kids. BUT, that’s a lot of responsibility. And I don’t exactly know HOW active/how much authority royalty actually has in this world. If it’s more figurehead-ish or if they actually do have executive power in the government. But either way, I don’t think he would have complete freedom over who he gets to be with, in the sense that he still has to do what is best for his country.

BUT, what if Kankurou can make it so that what is best for Wind IS to have the fairytale romance with Shikako and to make it real? (ie, good morale boost/PR for the country, kind of like what was going on with Princess Diana, RIP, and Charles’ relationship but actually good instead of being behind the scenes awful)

So then you have to bridge the gap between literal second (first?) in line for an entire country and the daughter of a minor peerage from Fire. I think I made Fire a five clan oligarchy made up of the canon four noble clans plus the Senju, which—finally my garbage taste in trash manhwa is paying off!—would probably make each of those five clans duchies. And if the Akimichi has the rank of Duke/Duchess, then the Yamanaka and the Nara are their subordinates which means that they are either Marquis/Marquess or Count/Countess.

Add on top of that, Shikako isn’t even her father’s heir. I mean, she could be if she wanted to fight Shikamaru for it, but she suuuuper doesn’t want it or to fight him for it. So… she might not even have a title at all, technically?

I mean, depending on how wild I want to get with the “prequel/backstory” of the royalty!AU (ie, Naruto’s Princess Diaries meets Anastasia fairy tale of realizing that he’s actually the long lost prince of Uzushio because of a grand adventure to meet the Duchess Tsunade) she may have been awarded a title for her “service.” But it still wouldn’t necessarily match Gaara’s second(/first) in line for the Wind monarchy.

Hence why Kankurou has to be the Genie and gas up Shikako’s reputation in Wind a la Prince Ali Ababwa. So you can see how that much chaotic energy and masks on masks and rumor manipulation would be the opposing force of Gaara and Shikako serenely, earnestly falling in love.

Then again, if we REALLY need like… an actual bad guy… I suppose there is the whole… just me scavenging from the Gaara Hiden novel again … Sand council arranging Gaara’s marriage with Hokuto of the Houki family (who would be a high ranking Wind noble in this world). Or maybe I do use the Akatsuki as international terrorist group and technically Shikako is a known associate of one of their members thing? But… I don’t particularly like that plot… so… probably not.

ANYWAYS, just imagine Kankurou having to somehow make the flashiest fairytale romance of the century with two quiet nerds who would much rather not be in the spotlight, please and thank you. He is a stage manager struggling to herd these two cats. Sure, he’s got Jinzo on the Wind side, but he’s also going to need so much of Ino’s help to wrangle Shikako. HE’S DOING HIS BEST WITH WHAT HE’S GOT, OKAY?

Thank you for the prompts, anon(s), I had fun!

[queer-acacia-archive]

Secret Santa for @mete0rm0ss

Finally, I'm posting my secret Santa project. I meant to put this out a lot earlier, but at least now it's done.

Characters: JoeHills and ZombieCleo

Words: 747

Tags: slight existentialism

Cleo was finishing cleaning out one of the rooms of the castle when she saw Joe pass by the castle wall. He looked like he was counting something in his hand- most likely a few diamonds he’d found. She jumped down from the window and glided to the ground, landing squarely in front of Joe’s path.

“Howdy, Joe!”

Joe looked up and smiled. “Howdy Cleo, whatcha been up to?”

“Not too much, just cleaning up some stuff from the castle.”

“Oh, speaking of which… do you know what we’re supposed to be doing with these emeralds?” Joe asked, holding out the small green jewels in his hand.

“Dunno,” Cleo said with a shrug. “I don’t think Ren had a plan for what would happen if the monarchy fell.”

“Hm. Maybe someone needs some emerald blocks for a build, or for villager trading?”

“We can go look around and find out,” Cleo suggested. “If we don’t we can always throw them in some lava.”

Joe chuckled as he stuffed the emeralds in his pocket. “Sure, sounds fun!” He began to take out his elytra, but Cleo stopped him.

“Uh, think we can walk this time? We don’t have to be that fast or anything.”

Joe raised his eyebrow for a moment but nodded as he put the elytra away. “Fine with me,” he said as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Dunno how far away the next base is, but we’ll find our way, I’m sure.”

Cleo chuckled as she headed out into the forest, motioning for Joe to follow her. “Well, don’t leave me hanging now!”

Joe chuckled and jogged after her, not wanting to fall behind. With Cleo being undead, she pretty much had endless stamina, so falling behind meant bad news for him.

The two of them walked in silence for what felt like at least twenty minutes. Every so often, Joe picked a stray flower on their path, and he slowly began to weave them together.

“Joe, can I ask you something?” Cleo said, interrupting their silence and making Joe jump a little. He took a second to compose himself before responding.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Do you feel like we’re being… watched?”

“I mean, it depends on what you mean by ‘being watched’,” Joe replied, his tone as calm as ever. “If you mean watched by all the zombies and creepers around, then yeah, it's pretty normal to me at this point-”

“No, that’s… that’s not what I mean,” Cleo interrupted, knowing if she didn’t that Joe would keep rambling. “I mean by… something else. I don’t… I don’t know by what but it creeps me out.”

Joe shrugged as he stepped onto a fallen tree, walking along the length of the log with his arms out to keep balance. The mass of woven flowers was gripped in his hand. “Huh. Well, I always just kind of figured it was a fact of life. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and we’re watched by a higher power.”

“I dunno how you’re able to accept it so easily,” Cleo muttered as she swiped a tree branch out of her path. If she thought about it for too long, that would creep her out more, so she decided to ignore the feeling.

“I mean, what does it change? Someone is watching us build castles and reforage the earth? We still have the will to go do and say what we want to.”

Cleo pressed her lips together and made a dissatisfied sound. Joe looked at her, then hopped down from the log. He plucked one more flower from the ground and wove it into the other flowers. Oh, it was a flower crown. A little messy, but still a flower crown nonetheless.

“Well, I do know for certain, that even if we’re being watched, I’d still be your friend.” He gingerly placed the flower crown on Cleo’s head. “I think that’s all we need to know is real, don’t you think?”

Cleo tilted her head up a bit, trying to get a proper look at the flowers... and it slid off her head and fell onto the ground, quickly becoming a small pile of flowers and leaves. The two of them stared at each other for a second and burst into laughter as they picked up the crown’s remains.

“Thanks, Joe,” Cleo said, taking one of the flowers from Joe’s hand and tucking it behind her ear. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

[starlitwinter]

XX

Short chapter, I know but well, I didn't had the heart to write a full smut so I had to cut it off... TW: non-con (?), there is a begining of smut, so if you want to skip it, it's between " Teivel let out a groan" and "Their first week as newlyweds" See you next time!

Chapter Text

Teivel pulled her in a dance as soon that she left Artanis, slightly pissed off by her disappearance. His grip was tight on her waist, surely going to leave marks on her skin.

“A little bird told me something” said Teivel, one of his hand gripping her chin to make her face him, as he made them slowly go to an dark corner. “Do you know what that’s little bird told me about my sweet sweet wife?”

Nenlissë frowned “What are you talking about Teivel?

-Your cousin, my little mouse, I heard that you’ve been quite close to your cousin. Letting him hold you, kiss you, love you.

-Turko?”

Teivel rolled his eyes in annoyance, his grip tightening on Lissë’s chin. “Yes. Your sweet and kind Turko. Are you cheating on your poor husband with your cousin, Lissë?

-What? No! What are you even talking about!”

Teivel stared into her eyes, fishing in her memories to know the truth. His face finally cracked into a loving smile before he pulled Nenlissë by her chin to press his lips to hers. “Oh, my Lissë. Pardon me, I was merely jealous of your relationship with your cousin. You two are quite close. I love you, you know that? I would never hurt you, pet.”

His sweet lies rolled on Nenlissë’s mind and her frown was washed away as she smiled to him. “I love you too” She replied as he wrapped his arms back around her waist and only hummed in agreement, making them dance back in the light, pressing a little kiss to her forehead before he changed the subject of their conversation and appear like a loving husband.

“I can feel your annoyance, sweetpea” he whispered to her “what’s the matter?” he asked in her mind, trying to look in her memories. Nenlissë just sighed. “I had an unpleasant chat with my sister. That’s all. But we settle it down. Nothing to worry about.” she replied before saying out loud. “Let’s just enjoy our wedding without any more disturbances, my beloved”

He nodded at that before pulling her in a tighter hug and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “Just tell me when you’ll want to retire, understood?” he muttered against her hair, enjoying the lilac fragrance he could smell. “But we’ll have to talk about what happened earlier” he slipped in her mind before kissing her lips. “Your family is awaiting for us.”

—

Well after the golden light had changed for the silver, the party began to die down and everyone was simply chatting, no longer dancing or eating. Teivel was sat down on a cover on the grass, Nenlissë between his legs, her back resting against his torso. Teivel was discussing with one of his friend Nenlissë supposed, an elf she didn’t remembered the name. Teivel’s arms were wrapped around her waist, his thumbs caressing her knuckles. Nenlissë yawned, feeling her eyes flutter shut and her body slumber more into Teivel. The elf just pulled her more closer, now resting his head on her shoulder. “You’re feeling tired, doll?” he whispered, his lips grazing her cheek, not bothered by doing and exposing some affection in front of the elf he was previously talking to. Lissë just nodded and Teivel smiled before helping her to get up and quickly excused them before leading Nenlissë away from where the people had gathered.

“Do you want to go to bed, my lovely girl?” He asked her softly, already heading them back to her parents’ house. “Shouldn’t we bid our goodnight?” She asked softly but Teivel shook his head. “No need, you’re barely standing on your own, so much you are tired. And I want you all for myself. My wife.” He replied, kissing her temple then her cheek as he opened her bedroom door and locked it at soon they entered.

Nenlissë smiled at him before throwing her arms around his neck and tiptoed to kiss his lips. Their embrace quickly become heated, his tongue slipped in her mouth, his hands creeping closer to her rear, resting on her hips and small of her back, pressing her closer.

Teivel let out a groan as Lissë began to play with his black hair, her fingers rubbing slightly his skull.

“You’re making it very difficult for me not to rip this dress from your body and make you mine.

- What if it is what I want?

-At least let me undress you, it would be a shame to destroy that sublime dress” He whispered to her, his hand traveling higher on her back to find the laces and gently took them off. His lips pressed kisses to the skin of her neck, of her shoulders, her cleavage and after, pulling the dress down to her feet, her breasts.

“Teivel- Wait” Nenlissë, blushing as her lover, her husband began to lick the soft flesh of her chest. The elf looked up at his wife with a little smirk “What is it my love? Are you going to deny me that pleasure?” She stared down at him before shaking her head “N-No but…” He didn’t even let her finish her sentence and took her nipple in mouth, sucking like a starving child at her breast. His hands traveled down to her lingerie and again she tried to stop his hands. “Tei-” The elf sneered, pushing the woman down her bed, staring down at her. “Stop, Nenlissë. You are my wife. You are not in a position to say no to me. It has to be done.” He climbed on top of her, trapping her against the mattress. “Don’t you want to fit in here? Don’t worry, my darling, I’m going to take care of you.” He finished, taking off his own robes before pressing a long kiss to her lips, pressing his body against hers. “Everything is going to alright” He whispered, his eyes shining with a new light our human had never saw. “Just let me do as I want, doll”

That night was long as Teivel took time to fulfill all his needs and Nenlissë let him do so, let him use her body until he fell asleep beside her.

Their first week as newlyweds was a week Teivel made a point to not let her leave the bed, only for absolute necessity. Time passed and Nenlissë, again caught up in her love bliss, forgot about the upcoming future and let Teivel isolate her more and more from her family, keeping jealously the human in his house, letting her go out when he was around, constantly fishing in her memories to be sure she obeyed his wishes and had no suspicions about his dirty secret.

At that part of her life, Nenlissë was a fool. A complete fool and she would regret not questioning Teivel’s behavior earlier.

[sukirichi]

black magic [01]

REQUEST. arranged marriage + enemies to lovers (sukuna is a simp and lowkey a housewife)

CONTENT/WARNINGS. some suggestive scenes, but overall fluff and romance! slight crack fic, I guess? I was laughing when I wrote this lol

NOTES. I NEED A HUSBAND! SUKUNA I’M GOING TO CRY GOODBYE THIS HAS ME SOFT. also anon i’m not sure if you wanted something with more ~sexual tension~ since this is kind of just comedic, but I hope you like it anyway!

part one | part two (nsfw)

“This is new,” you comment with a glare, your ankle propped on Sukuna’s knee.

“Shut up,” he rolls his eyes, pushing your skirt aside to clean the wounds you attained through exorcising curses. You’ve taken a particularly strong curse today and you’re caught off guard, barely finishing the mission unscathed. Limping all the way back home isn’t easy especially since you live on top of the darned mountain, but if Sukuna’s going to kneel in front of you like this...maybe it wasn’t too tough a journey. “You should stop going to missions you’re not ready for. Look at you, all wounded and bloody.”

“You sound like you care.”

“You’re my wife,” he huffs while dropping the bloody towel on the floor. Sukuna wraps the bandage around your ankle and carries you bridal style even though you’re perfectly capable of walking, but he shoots you a silencing glare. You’d have knocked him in the face any other day, but he’s particularly warm and smells nice today – plus you’re beat – that you bury your face in his chest, ignoring that stupid fluttering in your stomach. “Of course I do.”

You snicker, mind tracing back to your earlier years of this dreaded marriage.

It definitely wasn’t the best – the memories blurring between strangling each other to making out as if breathing was never a thing – and it felt like forever ago when you first met him.

You’d never say it out loud, but... you don’t regret this arranged marriage. Not when Sukuna is tucking himself beside you on the bed, your head above his muscular chest a place similar to home. He covers both your bodies over with a blanket, pulling your body closer to him with a strong arm, his lips pressing onto the crown of your head.

Ugh, you think to yourself, giving in to the need to cuddle your husband after a long day of work. You still refuse to say it out loud, though, and you irk him further by muttering, “That’s not what you said two years ago.”

“I wasn’t in love with you then.”

 “I refuse to be married to you!”

Sukuna fights back the urge to cover his ears. Ever since your clan decided to visit his land and started exorcising curses one by one, his life has been nothing but hell. Not only are your relatives the most arrogant people ever with a consistent god complex, they just had to let their little mortal child be in charge of taking on the stronger curses. Seriously, what were they thinking, sending you – who’s barely even out of their training bra years – to deal with curses like him?

Everyone knows Sukuna is a no bullshit man. He won’t hesitate to cut your head off the moment you came raging at him, but then he sees how young you are and decides to send you back to your family.

Expecting that everyone would just call it a day and he’d get offerings for his unexpected mercy, Sukuna is beyond stupefied when they send you back to his temple, all dressed pretty with a basket of fruits and flowers braided in your hair. He remembers growling because you look adorable, but that’s easily wiped away when you open your mouth, your voice scratchy against his ears as you stomp your feet like the young mortal you are.

Sukuna pushes a thumb to his forehead to ease the impending headache, and that’s just from your presence. Something inside him tells that you’re going to be a bigger pain than you look.

“You don’t have much of a choice. You should’ve thought of that before deciding to run rampage over my land,” he reminds, turning boredly to his lone servant from above his throne. Sukuna isn’t impressed, to say the least, especially with your clan’s audacious proposition to gain his favour just this once. “Is this really the woman you bring me – the one they insist to be my wife?”

“She is their best fighter, my Lord.”

Well, he can’t disagree to that. You did, after all, single-handedly give him a cut on the cheek. “She’s feisty indeed.”

“Don’t talk as if I’m not here!”

“Mouthy too,” he mumbles to himself, but your sorcerer senses are sharp and easily picks up on it. He sees you flush angry again, looking immensely adorable with your tiny fists clenched like that and he snorts, waving a hand in the air. “Whatever. Get the wedding over with,” he nods to his servant, his sigh loud and tired as he makes his way to you.

You don’t stiffen at each haunting step, his eyes only glimmering harder with entertainment. It’s rare to find a mortal that doesn’t quiver at the sight of him, the urge to break you only growing stronger.

Even as he cups your face, making sure to not let his claws dig into your precious skin, Sukuna smirks. You’ll be entertaining indeed.

So Sukuna makes a promise, four eyes surveying the way your body is starting to fill in curves at the right places, the swell of your flesh just perfect in his hands... He chuckles to himself, daunting you further as he leans down to your ear, taking pleasure in the slight way your breath hitches. “Maybe then I’ll get to teach you a lesson or two.”

You’re definitely something else, taking advantage of each presented opportunity and not wasting any time before you make your move. Right after the wedding and everyone’s left, leaving you alone with your new husband behind closed doors; you push him until he’s on the ground, legs straddling each side of his hips while you growl above him – the sound similar to a battle cry.

Sukuna merely smirks, barely moving a muscle as his large hands come up to rest on your hips to steady you. “I’ve imagined countless ways you’d be on top of me like this,” his eyes light up with humour upon feeling the cold blade on his skin, “None of them included a knife on my neck though.”

“Shut your mouth. I will kill you myself,” you warn, pressing your knife harder until it draws a slight tinge of blood.

You hardly look threatening above him like this, dolled up to look the best in your wedding with this cursed being. If anything, you look more divine than deadly, and Sukuna thinks that perhaps your beauty could be your best weapon. You are bewitching, after all.

“I refuse to be your Queen and sit next to your throne.”

“Then why didn’t you stop the wedding?”

“I—”

Sukuna’s teasing grin grows wider when you pull back, trying so hard to not trip over your words. It takes all of his self-restraint to not take you right then and there, but he does a good job of holding back, enjoying this view above him instead. “Could it be you’re attracted to me after all, hm, little one?”

“Do not test me, Curse. I’m more than capable of exorcising you myself.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. You’re the strongest in the Gojo clan, are you not?” he prompts to appease you, “I don’t even want to see what you’re capable of, but maybe, just maybe...” just as his eyes darken, the edges of his lips turning up into a smirk, Sukuna digs his claws into your thigh in a possessive show of ownership, a painful reminder that you’re his now. “...You could put on a little show for me?”

“I hate you!”

Experienced and strong as you are, you’re nothing compared to a thousand year old curse who’s killed a lot more people faster than you could blink. Sukuna immediately notices the animalistic way you draw your blade, arm swung back with rage written all over your face. Before you could so much as bat an eye, he easily switches the positions until you’re under him, using only one hand to pin your arms above your head, your blade effortlessly thrown to the other side of the room.

“As I thought, you’re a lot prettier under me like this,” he observes, roaming his eyes shamelessly over the fabric clinging prettily to your body. You’ve fallen silent at his unconcealed attention, your compliance enticing him to lean closer just to inhale your intoxicating scent.

“Not so feisty now, little one? Where’d all your hatred for me go?” Sukuna pulls back with widened eyes, “Oh? Am I hearing it wrong or is your pathetic human heart beating so loud right now?” You refuse to look at him, wriggling your hips in an attempt to leave, completely unaware that the mere movement is hypnotizing the curse above you. Sukuna grips your hips in warning, not wanting to destroy you – not now, anyway. “You know all you need to do is say it. I’d gladly take you right here and then.” His words spoken with that deep, throaty voice immediately sends a wave of heat down your core, but you turn away from him, breathing hard and nervously; something Sukuna picks up on in an instant. “Little one...have you never had a man hold you like this before?”

“N-no...”

“I see. Pure and innocent behind that ferocity, huh?” He surprises you by pulling away, smoothening his white robes down as he leaves you panting still on the floor. “Fine. I won’t touch you unless you ask me to.”

“I’d rather die before that ever comes out from my mouth.”

“We’ll see about that,” he smirks, winking at you before he shuts the door. “Little one.”

There’s a lot of weird – and utterly inconvenient things – about being Sukuna’s wife. The man eats everything, absolutely everything, and it doesn’t help that he sucks at hunting too. For a man so huge and burly, he sure is lazy, preferring to do the laundry in the riverside instead while you go out every day to prepare your meals.

You actually don’t mind, but it’s very fun to complain around him.

You’re on your way back to the temple when Sukuna grabs at you, making you drop the freshly caught birds onto the ground. Your brows furrow, about to scold him for being too eager again when Sukuna stares at your arm, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Following his line of sight, your lips form an ‘o’ shape. There’s blood trickling down your forearm from his claws accidentally cutting you, guilt written all over his face. Another weird thing about Sukuna is that he babbles a lot when he’s emotional, and you’re too tired to hear him beat himself over it that you just drag him inside your room, sitting his ass down before taking a clipper.

Sukuna scoffs when you start cutting his nails. It irks him that you don’t even bother wiping the blood off first and he tsks, eyes narrowed at you. “You should have thicker skin.”

You roll your eyes as you file his nails; you’ve been married to him long enough to know it’s his way of saying sorry. Not wanting to let him wallow in guilt any louder, you pad kisses over his knuckles before swiping the black ink off your desk, using a pen brush to colour your nails instead. Sukuna hovers behind you, head tilted to the side as he watched you. “Are you painting your nails black?” he utters in disbelief, trying to ignore the fact he feels...proud and even a little smug. “Not so fitting for the angelic sorcerer now, isn’t it?”

“I’m only doing this so you don’t feel left out.”

“Maybe I’ll add markings to your pretty face too,” he cups your jaw to make you turn to him, landing a solid kiss flat to your lips which makes you sigh, pretending to be annoyed but leaning over for another peck anyway. Sukuna laughs and pulls you onto his lap, kissing your neck this time around, a little annoyed that you don’t stop in brandishing your nails. “Wife, what do you think?”

“I have work, Sukuna. You flirting with me doesn’t change the fact I need to go.”

“Come home safe for me, at least?” he breathes down your neck, his touch sending shivers down your spine. You’ve definitely changed since the first time he’s met you, starting from a mean (although he stands strong that you are still mean to him sometimes) temperamental little one to a mature, stronger sorcerer who’s secretly weak for his wife.

Unable to resist him as always, you turn around once you’ve finished painting your nails, rubbing your nose over his until your strong, scary husband is turning into putty at your hands. “Of course I will,” you peck his lips one last time, Sukuna’s eyes closing as he dives in for a deeper kiss. “I’ll always come back home to my handsome husband.”

If anyone were to ask how it’s possible that the King of Curses is actually very soft for his sorcerer wife, everyone would claim it’s impossible and a heresy – but if you ask Sukuna, it’s probably just black magic doing its wonders.

[minsyal]

The Great Stone Knight, Pt. V

Sandor Clegane x Reader

Warnings will remain vague and be for the work as a whole as opposed to each part individually: violence, death, assault, my shitty characterizations, explicit language, sexual content (will be noted), and having too good of a time reading this.

Masterlist

 Sandor Clegane had been the man your knight warned you to stray from. Now he was the man who always brought up your rear, he was your shadow… a rather large shadow for your figure, but a shadow, nonetheless. His loyalty clearly remained in the hands of the Lannister Baratheon’s, or at least to the throne that sat in that horribly egotistical room that was now stained with red and silver. Though, you found glimpses wherein he would relax. His shoulders were less tense, and his guard was less firm. Your betrothal to Gregor Clegane had barely been spoken of since it was first mentioned. Quite possibly, it was a passing fancy of the boy king, who thought it funny to torment helpless girls. The truth of the matter was that you were not helpless. You had some skills; albeit not in fighting. 

“You told Cersei?” You groaned loudly, stomping your foot against the ground in an instance of childishness. “How could you? She’s a child, Clegane! Motherhood should not be forced upon a child.” Earlier in the day, you had found Sansa in her room with the consulting hand of her handmaiden pressed tenderly to her quaking shoulder. She had just returned from meeting with the queen to discuss her sudden reach into womanhood. 

“I serve the crown.” His voice was full of cogency, holding an inert force that only he seemed to possess. “The sooner you get that into your fucking head, the better.” 

“You serve an item with no authority if that is to be true.” The jibe came with a matched vigor; the choler of your temper began to burst from your depths. “I could throw the crown into Blackwater Bay tomorrow… would you follow it into the water’s bowels? Any man idiotic enough to believe that he is doing well by inflicting pain on a young girl is no man. He’s a useless coward.” There was a finality to your words that would have held more weight had he not moved so suddenly. 

The back of your dress was introduced to the wall as your lungs deflated. It wasn’t a painful action, but an unexpected one, and one done with the purpose of intimidation. Sandor kept a tight hold of the biceps of your arms, his grip unwavering even with the way the fabric of his gloves dug awkwardly into his joints. His large hands nearly wrapped entirely around your appendages, fingers barely touching one another. 

As he articulated himself, his inflections became stifled, and his breath hot. “You best fall in line, girl. I warned you once, and I’ll warn you again. That mouth of yours is going to get that pretty little head of yours put on a fucking pike just like every other treasonous cunt who walks this land.”

“Can the great Sandor Clegane not handle criticism?” You spat back, holding his gaze. Mentally rejoicing in the slight spittle that flung itself from your lip to his face. “Oh wait. That’s not true, you sit idly by as that twat you call a king refers to you as ‘Dog’ and ‘Hound’ and berates you for the burn placed upon your head by no fault of your own. So, what is it then? Can’t handle a woman who doesn’t bite her tongue?” 

“You have no idea what kind of shit you’re getting ‘yerself into.” He ground his teeth together as his grip tightened, sure to leave an uncomfortable redness behind. “If anyone but me hears you, you will be executed.” 

“Good. I look forward to it.” 

Releasing you, Sandor couldn’t help but adjust his jaw and roll his tongue within his mouth as it had grown sore from the force of his teeth. To say you were a heavy irritant in his life would be saying the least. He, for the life of him, could not understand why you wouldn’t just fall into place like every other woman of the court. To his surprise, you didn’t spare a glance to your welting reddened arm as you passed him by. With head held high, you marched yourself toward one of the many unused courtyards that you had found when you first arrived. 

“Where are you going?” He almost sounded like a tired parent attempting to console his unruly child. 

“I need to hit something.” You hollered back and extended a pointed finger to the wall at your side as you passed it, “Preferably not my head against this wall. Unless, of course, you’d like to save the King time and get my death over with now.” 

Within the courtyard was a wooden training dummy, standing dumbly against one of the many pillars. It was an area that had gone vacant as people of the Keep migrated to other sections. The area was mostly enclosed, a roof standing above the main floor with a balcony looking out over the city on the other side. Vines climbed the cream-colored columns that were engraved with flowers and leaves. A few potted plants wilted in the corners of the room. In the few times you had come here, you’d never seen another person. Inside one of the garden beds was a sheathed short blade, retrieving it you took it out and slashed it through the air twice as Sandor spoke. “What do you think you’re fucking doing?” 

“Training.”  

“For what?” 

“To perform on a grand stage for all of Kings Landing and the shit people of Westeros. What do you think, Clegane?” You swung it once more in Sandor’s direction. “I’m supposedly betrothed to your loving brother. I’ve heard stories and I don’t intend on becoming another Elia Martell.” He should have been bothered by the lady having possession of such items, as he wasn’t even sure when you moved them into the courtyard. Leaning against one of the pillars, he crossed his arms over his chest and watched you move about the open space. You were performing, just not for a stage. 

It was obvious that your earlier interaction had gotten beneath your skin. From the way your chest heaved, to the cringe that crawled up the vertebrae of your spine, your feelings were displayed on your sleeve. He relished in it, amused and gladdened at the glare you tried to keep on your face. “You're holding it wrong.” 

“How am I holding a knife incorrectly?” 

“It isn’t a knife.” Using his shoulder to boost himself from the wall, he walked over to you and took the blade from your hand, placing it backward so that the sharp edge was pointed outward. “Swing it against me.” 

Slashing it now was easier. The chains of his armor shifted slightly as it pulled against them.

“If you swing it with the blade forward in your hand,” he turned it in your grasp and guided your hand through the same motion, “you’ll only cut. With it this way,” he moved it back, “it’ll drag.” He shrugged. “Does more damage.” 

You repeated the motion, afterward narrowing your gaze and pressing your lips together tightly. “Do you think it smart to be telling me this when the intended purpose of the blade could potentially be for you?” Your neck strained as you tilted your head skyward to look into his eyes. There was a softness to them, one that if not searched for could easily have been missed. 

“Do you think you could kill me?” 

The stray brown hairs of his head fell lazily over the right side of his face as he beveled his view. “If you were incredibly drunk, blind, deaf, and without both your legs… maybe your arms too, conceivably.” 

He leaned forward, depleting the distance between your noses considerably as each minute detail of his features enunciated themselves against the bright backdrop of the outdoors. “I don’t think you could kill me even if I were hogtied, princess.”

An enigmatic smile drew itself from your lips. “If you continue using that title, we will just have to test your theory, Hound.” 

His jaw was slack, his bottom teeth peeking out from the top of his lip. He tried again and again to put some sort of trepidation into you. You were supposed to be scared of him… he was the Hound! People cowered at the sight of him; people feared and hated him. He was a figure of power, a stoic enforcer to the mad king. Yet, you continually evaded his attempts and persisted in the useless endeavor of gaining some sort of friendship. Each time he would pull you aside and scold you it was like it only solidified your stance. In the months that you had been a resident of the Red Keep, he had only seen true terror in your eyes twice – when Ser Lorric died and when you were promised to a man of Westeros, feasibly betrayed by your father. 

~~~*~~~

Dear father, 

I have been betrothed. I continue wishing to return home. I dislike Westeros – at least all that I have seen. I have made peace with one of the young ladies here, her name is Sansa Stark. I would elaborate further, but I feel that my words are falling on deaf ears. Please send for me. 

Lady (Y/n) of the Hill

~~~*~~~

In the morning, the small council met in the holdfast. A meeting had been called the day prior for updates regarding the coming of autumn and winter. The majority of the council hadn’t even the time to break their evening fasts. The dwindling group, made more whole by the presence of Tyrion, sat around the edges of the large table of metal and resin.  Each had an empty chalice within their reach, but only one was filled with the fermented liquid so early in the day. 

They spoke of their usual chatter, discussing coin and battle as each member worked overtime in an occulted endeavor to make up for the missing members who now waged war against them. Cersei sat in the place of the king, attending in his stead as he was off - likely tormenting the population of the Red Keep. She added her word and opinion here and there, remaining mostly silent as her ears filtered out the rambling of Pycelle and flattery of Baelish. 

“Has there been any word from her father yet?” Tyrion pondered, eyes locked into his glass as he swirled the liquid around. “If I do recall, a raven was sent a month ago. Birds tend to travel faster than ships last I recalled.” He popped the last syllable of his sentence and welcomed the last bit of wine into his mouth as he downed the remainder of the goblet. 

“No word, my lord.” Varys commented, leaning forward slightly in his seat before readjusting himself and sitting tall. 

The other members of the council did not need to wait long for someone else to speak as Cersei filled the short silence with her curt word. “There will not be any word.” She held no one's eye as she spoke, instead opting to stare forward toward the closed doors. She finished her sentence with a tone laced with an unbridled decisiveness, and the way she closed her lips and met the eye of each council member said all that needed to be said. 

Each man looked quizzically at her, a different emotion crossing each of their aged features before a silent conclusion was reached. 

~~~*~~~

Tyrion continued on his bought of how the unification of Antonia to Westeros would ultimately benefit everyone. He was a true politician, and from the way he spoke and carried himself, he rather enjoyed the fickle game that the nobles played. He was a brown-noser, true and true. The meeting was short in duration, lasting less than an hour and enjoyed over an afternoon snack of wine and delicate cakes. None of the latter were touched, and the former was mostly drained by himself and the sellsword who currently found himself as the Commander of the City Watch. Though, Bronn had retired to a formal placement in the room, standing near one of the many windows as his wandering eye scanned the various entrances and exits. 

“I heard a song recently.” Tyrion said, breaking the silence that followed after each uncomfortable comment thrown by Bronn. 

“I’m not much a fan of riddles and song, Lord Tyrion.”  You watched as he poured himself another glass of wine, the ruby spirit turned the tinted glass a shade of burgundy. 

“Then let us not recite riddles or sing songs.” He offered the pitcher, emptying the last bit into a chalice for you. “Your betrothal to Ser Gregor, are you pleased with it?” 

It had been nearly a month since the betrothal and as you grew closer to your personal guard, you still knew next to nothing of his elder brother. Baelish had tried to catch you alone on a few occasions, but the encounters always fell flat as Sandor would round a corner and the man would immediately become tight-lipped. He had always started with word of Gregor, and ended with words of meeting again another time. There had been instances of him catching you with a quick chat, but the information he gave never seemed to be in truth. 

“I suppose I am as pleased as one can be.” 

Sandor and Bronn stood on opposing sides of the room, both behind their respective parties but just far enough that they had to strain to hear the conversation when hushed. Each time you caught the sell sword’s gaze, the corners of his eyes would crinkle as a toothy grin signaled the readjustment of his feet. 

“As pleased as one can be.” Tyrion contemplated. “Can you think of someone who would be better suited? I know our gracious king would entertain your wishes should you present differently.” 

“Gracious.” A scoff began to leave your lips, but you halted it. Your legs crossed over one another as you tucked your arms closer to your body.

“But of course.”  His cup clacked against the glass table as he placed it down. “He is a fair and just ruler.” The sarcasm that oozed from his tone was not missed. 

“Even if he were impaled on a pike outside the Holdfast, I don’t think he would allow for fair or just treatment.” 

“A rather treasonous statement.” 

“Much like the ones you’ve spoken.” A look of apprehension sewed itself into Tyrion’s features, crossing over one side of his face to the other as it slithered from ear to ear. “I’ve heard songs from little birds too, Lord Tyrion.” 

“It seems you have.” He relaxed into his chair and picked up a quill that had been lying next to a piece of rolled parchment. “Well, I would just like to put this offer on our tables, then.” The end of the quill pointed in your direction as he offered the feather to you. “If you wish to write to your lord father, I will see to it personally that it be delivered to him.” 

He gently placed it down on the table and pushed the paper in your direction. “Will you travel across the Great Sea yourself?” 

“You do amuse me, Lady (Y/n).” The shake of his head was paired with the rubbing of his hands together. “I am needed here, but perhaps I can expedite it.” When you failed to take the paper and quill yourself, he lifted it and prompted it to your palms. “Consider it.” His sight twitched to your rear, finding Sandor who was not paying attention. “Tell no one.” 

News of a battle reached the ears of those who lived in Kings Landing and was delivered by Sandor, and then Sansa who hurriedly rushed into your room with her handmaiden, Shae, following closely behind. He had been spending time in your chambers this morning as he grew bored of standing outside. “My eyes grow tired of watching the wall.” He stated as he opened the door and seated himself at the table hours ago. The two of you remained in a pleasant silence, him observing your work as you unstitched and sewed a new dress.

 In truth, you had been finding peace in his company. At first, his intent stare was unnerving. He would stand within the confines of your room, hand held on the hilt of his sword, not really contributing much to conversation. From standing, he transitioned to sitting at the table as conversation flowed with an increased fluidity. As he relaxed, he discovered an odd comfort in your presence. He was blunt and gruff; he was most certainly not the type of man you would have been arranged to or even to watch over you back home. But neither was his brother, your supposed betrothed. As the days tumbled into nights and then days again, you felt a strange fondness growing deep inside of you. Perhaps it was the culmination of an increased pervasion of time spent together and his strong indifference to your title. Maybe it was something else. 

“(Y/n).” Sansa entered after a knock and voiced permission, stilling in her step as her eyes laid on the large man who drank freely at the table. Her deep northern accent heightened the innocence of her tonality as she hushed her words. “What is he doing in here?” 

“Drinking.” Sandor replied simply, pouring himself another chalice of the darkened crimson liquid. How he managed to stay alert was beyond your comprehension. 

“(Y/n)?” 

“He’s alright, Sansa. What brings you here?” Raising your focused eyes from the mannequin that had been supplied on your request, you smiled gently to the girl who had difficulty tearing her stare from the Hound.  

“Stannis Baratheon sails for Kings Landing.” She approached and whispered, as if that meant anything to you. Her hesitation stemmed mostly from Clegane’s presence in the room. She had not had many good interactions with him, leading her to become weary with his audience. Looking past her, you called to Sandor. “Sandor, would you mind allowing me to speak to Lady Sansa?” 

He held his glass up and beckoned you to continue prompting the roll of your eyes. 

“Alone... You can return to your drunken haze as soon as she has gone.” 

It wasn’t often that you asked him to leave the room, as the majority of your time spent together was uninterrupted. Despite this, he turned his head in a lull and pushed himself up from the table. Exiting without argument, he held the door open and regarded Shae in a way that would make most handmaidens flinch. Though, she did not. “The lady said alone.” He grumbled on his way out, not caring to hold the door long as Shae reluctantly joined him in the hallway. 

Only once the door was closed did Sansa speak again, this time less timidly. “My father believed Stannis Baratheon to be the rightful heir to the Iron Throne after King Robert passed.” Her delicate hand came to rest upon yours as it fell against the fabric of your dress. “(Y/n), he won’t hurt us. At least, he won’t hurt me and if I say so, not you either. If he claims the throne and Kings Landing, we will be safe. We can go home.”

“So, there is to be a battle?” 

“I’ve only heard bits and pieces. Lord Tyrion was speaking of it to Joffrey.” Her fingers, wrapped around yours as a hopeful smile graced her lips. “Please tell me you will join me in Winterfell. I know your father wants you married here, and that you are betrothed to the Mountain, but-” She held your entwined fingers to her chest, you could faintly feel the nervous shaking and sporadic beating of her heart. “I have brothers, perhaps one of them?”

You chortled at her idea, exchanging her smile for one of your own as your breathy words fell lightly upon her ears. “I will join you in Winterfell, but I will not make any promises regarding your brothers.” 

“I think you would like Robb; he would like you.” She was ecstatic at the idea of her friend marrying her brother. It was most certainly a surefire way to keep the two together. “He was very popular among the women of Winterfell.” 

Her elder brothers, you learned long ago, were both younger than you. As normal as it may be, you had no interest in betrothal to men nearly four years in difference, but you were more than excited to meet them after listening to her stories for the greater part of a year. Looking back, it was difficult to believe you had been here that long, held captive for the vast majority of that time. 

“He could be like your own Stone Knight. He could march for King’s Landing and save the both of us.” Her hand dropped from yours, falling loosely at her side. “I could plan your wedding. Oh! And I could make your dress.” The dress behind you was brought into view as she circled the mannequin, inspecting your work. “We could make it together.” She concluded, approving of the garment you had sewn. 

Deciding against the idea of bringing the girl back to reality, you drew near and held a soft smile upon your lips. “I would love that.” 

Sansa’s young heart raced as her mind filled with ideas of a perfect northern wedding. She imagined hearths filled with warm firewood, glittering candles burning between a feast of traditional dishes, and a ceremony at night beneath the weirwood tree. Pressing a hand to her chest, she willed herself calm but could not wipe the smile that spread from ear to ear. “I’m so grateful that you’re here with me.” 

Her feet led her back toward the closed door, each step becoming shorter and shorter in stride. 

“I’m grateful for you as well, Sansa. We should dine together soon.” 

Facing opposite you, she pressed her lips into a concealed grin. “We should.” And then she continued to the door, opening it slowly as she slipped from the room, leaving you alone. 

“You may reenter.” You called to Sandor, whose shadow grew in size as his long legs carried him across the hall and to the threshold of your door. He opened it enough for his body to slip through, entering quickly before shutting and latching it as he typically did. 

“If you keep entering as discreetly as that, the maids will begin to think something is going on between the two of us.” The comment was light, fluttering past the part of your lips. 

He cared not of having a clean reputation; after all, all chances of that were thrown out the door the moment his father covered for his brother when he was scarred so many years previously. “What do you care?” 

“I don’t know. I just figured that it would present rather scandalous.” 

“Gossip is for fuckers that have nothing better to do with their time.” The chair he sat in before was warmed once again by his body, the soft velvet cushion was practically molded to his figure. He chanced a look in your direction, finding your focus back on the dress. 

“You’ve been guarding me for many months now. Is that a good use of your time?” 

He grunted in response. 

“Sansa tells me that a Baratheon sails for Kings Landing.” You wanted to change the subject, to fish for any relevant information that he may know. “She said if he is to prevail, I will be allowed to travel home. She said he won’t hurt me.” 

“You think Stannis won’t hurt you?” He mocked, kicking his legs out in front of him, the chains of his armor jingled as it settled on his thigh. “Or are you so taken by the Young Wolf that you’ve forgotten that he’s a killer just like the rest of the lot.” 

“Must you press your ear to the door and eavesdrop every time you are not in the room?” 

“Aye, ‘s my duties.” 

“Just as draining my pitcher of wine is?” 

“Not yours.” He grunted, picking his glass up from where he had left it, resuming his solo drinking contest. “The King’s, mine now. Stannis will gut you just as any other killer does. Your little friendship will not stop him. He’ll let his men beat you, rape you, and leave you for dead.” 

“I know that. I used to believe that I would be safe from pain, but I was young and in the safety of my home.” The needle thread through the fabric, leaving only a small nick from the thin silk. Your lilac gown from the day that Ser Lorric died was now repurposed. It was no longer a simple frock dress; it now served as an underlayer to a magnificent cape. “I know that I will die here, the only unknown is when the day will come.” The silk cascaded down the interior of a lapis velvet. Jewels of beaded opal were sewn into the hems and seams of the cape, catching the sunlight in an effervesce reserved only for the angels of the heavens. “As the days pass, I wonder if I too will fall victim to Ilyn Payne, or perhaps Meryn Trant. Maybe…” you thumbed the edge of the fabric, flinching slightly as the needle pricked your skin. “Maybe you, even.”

A crimson droplet formed on the tip of your finger, threatening with each passing second to flow freely down into your palm. The words you spoke were true, that you knew. You would die here at the hands of someone as opposed to old age. You hoped it was by a stranger, someone you hadn’t met and therefore would not expect to bring death. Yes, that would be the way to go. Sudden and unexpected. But, the thought still persisted in your mind as the words spilled from your untamed tongue. 

The only sound of the room was the gliding of your fingers down the hem of your work uncaring of the small red stain it left, your steady breath, and the water that begged to be released from your eyes as the entirety of your situation fell and crashed around you like unrelenting waves from the stormy sea. The only problem was that you did not have a Great Stone Knight to stand over you, to block the jagged and rough boulders that threatened to take you with them to their demise. You had yourself and yourself only. Your father was not going to send for you, Ser Lorric had long since gone from your world, Sansa was too young and fragile, and Sandor was loyal to evil rulers. 

He finally parted his stinging lips, speaking intently, holding his gaze upon the back of your head. “I won’t hurt you.” 

Bowing your head, your voice left on bated breath. “Don’t say things you can’t stay true to. You and I both know that if the King wishes for my head, you’ll be the one to take it from my shoulders.”

“Your betrothed is coming to visit, Lady (Y/n).” Pompous and exuding a high volume of arrogance, Joffrey sat at the head of the table. Dinners between yourself and the royals had become infrequent after the death of Ser Lorric and the news of your engagement, but occasionally the queen would call upon you to give her audience along with her children. Dining seemed to be the only activity that brought about no qualms between the rather tepid group. 

“I look forward to making his acquaintance.” You replied, the golden dipped fork that dangled in your hand picked sheepishly at the flaked crust of the lamprey pie.  “I believe I’ve seen him before, when I first arrived.” 

“The ceremony will be a sennight after his arrival… depending on the outcome of the battle.” Cersei added from his side. 

“The outcome?” Joffrey dismissed his mother’s thoughts. “The outcome will be in our favor.” 

“If only our king spent more time strategizing.” Tyrion added from his seat at your side. “We could use your expertise on the war council.” 

The clattering of utensils against plates could be heard as Joffrey discarded his fork and knife. A pointed glance was shot in Tyrion’s direction. “I have been strategizing.” 

“Then tell me, dear nephew, what is your plan to hold the city wall and let it not fall to our invaders?” 

Joffrey seemed to be in a state of disbelief as he chewed at the inside of his cheek. “A king does not discuss his battle plans outside of his council. None of this is any of their business.” He dragged his hand across his mouth, tugging at his lips as it went. He was quick to return to his first topic. “He won’t stay long, but when he leaves he will take you with him.” 

“Who will be funding this ceremony?” You asked, gathering the attention of the room back to you. From the way that Tommen’s eyelids dwindled closed, and Myrcella’s focus wandered, it was obvious that the two youngest of the group were growing disinterested with the conversation. 

“Perhaps you should meet with the Master of Coin.” Cersei noted, taking a long drink of wine.  

“I believe it’s been discussed that the cost will be incurred by the Clegane’s, and from my father’s last correspondence the Lannister’s will cover the rest as payment for the Mountain’s continued loyalty.” Tyrion chimed in as he finished off the rest of his meal. “I assure you, Lady (Y/n), it will be a lovely ceremony.”

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[liyawritesss]

I have no idea if requests are open so if they aren’t then ignore this but if they are can I request a vander x reader where the reader got her hair done (box braids) and his reaction to it btw love your work ❤️❤️❤️

ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛꜱ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇᴡ ʙᴏxʙʀᴀɪᴅꜱ

Pairing: Vander x Fem!Black!Reader

Genre: headcanons

Synopsis: Vander reacts to you getting your new 

Warnings: none

A/N: Aaaaahhhh this is so cute pls. I immediately thought of taking powder so that she could get her hair done to, and that's how she started keeping her hair in braids

You tell Vander that you’re heading across town for some sisters to do your hair. He’s kind of puzzled, because for as long as he’s known you, you’ve always done your own hair.

You tell him it may be an all day ordeal, apologizing for such short notice since it meant he would be running The Last Drop by himself that day. However, Vander reassures you that it’s okay, and even convinces you to take Powder with you, as the young girl had been seeking companionship other than Vi recently.

So, with Powder on your hip and a headscarf over your head, you leave out that morning, smiling with anticipation.

You come back by the time there are only a few stragglers left at the bar, Powder trailing at your side, your hand tightly clasped around her much smaller one, and she’s budding to tell Vander about her experience

He picks up the tiny Powder and places her on the counter as she begins to retell what she saw at the sisters at-home salon. So many colors and lengths of hair, different jewelry and hair accessories - she was even gifted her own little hair wrap; an electric blue to match her hair.

You take off your own head wrap while Vander indulges the little girls story, and when he catches your new hair do from the corner of his eyes, he is absolutely speechless

The braids are around butt-length, wavy at the ends, and a mix of deep brown and sandy blonde - and Vander is absolutely in love. It’s probably his new favorite hairstyle on you now.

He’s so mesmerized he tries to pet your hair to give you a compliment, but your steel grip on his thick wrist prevents him from doing so. You make a very serious remark on how they’re “still fresh and new” and the burly man gives a sheepishly apology. He opps to press a gentle kiss to your equally tender forehead, commenting on how beautiful and stunning you look

Powder interrupts the two of you by saying she got her hair done too, and to Vander’s raised eyebrow she slips off the headscarf to reveal her own hair in two french braids going down her back. There are some flyaways here and there, but that adds to the personality of the skittish little one.

Vander gives a hearty laugh, bringing both of you into a hug, musing about how beautiful his girls are with their fresh new do’s.

Makes sure to remind you to wrap your hair up, especially the first few days, and sits and watches you do Powders hair so that he can learn how to praid, even though his dummy thick fingers make it really hard to do so.

Will place loving kisses on your forehead and, after about a week or so when the braids loosen, on the top and crown of your head before you go to sleep

Seeing you do your hair in the morning is oddly the most relaxing thing for him. Makes him fall in love all over again

If you tend to keep your hair up, expect a lot of shoulder and neck kisses, cuz if you thought he couldn’t keep his hands to himself before you got your hair done, you’re in for a whole other awakening.

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