#au where he polishes his armour

[dawnsing]

knight of the flowers, knight of the child. stay in my garden, safe and sound.

(inspired by the knight of the flowers, 1894)

[pullhisteeth]

saturn return | eddie munson

hello! I'm back :) will leave a little author note at the end of the fic for u. but in the meantime: enjoy this medieval slow burn fluffy smutty monster of a fic (which has not been proofread because I am so tired) <3

in short: you're from royalty, and the illicit crush you're harbouring on your sworn protector is threatened when your father, the king, reaches the end of his tether and finally begins the search for your husband.

medieval/fastasy au with knight!Eddie and fem!princess!reader, smut (18+ only, minors dni!), implied virgin!reader, (one attempted) assault, general fluff and angst and fun fantasy frolicking, mention/threat of arranged marriage (brief), enemies to lovers if you squint but mostly a bodyguard au but he wears armour and you live in a castle.

14k words (!!!)

-

You had only seen your knight without his cuffs and cloak once before in your life.

When you were nineteen, you had a fling with one of the boys who tends the horses in the stables. It had been a wet summer and against your father’s wishes you’d spent many evenings returning to the castle sodden and smiling. Your afternoons were adventurous - too much so for your age, your mother would say over dinner - and your escapades to the woodland beside the keep resulted in muddy fingerprints up the curve of your thighs and difficult-to-hide bruises blooming below your collarbone.

You may have been reckless, but you knew better than to show up to court with purpling bite marks where the collars of your dresses did not reach.

On one of the rare sunny evenings, you had stolen away after supper to the balcony that extended across the western wing of the castle. It stretched from your quarters around the side of the building, ending at the room that had belonged to your sister before she had been married to a man who lived across the sea. The sun was low and the air was thick and so in your nightgown you prowled the terrace, fingers dancing along the worn stone and up the wilting vines. As you rounded the corner there he was - your sworn protector, a man who could be barely a year your senior, hunched in an old chair over his armour. You stopped behind the wall with enough haste that he didn’t spot you - or if he had, he never let on - and while he was engrossed in the work of polishing the silver, you watched.

He’d done away with his undershirt, most likely because of the stubborn, close heat, and though he was side-on to you, his chair facing out towards the mountains in the distance, he was hunched to his left, leaving you with a view you much preferred to the vast one beyond the wall.

The muscles across his back rippled as his arm moved back and forth over the metal. In the quiet of the evening you could hear small grunts and sighs, and as your eyes adjusted to the light you spotted silvery marks of healed flesh across his side. His back was speckled with freckles and as he moved, you took notice of his mop of hair.

Though your father’s knights were never required to wear their helmets in the castle, the hair that now flowed freely was usually tightly bound at the nape of your knight’s neck. You had never realised how long it truly was - nor how unruly. Brown curls stood in what seemed like every direction, swaying back and forth in tandem with his shoulder, glowing a slight auburn in the setting sun.

You had watched him for a while, listening to the sounds of his efforts and drinking in the way the light made his skin gleam golden. It wasn’t until the sun had set that you had made your escape, bare feet padding silently across cool stone.

Ser Munson - Edmund, or Eddie as he preferred - was assigned as protector of the King’s first daughter when she came of age, at sixteen. You had been a moody teenager, belligerent and stubborn, determined you did not need protecting, even if the protector in question was broodingly handsome and a challenge to crack.

Thus, you lingered around the castle while your sisters sought husbands and new lives. Your father, though a cunning ruler, was soft when it came to his girls, and so no man was worthy of a single one of them unless he made her happy.

And no man ever had made you happy. The ones who put themselves forward as candidates for your hand were, in most cases, perfectly nice men. Mostly wealthy, often handsome, but always boring.

It was always the same: they believed you to be the most beautiful princess in the history of the realm, and they would be honoured to wed you. But as your father’s eldest daughter you knew one thing to be true: every one of them wanted the throne, and would marry you to get there.

So you sought fun in lowly servant boys, stealing kisses from cupbearers and kitchen porters, running wild in the vast gardens of the castle, just out of grasp of your grumbling mother. One day, you’d tell her when she chastised you over monstrously glutinous dinners. One day a man will come here and sweep me off my feet. Until then, I am content with my lot.

After that evening when you were nineteen, you had not looked at Eddie the same way. His job was to follow you everywhere - well, mostly everywhere, unless you were behind a tree with the stableboy again - so it was difficult to not look at him. But those aimless adventures became tiresome, and your daydreams became occupied instead by the man who tailed your every move. Stableboys were getting married, all your sisters were getting married, every eligible nobleman for a hundred miles was getting married - but you remained, as did Eddie.

“So it doesn’t hurt?”

“No, your highness.”

Eddie stares straight ahead, off into the distance, answering your childish questions through gritted teeth. You grin at him, elbow on the arm of your chaise and chin cupped by your hand, enjoying this latest instalment of your petty little game: you ask him silly questions, Eddie’s cheeks go pink, and you get a good giggle and a kick out of teasing him. It began as something lighthearted, a test of the waters after that late night wander changed your perspective, but that was two years ago and understandably, Ser Munson is getting increasingly tired of your games. 

“Your highness, can I suggest that you get dressed? You’ll be late for-”

“No,” you yelp as he stands to move, sword clanking. “I’m sorry, I’ll bite my tongue. Don’t go.”

“But Miss-”

“Okay, okay, I’ll dress, just wait outside the door, will you?”

“I always do, your highness,” he says. “It is my duty.” You cannot see the smirk he sports as he turns his back to you; it is one he reserves only for himself, lest your ego get too big.

You deflate into your chair as he leaves, the heavy door swinging open. Three young maids are by your side as it slams shut, lifting you from your doze and tying you into a corset and skirt. Today you’re offered a deep navy gown, the colour of your family’s flag and perhaps the colour you look second best in.

At least it matches Eddie’s cloak.

You knock softly twice on your bedroom door, your handmaids tugging at the final details, and the guards who stand watch pull it open for you. You breathe in quick and deep, hands smoothing the satin across the top of your skirt, and step forward into the hall.

Eddie stands to one side, awaiting your direction. You follow your usual morning route, down the wide corridor to the stairs, which roll out into an even wider hall like dropped silk. Eddie’s cloak slinks across the stone floor behind you, and you yearn to make a joke, prod at him, get under his skin but you cannot, for many eyes are upon you now.

The Great Hall sits at the opposite end of the atrium to the staircase. The walls between yourself and the huge, towering doors are decorated for the brief return of your youngest sister, the most recent to wed - she is pregnant, and so there must be celebrations.

Floral garlands follow you as you make your way across the room, where, at the far end, your father stands in the doorway, watching, your mother by his side.

Peering glances follow you until other guests arrive and attentions are diverted. So you slow your step just slightly, enough that Eddie does not notice immediately and falls in line with you. Before he can correct himself, you lean in.

“Ed- er, Ser Munson,” you say, tone playful but slightly sinister, an indicator that you are brewing one of your schemes.

“Yes, your highness?” he responds neutrally.

“Ser Munson, would you please do me a favour?”

Long ago, Eddie learned to never respond to this query the way he is supposed to as your protector: Anything, your highness.

Instead, he asks: “What can I do for you?”

“You know that sword?” You twist slightly, tapping the hilt of his blade where one of his fists seems to permanently rest. “You’ve killed people with it, right?”

“Only when I have to, your highness.”

“How many, would you say?”

You hear him take a sharp breath in. You smile softly.

“Eighteen.”

“Eighteen,” you repeat. “Care to make it nineteen? Do me a favour and slice through my guts so I don’t have to bear another one of these idiotic ceremonies?”

If you’d paid closer attention, rather than sharing your gaze between Eddie and your father, who was ever-nearing, you’d have seen that your dear knight almost broke. This would have been the closest you’ve come to getting a laugh out of him, your stoic, stone-faced hero.

“That’d be highly inappropriate, your grace,” he says, composed. “And I’d surely lose my head.”

“Oh, but that’s your job,” you whisper. “To die for me! And anyway, I can’t go to hell alone, you’ll need to keep me company. And protect me from the ghouls. So maybe make it twenty instead.”

This time, you do catch it. The corner of his mouth twitches and something in his eye, the way it dodges you, gives him away. In your peripheral vision you see him open his mouth - it’s close to your ear, you almost hear the beginning of a word - but you’ve reached the end of the hall, and your father awaits. Eddie falls back again, a step or two behind, as you drop your shoulders and brace yourself.

-

Being one of many sisters is a difficult life. Impossible to prevent yourself from comparing their hair to yours, their eyes, the slant of their shoulders, their waists, their hands, and worse is the bickering, the competition.

Being the only one of them not to be married is the worst.

Twenty minutes ago, you stole yourself away to a corner of the Hall with a too-full cup of wine and three slices of the best bread. Here you camp, munching on the final crust, eyeing up the table across the room. How do I get a refill without someone asking me to dance?

With your eyes squinted and shoulders hunched in, you scarcely notice your knight down the wall. He’s on guard, back straight with his hand on the hilt of his sword - watching, as he is supposed to. Only his attention is distracted, because in his peripheral vision is you, alone, as always.

It’s only when you hear the familiar clinking of sword sheath on armour that you turn to see that he’s beside you, and in a rare moment of peace, he’s leaning back, letting the wall take his weight.

“What’re you looking at?” You eye him suspiciously, swallowing the final sip of wine. “Come to ask for a dance for one of those snivelling Harrington boys?”

You hear him scoff, though he’s smiling just slightly. “No,” he says quietly. “Why, do you want to dance with Steven?”

You scoff. “Do I fuck.”

“Language, your highness.”

“Please stop calling me that when dad isn't around.”

He glances at you, smiling still, and rolls his eyes. “Why aren’t you with the other ladies?”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “The Buckleys aren’t here. It’s no fun without Robin.”

“And your sisters?”

“Oh yeah,” you drone. “I just love being reminded by all four of them how lucky a man would be to have me and how I must get married because, oh, weddings are so lovely!”

He turns to look at you properly, silver collar creaking, and reaches over to take your goblet. “How many of these have you had?”

You drop your hands behind your back, looking down at your slippers like a naughty child. “Three.”

To your surprise, you feel the damp rim of the cup meet your chin, pushing your face up. Eddie looks back at you and keeps the pressure under your head so you can’t divert your gaze. Your cheeks warm, heat blooming under his watch.

“Fine,” you sigh, eyes dropping closed in defeat. “Seven.”

You brace for a scolding, expecting a telling off from your faithful knight, but when you look at him in the silence, you find him grinning down at you.

“You’re going to feel awful in the morning,” he tells you.

You look back at him a little dumbfounded, because he’s very close to your face and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him in such detail before. There are creases by his eyes from smiling, and there’s an old, white scar across his nose, which is crooked, presumably from old punches.

“Will you take me to bed, then, please?” you ask softly, and he lowers the cup slowly, placing it on a nearby table without looking away from you. You look back at him, trying your hardest through the fog to give him your best pleading eyes, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. He’s close, still; time suspends as he nears even more and runs his thumb along the underside of your chin. It is the first time in your life that your knight has ever touched you.

 You watch as he brings it to his mouth - it’s a deep, bruised pink, dyed by the wine from the rim of the cup where it had held your face up - and, taking his eyes off you, slides it between his lips.

It’s certainly not the first time you’ve been breathless around him, but it is the first time you’re face to face with him as the air leaves your lungs in a slow, desperate whine. It feels criminal, illicit, standing in the shadows at the back of the room, within reach of anyone who cares to look for you, watching Eddie lick wine off the pad of his thumb.

The festive music on the other side of the room ends and people around you cheer. Eddie’s smile drops and he straightens up as though kicked in the back, looking around like he just woke from a dream.

“Uh, yes- Your highness. I’ll escort you to your quarters.”

He steps back but holds his arm out for you to take. For a moment you just stare at him, incredulous, before wrapping your fingers around the cool leather covering his forearm and lifting yourself off the wall, your heart wilting as his guard rises again and your fun, playful protector is lost to duty once more.

-

The ceiling of your bed chamber hasn’t changed in fifteen years. You know because you’ve had many nights like this, staring at it forlornly, yearning for something you cannot and will not have.

When you were six, your father had the sleeping quarters across the whole castle redecorated, and you requested a fresco above your bed. Under the guise of education, telling your father that it would help you practise your knowledge of Arthurian legends, you asked for a depiction of the knights of the round table. Truthfully, you wanted to be able to look at Arthur every night before you slept.

Now, it makes you feel sick. It’s an ugly, truthless fairytale, spun to make little girls giggle and you despise every inch of it, regardless of how beautiful it may have appeared to you once.

In the dark, you can still make out Arthur’s faded features. He is plain, with cropped blonde hair and a silly chestplate, looking over the expanse of your ceiling to Guinevere, whose clasped hands by her cheek make the picture of a woman in love.

You turn over, frustrated, and cover your head with a spare cushion.

-

The stone of the balcony wall is cool beneath the palms of your clammy hands. In the courtyard, your sister’s carriage is leaving, followed by many horsemen from her husband’s house. They’ll return only when the baby is born, to christen him in the family chapel.

You sigh as she leaves the gates and lean your weight on your hands. It’s still hot out, too hot for so many layers under your dress and a corset so tight, and you’re too exhausted to carry the weight around. Your maids are nowhere to be seen because it’s the middle of the afternoon and you should be socialising, but you’re an adult. You can dress - and undress - yourself.

As you return indoors, you reach behind your back and tug at the knot at the base of your corset. After a couple of frustrated tries it finally gives, loosening so that you can hook your fingers under each stretch and pull it undone. You gasp for air, filling your lungs properly as your ribs expand, and use your shoulders to pull it loose enough for you to remove. You take care to place each layer gently over your chaise - corset, overdress, skirt. You’re left in your undergarments - a long, loose slip made of cotton - when you hear an unexpected knock and the door begins to open.

You jump, feeling suddenly exposed in so few layers. It’s unlike anyone to disturb you at this hour.

You tense even more when your knight, with his hair loose and his cheeks pink, pushes the doors wider. He stops in his tracks for a moment as he spots you across the room, flushed your own shade of mortified.

“Eddie,” you hiss. “Shut the fucking door.”

His eyes widen and he straightens up, knocked out of his daze. You expect him to retreat, but he moves inside and pushes the doors closed behind himself.

“I meant with you outside them, ideally,” you bite.

“I- Uh, sorry- My apologies, your highness, I-”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Sorry! Sorry, shit, I- It’s important, sorry.”

“So important that it requires you to see me indisposed?”

He looks at you blankly for a second. “I mean, technically I see you like this every morning when you interrogate m-” 

“Oh, shut up,” you spit, eyes narrowing. Your arms are still crossed over your chest, even though you’re covered from neck to ankle. “You know that’s different. There’s no robe or slippers between us now, Ser Munson.”

His cheeks bloom at that, pink slipping into fiery red. He breathes impatiently through his nose, clearly irritated by your prodding, and steps closer.

“Your highness,” he says pointedly. You roll your eyes. “Your father- His Highness requests your presence. In the throne room.”

-

“I refuse.”

“Darling, I-”

“No!”

Your father stands at the other end of the table, his head hung and his hands on the wood in front of him. You are in the room in which he has his important meetings with his council. Over the years you’ve tried a hundred times to get in here during such meetings, to no avail, but now all you want is to get out.

“You are twenty-one,” he says after a breath. “I’ve given you time, five years of it. You can’t remain unmarried any longer.” This conversation has only been happening for maybe two and a half minutes, but it seems more like an age; you’re exhausted from yelling already, especially at him. But it feels like the walls are closing in, your entrapment in a loveless marriage with a stranger now a certainty rather than a possibility. It’s beyond your power to stop the tears falling.

“You can’t make me,” you say through the thickness of your throat. Your arms wrap around your waist, squeezing, breath hiccupping on its way out.

“I can,” he sighs. “But I really don’t want to. It doesn’t have to be horrible. Your sisters, they’re all happy, why-”

“I don’t care about them. I want to be-” You stop yourself, because this isn’t something to talk about here, with your father of all people; you’d barely even talk to your mother about this stuff. But he’s looking at you again over the expanse of mahogany and his eyes are sad, because he’s fighting with his first daughter, and you break. “I want to be in love, father. I don’t want to be sold off to the highest bidder because I’m the eldest. That can’t be my life.”

He sighs again. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It is. There are fifteen houses coming here tomorrow, each with an eligible son. I’m letting you choose; it’s the most I can do.”

Your nose burns with betrayal and terror. Your cheeks are wet, tears falling into soft, wet spots on the front of your dress. Your arms squeeze your middle one last time before you turn, pushing past the Kingsguard who stand at the door, past the cupbearers and the maids, and past Eddie, who has been waiting for you outside. For the first time ever you don’t hear the familiar sound of armour following you, and for a moment you almost stop to turn and look for him, but you’re still crying and although it’s the middle of the afternoon, all you want to do is hide.

-

“It’s true,” Robin sighs. “I’ve been looking in our library, and I’ve counted at least three instances.”

You roll onto your back. Robin sits beside you on the plush of your bed, which has been remade by your maids so that there are no remnants of your painful, sleepless night. She strokes your hairline softly, looking down at you with sorry eyes.

“The most recent was eighty-three years ago,” she continues. “Lady Flora. She ran off with her knight, to be fair… But still!”

“I’m the eldest, Robin,” you tell her, trying your hardest to stop your words coming out in a hiccup; you only stopped crying this morning, and you’re in no mood to begin again now. “There’s too much expected of me. I can’t run off. I have to pick the right person.”

She takes in a breath. “Who says he isn’t the right one? Or that you’d have to run off?”

“Centuries of historical precedent,” you tell her flatly. When you meet her eye, though, you watch as she tries and fails to hold in a laugh.

“Since when have you ever cared about historical precedent?”

“Never, but that’s the problem.” You sit up quickly, knocking her affectionate hand back into her lap. “I can’t… This isn’t right. None of it is, but especially… Him.”

“But in the centuries of historical precedent,” Robin says, a poor imitation of you, “There were people like you.”

“And what happened to them?” you ask with a huff, standing to pace beside your bed. “Exiled, abandoned, cut off, ridiculed… I can’t live like that, Robin. But- But I can’t exist here while he’s always around, right behind my back. He’s like my fucking shadow. I can’t-” You hiccup, a wet sound that heralds the return of tears. “I can’t move on.”

Robin watches you with eyes laced with a pity that makes you furious. You want her to fix this; it’s entirely irrational, but you’re lost, and surely someone somewhere has to take responsibility for this, fix it so you don’t have to feel anything anymore. Remove Eddie, replace him with someone lifeless and unfunny and ugly, hand you a beautiful, attentive husband on a platter and, most of all, take the pain away.

But it doesn’t work like that. You know it doesn’t.

“Your Highness,” Eddie says in a raised voice from beyond your door. “It’s time.”

You look at Robin, who looks back at you, her eyes wide.

“I’ll be a minute,” you shout back hesitantly as she rises and rushes over. You let her help you adjust your dress and she dips a cloth left behind by a maid into the basin of cool water by your bedside, wiping it gently over your cheeks in an attempt to reduce the blotches there.

Neither of you say another word. She takes your hand firmly and squeezes.

-

You hate this.

Although you’re desperate for anything but a pre-arranged marriage pact, part of you had quite genuinely hoped for some kind of miracle, that one of your suitors would be The Guy. In your restlessness the evening prior, you’d even let yourself fantasise that one of them, strikingly handsome in your daydreams, would appear at the foot of the throne and you’d feel it in that instant: love.

But in every version of this delusion, The Guy was faceless, nameless, a blur of a person until he wasn’t. Until he was Eddie.

In reality, your knight is out of sight for once, and you’re nearing hour three in the gardens, where the court musicians entertain the countless guests and wine is flowing freely for everyone except you. (With your father at your elbow all afternoon, it’s impossible to get a second cup. Your mouth is dry and your boredom inflating.)

You know better than to assume Eddie’s left the gardens completely, but there are too many people for you to see him.

Suddenly, you feel a sharp elbow nudge your rib.

You turn to your father and find him wide-eyed and pink in the nose - a tell-tale sign of frustration - nodding to the man standing opposite the two of you.

“Hm?” you hum, painfully aware of how obvious it is to the both of them that you weren’t paying a lick of attention.

“Lord Carver was telling us about his hunts,” your father says through gritted teeth.

“Oh,” you sigh, turning to the stranger. “How… Interesting. What do you hunt?”

“Deer, mostly,” he responds, puffing out his chest. His cheeks are blotched with pink and the caramel blonde of his hair is unpleasant. The pleasure of your attention is clearly feeding his ego. “Started on pheasants when I was ten. They’re far too easy now; I’m heading out tomorrow to try for a stag. Say, care to join me?”

“Oh, I’m flattered,” you say with a saccharine giggle and hand to your chest that your father can certainly see straight through. “But I don’t hunt. Thank you, though, Lord Carver.”

Lord Carver seems to take this somewhat personally, despite your almost sincere attempt at a polite curtsy. He comes over stoney, steel-eyed as though you’ve wounded him.

“No matter. Your highness,” he says flatly, bowing quickly to your father before turning on his heels and marching away.

You barely listen as you are accosted by the king for being so blatantly rude. Lord Carver is far from your mind because across the heaving mass of strange bodies, you can see your knight, looking straight back at you.

Your father hisses your name but you do not listen.

“I’m taking a walk,” you tell him. “Sorry, father, I just need a break. And… A glass of water.”

It must have rained this morning. The grass is damp beneath your feet, soaking slowly through the velvet of your lilac slippers as you push your way between bodies as politely as you can manage.

With your focus on the ground you do not see Eddie’s eyes following your figure through the crowd; you also do not see Lord Carver six steps behind.

The latter reaches you first, by quite a margin, a moment after you’ve broken free of curious strangers and can finally breathe again. Everything happens very quickly. In the shadow of a high wall, the man reaches for your arm like a viper. His fingers coil and the fresh garden air is replaced by his coddling breath on your cheek. He spun you so quickly you feel momentarily winded, enough to catch you off guard as your face scrapes the old brickwork. Spit hits your cheek and mixes with fresh blooms of blood as his pink face looms, dominating your field of vision - like a bear in a trap you feel helpless, his fingers around your wrist so tight you fear he may break your bones. In a moment you’re frozen stiff and he takes his chance, his lips pushing angrily into the stretch of bare skin above the collar of your dress.

“You’re a bitch,” he says, muffled by the skin under your jaw. You writhe and whimper but you cannot scream. “You humiliated me. See what happens to cunts like- Ungh-” 

The force of your knee between his legs is enough force to knock him back. Stumbling, he lurches forward again, only to meet your elbow, sharp and swift at his throat. The pathetic choking sound he makes mixes with the familiar sound of heavy boots; you turn to find Eddie, pink in the face, fist on the handle of his sword.

“Christ,” he pants, “Are you okay?”

Lord Carver coughs as he struggles to regain his balance.

“You-” Cough. “You bitch,” he spits, hand at his collar.

“Watch yourself,” Eddie growls, towering over the spluttering lord, his sword pulled only a few inches from its sheath - a warning: I will not hesitate. “I suggest you take your family home, Sir.”

Lord Carver looks up at him, red eyes watering and breath still catching. For a moment he seems to contemplate fighting back, but even you almost find yourself laughing at the possibility, until you look to Eddie and find a version of the man you’ve never seen before.

Your life, which Eddie tails endlessly from a few paces behind, always, is quiet. Mundane, boring, unadventurous; you rarely leave the castle grounds and when you do, it’s inside a carriage. Your bravest adventure since you were sixteen was taken barefoot, that evening after dinner, up on the balcony where you’d stumbled across your knight, bare-chested and panting.

You’ve teased Eddie before about how the lack of danger in your life must mean his own is boring. Though he never once gave into you, deep down you worry that it’s true.

Now, though, your knight is coloured a shade unknown to you. He’s come over like a shadow, eyes hard and brow set, and there’s a vein visible above the collar of his cape. Lord Carver seems to halve in size beneath his frame, and though he has never shown himself like this in front of you before, you’re sure of one thing.

Your pleading cry is too late, too weak - before you can intervene, Eddie’s fist makes contact with Lord Carver’s cheekbone. There’s a crack that, to you, is as loud as thunder, though the skies are as blue as they’ve ever been. As his back hits the floor, Lord Carver yelps like a wounded dog, and Eddie moves in on him.

“Eddie,” you plead, voice weaker still, your hands grasping his arm, “Leave him alone, I’m okay, please.”

In the commotion, you’d failed to notice your growing audience. You’re sure that if you let him, Eddie would give another punch, and another, but the man on the floor is bleeding from his nose and from a wide gash under his eye and your slippers are drenched through and so is the collar of your dress where your tears, unbeknownst to you, have been soaking the cotton.

“Please,” you hiccup, your hands squeezing, pulling Eddie backwards with as much strength as you can manage.

“Asshole!” Carver spits, his voice broken. Two men who resemble him are helping him up off the ground, the small crowd murmuring between themselves as they watch him stumble away. “You’ll regret this!”

It’s an empty threat. You barely hear it, in fact, because Eddie is finally turning to you, his shoulders dropping. His face softens the moment he looks at you.

“Are you okay? Did he- Where did he hurt you?” He asks again. People are dispersing but you pay them no mind because Eddie’s hands hold your face and it stings when he runs his gloved thumb over the gash on your cheek. You wince and his grip on you tightens, as though you might slip away if he lets you.

As his arms wind around your shoulders, you push your face into the embroidered crest that sits by his heart.

“You’re okay,” he tells you firmly, sweet words murmured into your hair. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Your father’s booming voice cuts through whispering strangers like a whip. Eddie moves away from you so quickly that you almost choke.

Tears mix with old blood and you want to scream. You want these strangers to leave your garden, you want Eddie to clean your wounds, you want to run away.

You cannot have what you want.

-

Two and a half weeks ago, your father replaced your knight via a letter.

Ser Munson has been reassigned.

After two nights of bed-rest in your chamber, wherein you were seen only by your mother and two alchemists, your new knight - an older man, as old as your father and then some - made himself known at your door. He informed you of his new appointment as your sworn protector. When you asked after Eddie, he closed the door.

Two lonely weeks entailed many downward spirals. One evening after countless days spent rotting, refusing the attendance of your mother or father, you find yourself staring blankly at your reflection in the glass beside the chest that houses your dresses. The girl looking back is gaunt and her eyes are bloodshot. There’s an old cut on her bottom lip, close to healing but you’re sure you’ll bite it open again soon enough, splitting the skin so that deep red plumes can burst through and begin the process again.

You think about Eddie. What would he say if he could see you now? Over the weeks you’ve spent more hours than you can count thinking about how he’d held you, the words spoken into your hair, low enough to avoid unwelcome ears. His hands had gripped you so firmly that you’d almost felt whole again after Lord Carver’s grubby paws had violated you so horribly. Now you’re hollow.

His reassignment was surely your punishment: how dare you let yourself be so distracted that you humiliate a noble Lord to the point of such anger? How dare you humiliate him such that he wants to hit you, bite you, kiss you, hurt you?

Meals delivered by your maids go uneaten. You do not speak to your new knight, only catching a glimpse when he opens the door for attendants. 

At the dawn of a Thursday, your mother delivers the news that you are to stay behind while your parents visit your sister. You’re not sure which one of the four it is, but you do not care. With them gone, maybe you can go out; it’s early summer, after all, the weather is glorious, and you’re gasping for some sunlight and some respite from this stupidity.

-

When the sandbag splits, old hay spills onto the muddy ground.

Eddie’s sword is freshly sharpened and slices through the woven material like a hot knife through butter. He imagines Lord Carver’s face where the bag is tied together with string and watches it fall limply to the floor.

Outside in the courtyard, the sun is hot and shade is rare, and sweat beads on his forehead and drips to his chin. Other knights spar around Eddie, practising for nothing. His new position in the Kingsguard is, quite obviously, a downgrade, but only a few of his fellow knights have tried to get the why out of him: why have you stopped tailing the eldest daughter around? Why are you now forced to watch the southern walls in the dead of night? How did it happen? What did you do?

He chances a glance upwards, to the higher balcony along the wall, squinting under the sun. He doesn’t know if what he sees is you, standing in the shadow, or a trick of the light.

-

Your parents have been gone for two days, and the castle is like a ghost town. It’s never like this; even on late night escapades through the hallways, there are always maids at work, cleaning ladies and cupbearers. Guards on constant rotation, your father’s advisers wandering the halls having hushed conversations.

Tonight, though, there’s nothing. Your family’s absence is a moment of respite for the staff, who get a rare few evenings off to venture into town for some fun. You’re completely alone.

The long corridors look almost blue. The full moon is rising over the horizon and you’re enjoying an evening of freedom.

With most of the court staff out of the castle walls, you can’t be sure if you’ll find what you’re looking for tonight. He may have gone off with them, with his friends in the guard, down to a pub, getting drunk because he can, stumbling half-blind into a brothel like the rest of them do.

You shake the thought off because it turns your stomach, despite having no claim over the boy. It’s true that he may have gone but you’re searching anyway, because you’re driving yourself mad with guilt, and secretly you’ve missed him horribly.

You miss knowing he’s right outside your door, only ever a few paces away if you need him. You miss the blooming pink across his cheeks whenever you tease him, his stumbling answers and poor attempt at staying stony-faced and stoic. And you miss the smirk, though you’re sure he thinks he hides it well, that creeps across his face whenever you finish your teasing.

It’s your first time in this corner of the castle. Almost twenty-two years of living here, you’ve never had a reason to venture to where the knights stay. It’s a long way from your own wing - you’ve been walking for ten minutes and you’ve only just spotted a door. You’re treading softly in your favourite ruby slippers which, though you’d never admit it even to yourself, were surely chosen on purpose. You dressed yourself this evening, so there’s no use blaming your maids for the decision to drape you in scarlet.

As you come to a stop outside the room, you hold your breath and listen. You haven’t seen a single knight - not even your own new one - this whole time, but there’s somebody in there, and it sounds like they’re pacing.

Your hand reaches for the handle but just as you touch the iron, it twists on its own and the door flies open. You stumble forwards, losing your balance, but a familiar hand steadies you.

“Your highness?” He breathes, helping you back up. “What the- What are you doing here?”

You look at him. The man staring back at you is wide-eyed, those browns as pretty as ever but framed by new, dark circles. It’s difficult to see in the low light but he’s more tired than you’ve ever seen him. And though he seems sleepy, he’s dressed up in most of his on-duty getup, without the cape and sword.

“Eddie?”

“I thought the- Aren’t you supposed to be seeing your sister?”

“No, I… I stayed behind,” you tell him. A half-lie.

He looks back at you blankly. “Well,” he sighs. “We should… I should escort you back to your chamber.”

“No,” you say firmly. He does not invite you inside but you step over the threshold anyway, pushing past him into what you assume must be his bedroom.

It’s a plain room. The bed is low with old sheets, and there’s one candle burning on a table by the window. On the wall above his bed, he has hammered what looks like a letter into the plaster. And to the left of that-

“Is that mine?” You point plainly to the embroidery hoop. Even in the near-darkness you cannot miss the rosy flush you ignite across his face.

He scratches the back of his neck nervously. “Yes.”

It’s a small hoop, one you must have done years ago. A deep red rose, your favourite.

You look at it for a moment, and then to him. “Where have you been?”

He drops his hand. “I was reassigned,” he tells you.

“Why?”

“I don’t-”

“Why?” you press. He sighs and leans in the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest.

“After the… Incident with Lord Carver, your father thought it best that I be moved.”

“And now?”

“Now,” he sighs, “I’m on the nightwatch.”

“The nightwatch?!” you parrot. Even you, with only superficial understanding of the mechanics of your father’s guard, know that that’s one of the worst jobs. “But you… Why would he punish you?”

“Ask him,” he says bitterly, and so quickly that you know he regrets it instantly. “Sorry,” he corrects, “That was out of order.”

“Don’t apologise,” you say back, stepping past him into the wide hallway. It’s a brighter blueish-grey now, the moon nearing its highest spot in the night sky. You stop, turning to look at Eddie, and there’s a beat of silence.

He’s watching you quietly, and it takes him a moment to realise that you wish him to follow you. Under the moonlight you’re effervescent, your skin almost sparkling. The soft glow of the moon reflects a million times in your eyes like tiny diamonds. You’re so pretty it’s difficult to look away.

Eventually he closes the door behind him and falls into a familiar step, just behind your left foot. You walk and talk as you meander through random hallways, clearly unsure where you’re going but he says nothing, silently grateful to see you again and willing to walk every hall of the castle if it means stretching out the time before he has to leave you again.

“Why do you say that?” he asks. You turn your head to look at him, lost. “You told me not to apologise.”

You huff, striding forward. “You don’t have to respect my father around me, Eddie. It’s not like he respects me, or anything.”

“I don’t understand,” he says quietly. You bristle, frustrated that you’ve allowed the conversation to move to you. You’d intended to find out where he’d gone, not tell him about this.

“He can quite easily forget about me,” you tell him over your shoulder bitterly. “I’m happy to forget about him for a few days.”

“I… I don’t understand,” he repeats, and it irritates you double.

“For God’s sake,” you spit, stopping so abruptly that he almost crashes into your back. You spin and stare him down. “I’m a disappointment, okay? They left for their trip, and they left me behind. I’m useless. No man likes me, not enough to marry me, only stupid stableboys have ever come close to me. Something went wrong somewhere and now I’m here, heir to the throne and without a husband. And it’s. Your. Fault.” You jab your index finger to his chest for emphasis, but it’s meagre because you can feel the tears returning and you want nothing less than to be seen crying by Ser Munson. 

You cross the remainder of the hallways alone, Eddie left behind. Whether by choice or because of shock you don’t know, and frankly you don’t care. When you finally return to familiar halls, you push your way into your chambers and slam the heavy door as hard as you can behind you.

After a few minutes of pacing, having make-believe arguments with yourself in hushed tones, there’s a soft knock. So soft you almost miss it, but the eerie quiet of the castle has you jumpier than usual.

“Sweetheart,” you hear through the thick wood. “Let me in? Please?”

Maybe it’s your fear in the silence, or maybe it’s the way the rare sweetheart makes your stomach drop; either way you cave, rushing over and heaving the door open.

On the other side of the threshold, Eddie stands, hair unruly like he’s run his hands through it a few times. The curls stick out at odd angles and stand out dark against his alabaster skin.

Something in his eyes makes you break. The tears come thick and fast and before you can hide or apologise or close the door, arms wrap you up and his hand is on your back, smoothing patiently up and down.

It’s not the most comfortable hug; his armour is mostly leather and cloth but the toughness of it all makes it difficult to completely lean into him. As though he senses that, he pulls back, though his hand lingers on your arm where he gives you a squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, palms smudging wet tears across your face in an attempt to dry your eyes. “That was so mean of me, I’m sorry.”

“I just want to know what you mean,” he says, his eyes sadder than you’ve ever seen them. You dreaded this inevitability the moment you let the blame fall from your lips, but you owe him that much.

You sigh, look down at your feet, and resign yourself to truth.

“Father… He loves me, but he loves the throne just as much. And I’m the eldest, and I’m almost twenty-two, so…”

In your peripheral vision you see him sag, his shoulder dropping in premature realisation.

“He brought all those men here, and not one of them was even slightly as interesting to me as you.”

Eddie looks at you, at the tears that periodically drop from your cheeks to the floor, listens to you sniff and hiccup, and wonders how on Earth you exist, let alone how you’ve landed here, with feelings so profound for him of all people.

“That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about me,” he tells you honestly. You look up at him and the sight winds him: you’re crying, and it’s sad and stressful and difficult but you’re so beautiful.

You giggle and to him, it’s the ringing of a thousand bells by a thousand angels. It’s golden and brilliant. “I’m surprised,” you say, your smile lingering. “You’re really very lovely.”

He steps forward and reaches up, taking your chin in his gloved hand. You look back at him and sigh without meaning to as he moves his hand to cup your cheek and wipes stray tears away with his thumb. It takes your mind back to loud music, seven goblets, and a wine-stained thumb between his teeth.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells you quietly. There’s no one around but this still feels painfully scandalous, like glass that could - and will - shatter at any moment. No sudden movements.

You smile into his palm. “Stop it.”

“It’s true,” he says as his thumb moves across your skin, over the remnants of the cut across your cheekbone, over expanse of skin to your lips.

You watch him as he takes a deep breath in.

“I wasn’t reassigned,” he admits to you. You match him, breathing deep through your nose, preparing for the truth. “Well, I asked to be reassigned. I had to plead, really, because your father… He’s a good man.”

You roll your eyes without thinking and feel your bottom lip quivering again, the tears reemerging.

“He told me I’d never be able to see you again,” you tell him in a whisper.

“That’s my fault.”

“What?” You lift your head upright and he drops his hand, bringing it to his hair instead to run it through the curls again.

“I asked that I be kept away from you.”

“Why?! Why on earth would you… What could possibly possess you?”

“I couldn’t go through that again,” he says. “I couldn’t be near you. It was too… Too painful, and I let it get the better of me when I punched Lord Carver.”

“You were protecting me,” you say flatly. “That’s- That was your job.”

The emphasis hurts. “I know,” he sighs, “But… I wanted to kill him.”

“I don’t understand,” you tell him. You despise the whimper your words come out with, the way your jaw clenches to hold back more tears. What you can see of his neck above the collar of his thick tunic and under the cover of ringlets of tired hair is blotchy, coming up rosy in uneven patches. Is he stressed? Nervous? Both?

Your vision blurs with tears and your nose burns. He looks back at you softly, just like always, his eyes dark and inviting. Your lip wobbles again and you hear his breath hitch in the quiet.

“Let me show you,” he offers as he holds your cheek again. You cannot help but lean in, head tipping to the left to feel the expanse of leather over your cheek, his thumb dancing softly across your skin.

“No, I- You have to explain yourself, I don’t-”

“Please?” He looks at you with those fucking eyes of his and you want to kick him and kiss him all at once. “Do you trust me?”

The urge to kick him persists but you nod anyway. Perhaps the kicking is not a frustration aimed at him but at yourself instead: why can you not tell him how you feel? Why does the possibility of what he’s about to do scare you so much?

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit to him in a whisper. You feel naked before him, though there’s layers of thick velvet and scuffed leather between the two of you, a hundred barriers of material, an aching yawn of distance that you find yourself disliking immensely. 

Can Eddie read your mind? It feels that way right now - you only uttered six words but he seems to understand you entirely at this moment. He drops his hand from your face, takes a step back, and as you watch him wordlessly unbuckle his armour, your stomach contracts and your soul becomes hollow in anticipation. He removes the belt that the sword usually sits on, and then his leather gauntlets, pulling each finger from the gloves and placing them, too, on the table. As he peels off each piece of his uniform, creating a growing pile on the wood and on your floor, you see, for the first time since that night when you were nineteen, the bloom of his flesh under his billowing undershirt. He’s paler now than he was then, though the moonlight seeping in through the cracks between heavy curtains over your windows is no match for the golden wash of colour he had once basked in. If you had any sense you’d laugh at the display before you: endless metal defences and leather covers come away from his body and pile noisily beside him. But you’re transfixed, fingers fidgeting, bottom lip absentmindedly between your teeth.

You do not notice him glance at you every so often. Between removing each greave, he looks up at you again, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the flurry of blood to his cheeks. He’s baring himself, and you’re looking at him like he’s edible; perhaps, to you, he is.

After many minutes filled only by the sounds of deconstructed armour, metal and leather, he’s free of it, and he stands before you in a loose shirt and cotton slacks. His pale chest is visible behind the deep, un-tied collar and your fingers itch, fidgeting still, yearning to know what it feels like.

“Talk to me,” he whispers. “Don’t go quiet on me now.”

“I saw you like this, once,” you say quickly, voice so low it’s almost a whisper. You’re looking at everything - his arms, his legs, neck, chest, hands - except his eyes.

He’s taken aback. “What?”

“Years ago. I was nineteen. You were outside-” You turn to look through the open balcony door behind you, at the bright white gleaming down on the stone beyond. “-polishing. It was so beautiful out there, but I remember watching you for ages.”

You turn back, eyes on his finally. As ever, they’re wide and deep brown and beautiful. “Sorry. I know that’s strange. And forbidden, I guess.”

“No,” he breathes, taking a step towards you. “No, it’s fine- It’s okay.”

The air is thick and between that and your corset, you can barely breathe. He’s inching closer and it’s difficult to know where to look.

Nobody has ever been this close to you before. Not truly; you kiss your father and mother on the cheek before heading to bed each evening, you give your sisters fleeting embraces, you've fooled around with stableboys and, of course, you once loved to lean into his space whenever you teased Eddie, but this is different. Someone electing to be so near, choosing to breathe your air and not flinching or pulling back, instead lingering just to let his eyes dance over yours once more - it’s new, and it’s addictive.

He’s breathing your air but you’re also breathing his. The hills of his cheeks are mere whispers from your own, and his nose, crooked at the bridge where it once broke, nudges yours so lightly that you ought not feel it. It takes your breath away anyway.

At the sound of your gasp he smiles, only slightly, but you’re so close you see it in his eyes. Crows' feet emerge, wrinkling happiness beside his temples, and you can’t help but return it. As you fight the urge to close your eyes you watch him as he watches you, bated breaths and whimpers. All of a sudden he meets your gaze and you stumble where your foot had been resting on your other ankle. The heel of your slipper slides across bare skin and your balance goes, but before you can panic or cry out, you are pulled in breathless by his strong arm around your back. There may be layers upon layers of fabric but you feel it anyway, the electric jolts up your spine where his palm presses firm into your waist. Whether he means to or not is unclear, but you’re chest-to-chest with him now, the firm bones of your corset pushed against his shirt.

Your fingers spread across the fabric of his shirt. Without meaning to, you venture upwards, fingertips meeting the small smattering of coarse hair there, under the cotton. You watch your hands like they’re moving on their own, until his finger, hooked beneath your chin, tilts you up to meet his eye again.

It’s happening, you think to yourself. But then his arm, still around your middle, tightens briefly and he’s gone.

You watch him cross your room, the few steps he takes to your bed suddenly a criminal distance, too far, far too far. He sits upright on the edge of it, legs parted.

“Come here,” he says, his voice a melodic tug at your core. You move to him, sliding each of your slippers off on the way, and stand hesitantly between his knees, holding your breath without thinking to. 

You can’t look at him. You caught a glimpse of his eyes and the way they’re looking up at you and you can’t. It’ll surely kill you.

He thinks you’re perfect, standing here, towering over him, relenting. His tough palms smooth over the layers of deep red velvet that lie over your hips, and for a moment he allows himself to relish in the small noises of shock you’re making before he urges you to turn around.

“You know,” he begins as his deft fingers untie and release the intricate ribbons at your back. “It wasn’t your fault.”

You turn your head towards him, as far round as you can. “What?”

“The… What happened, that afternoon. The way he spoke to you…” Eddie’s fingers still for a moment and you hear him take a deep breath. “The way he touched you. I don’t know what your father- what His Majesty said about it, but it wasn’t your fault.”

His left hand begins pulling at the ribbons again, but his right rests safely on your waist, as though he’s demonstrating something: how you should be touched, the way you deserve, soft and kind and gentle and wanted.

You hum in agreement.

“And I truly am sorry I punched him,” he says. “It- If I’d just told him to back away, it never would have become such… Such a thing, a big deal.”

“Eddie,” you breathe, grateful that you can get a lung-full again. You turn back to him in his grasp and take his face in both hands. Your palms are warm but they’re nothing compared to the flames of his cheeks, which almost burn under your touch. “I’m not mad that you punched him. I wish I’d done it, truly. But I’m never mad that you want to protect me.”

Your hands on his face startle him. You both sense it in the moment, how unlike you this is, to touch him so willingly and so carefully.

“I don’t think you needed me to protect you,” he says quietly, a smile emerging though he tries his best to hold it back. “Your elbow seemed to do a good enough job of that.”

Ah! The sound of your feather-light laugh fills a yawning gap in his chest that appeared two and a half weeks ago. It sounds even more beautiful than before, a twinkling spark of a sound, just for him.

“You’re funny,” you tell him. “I’ll always need you, Ser Munson. Don’t worry about that.”

He looks up at you from his seat on the edge of your bed with eyes that sparkle like the sky outside. Perhaps it’s the reflection of the faded stars painted onto your ceiling, or perhaps it’s just the sight of you.

Both of his hands are on your waist, now, as you stand between his legs. There’s a lot of material in your skirt, though, and it feels too distant still, so you reach behind your back to pull the remainder of the ribbons keeping your corset on, and pull it over your head. Eddie helps where he can from such a low vantage point, and as soon as it’s off and disregarded on the floor, his eager fingers are pulling the velvet dress down and away from your body.

“Fucking hell,” he heaves, “How many things do you have on right now?”

“You’re one to talk,” you giggle. “It took you five whole minutes just to free your arms.”

“Okay, but that’s important. I don’t want to lose my arms. This must weigh a tonne, and… For what?”

You hold his cheek in your left hand again while he unties various laces and undoes buttons. Your skirt has fallen away, as has the underskirt and the other, thicker layers. You’re left in your underdress, a simple white cotton embroidered at the collar. It’s nicer than the one he caught you in all those weeks ago, moments before your life seemed to tilt and slip away beneath you.

Under the fabric, your nipples harden in the cold, jutting out and catching Eddie’s eye.

“Is this okay?” He asks, pulling you in anyways, standing you safely between his knees, his wide hands tentative on your hips. “We don’t have to-”

“Yes,” you say firmly. “Please, yes.”

His hands slide over the hills of your behind to the backs of your thighs. He’s still looking up at you, eyes drooping when your fingers dance through his hair. 

“I meant it, though,” you say. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay,” he sighs, standing slowly. “I have all the time for you.”

The moonlight bleeds a sharp bluish hue but it doesn’t matter. Right now, as he says those lovely words, the boy is a golden ball of light, humming pinks and warm ochre. Your yearning arms wind over his shoulders as his breath mixes with yours once more, his nose nudges the swell of your cheek, his hands press firm into your waist. He’s slow with it, tantalising, keeping you whimpering and desperate, until he finally dips into you, lips on yours with a surprising urgency.

It’s magic, you are so sure of it. His mouth moves over yours with certainty: he wants to be here, he wants to kiss you. He’s wanted to kiss you.

All those fairytales that your wiry old school teacher told you were real, about spells and conjurings and spirits: it’s all real, surely, and it’s in this feeling. There’s no other way you can understand it, though in truth your brain isn’t entirely clear because his fingers are smoothing lower, bunching your dress in his fists to pull the fabric up over the stretch of your legs. All the while his kisses never cease; in fact, once you feel the cool air over the material of your underwear, you gasp and welcome his tongue with your own. Air is worthless to you now; all you want is Eddie.

Much to your dismay, he seems to disagree, pulling back from you to take a breath and lift your dress over your head. He whispers up and you raise your arms, letting him undress you quietly, and once he has, you daren’t open your eyes, instead winding your arms across your chest. You feel the nighttime breeze across the backs of your thighs and you tense knowing that you’re bare in front of him.

There’s a slow beat before you feel his hands again. You hear the dress discarded on the stone floor and then his rough fingers are gently, oh so gently, holding your waist. It’s like he thinks you could break.

“Can I touch you?” he whispers.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Of course you can.”

You expect more solid grabs of flesh, hands smoothing over the expanse of your stomach, maybe even venturing upwards, but you take in a surprised breath when you feel his mouth on your sternum.

His rough hands hold your lower back and he kisses, framing each of your breasts with rows of feather-light pecks, dancing blossoms of affection. You drop your hands to his hair as you let out a breath of satisfaction, tangling your fingers in the curls as his mouth rises.

The whine of your name that leaves your lips is met with his hands tightening, fingers almost curling into the flesh of your back. His kisses turn eager, frantic, crossing the mounds of each of your breasts. His hands leave you to pull his shirt over his head and it’s too much all at once: too much to see, feel, know. You can’t take it in before he’s kissing you again, less than kind as his arms pull your bare chests flush.

Your fingers explore new terrain, which is littered with freckles and white, years-old scars that stretch over his alabaster skin, each one a story that you hope he will tell you one day.

“Eddie,” you pant. He returns the sentiment, breathing your name over and over into your mouth as he sits back down and pulls you into his lap.

The rough of his slacks sends an unfamiliar jolt up your spine when your hips meet his. In the heat of the moment he’s pulling at you a little rough but your gasp draws him out.

“You good?”

“Just… Slow down,” you tell him, resting back on your heels with your hands on his broad, bare shoulders.

“Sorry,” he says. His face is flushed pink and his dark eyes are drooping. “Want to stop?”

“No,” you respond, too quickly to keep your cool. You shake your head. “No, I just- I’m scared I’ll go too fast. I like you too much.”

“I told you,” he says, moving in with his eyes on you. You nod, almost imperceptibly. He kisses your collarbone and then your shoulder. “I have all the time in the world for you.”

“What if someone catches us?”

He pulls back again and reaches up, moving hair from your face and putting it behind your ears. Tidying you up. Fussing over you. It’s nice.

“I promise that everybody who would even think to come anywhere near this room tonight is gone until at least tomorrow afternoon.” He kisses under your jaw, and it returns the shivers back down your spine. “They’re too busy getting drunk. Nobody’s thinking about us.”

“You promise?”

He kisses your chin. “I promise.”

A few years ago, your father entertained a visitor from one of the bigger cities. They had been on a ship for some years and they brought goods the likes of which you’d never seen before: round, vibrant, sharp fruits, powders that made food taste wildly different, and, your favourite, a small collection of fireworks.

In the light of a small bonfire, your father helped the visitor set the wooden tubes alight. They flew off into the air and sparkled, fizzed, popped. It was a display that you couldn’t help but gawk at, enjoying the sizzles and the colours in the deep January sky.

That’s what this feels like. His lips plotting a map across your bare neck, up over your jaw, until they reach your mouth, it feels like seeing fireworks. You keen into his mouth as he licks across your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth gently before letting go, meeting your tongue with his own. His hands at your back pull you in and that flush returns between your legs. He keeps you moving slowly, a lethargic push and pull across his crotch. The dips and folds of the tough fabric there, paired with the growing hardness beneath, give you a friction that you chase instinctively. It’s coupled with a litany of praises whispered into your skin between kisses, and the combination is clearing your head and sending you dizzy.

“That’s it, you’ve got it,” he coos, “Nice and slow for me, yeah? Just-”

Through drooping lids you watch him, his face scrunching in pleasure as you rock against him. It is not lost on you that this feels just as good for him, but you can tell he’s holding something back.

His face relaxes, and he meets your eye. “Hey.” He nudges your nose with his own and takes a deep breath. “You have to breathe, deep breaths. Doesn’t feel half as good if you stop breathing, promise.”

You let out a sigh and a twinkling giggle and he smiles, wide enough that you can see his dimples. He continues showering you with sweet praises, urging you towards oblivion. Look at you. I don’t even need to tell you what to do. You’re so beautiful.

“Fuck- My god.”

The pace quickens as you chase the abyss. His hands don’t move, keeping you anchored to him, moving you back and forth. It’s bliss like you’ve never felt; your own hand could never get you this far. The friction of his pants between your thighs is perfect and your need is ferocious as your stomach winds like a coil.

“C’mon,” he encourages, “You can do it. You’re doing such a good job, c’mon-”

You fall forwards and rest your forehead on his shoulder, whimpering something desperate into his neck as your stomach tenses and bends. Please, Eddie, please, please, please.

A white-hot light sears the darkness behind your eyelids as you come apart for him. He’s calling you all sorts of filthy things but you can barely hear him, brain too occupied by the burning in your belly and his hands, which are seemingly everywhere all at once.

“Good girl,” he whispers into your hairline. He scatters kisses there as you catch your breath.

“Thank you,” you sigh. “Thank you.”

He laughs and you feel it reverberate through his chest.

As you slouch into him, feeling returning to each limb, you feel a foreign yearning in your gut, a relentless feeling that prompts you to squirm. Wriggling, your restless hands paw at his arms and his back and they move lower, until you meet the waistband of his slacks.

You whine into his neck when he won’t move to accommodate your impatience. His hands lure you back from your resting place so he can look at you, with your kiss-swollen lips and happy eyes.

“I need to know that you want this,” he whispers. He rests your foreheads together, the tip of his nose nudging yours.

All you can do is whine. You’re too elated to care to form words, but Eddie’s not having it.

“I need to hear you say it,” he tells you sternly. His eyes do not betray him: they’re steely and suddenly darker than ever.

You dip your head to kiss his jaw, nosing at his cheek, lips and teeth dragging along his skin.

“I want you, Eddie,” you tell him. His fingers tighten at the nape of your neck and pull you back, gentle but firm, as he watches you speak through obsidian eyes. “Please.”

He says nothing as he gives you one more kiss, soft as anything to the pillows of your lips, before helping you off his lap and laying you between the pillows at the head of your bed. You curl up there, the breeze colder still against the wetness between your thighs, which you squeeze together as you watch him stand.

He’s all lean muscle and long limbs. You let yourself gawk for the first time since that night on the balcony; you usually have to ration your glances at him, and he’s always covered by so many layers, so you allow yourself this luxury.

He knows you’re watching, so he makes a little show of it, bending down to get rid of the slacks. Before he does, you notice that the brown has deepened around his crotch with the stains of your pleasure. Acknowledging this makes you shiver, and though you feel you should be disgusted, it’s oddly comforting instead.

When he looks over at you, finally bared and unflinching, he takes a moment to take you in.

You’re still glowing, perhaps more so than before. Some of your hair is stuck to your face, plastered there in the heat of your first orgasm, but the rest of it is laid out around your head like a halo. It’s unfair that you can be so casually magnificent. You’re also not looking at him - well, not meeting his eye, anyway. The tip of your index finger is between your teeth as you take in the sight before you, Eddie as hard as he’s ever been, just for you.

“You sure about this?” he asks.

You look up at his face and break out in a grin. “Absolutely.”

He’s slower than you want, leaning over you, his knees on the comforter beside you, mouth lazy as he gives you kisses. You take and take, happy under his touch.

His hands are everywhere again. Your skin is on fire, aflame from the praise and the affection and the attention. The sensation of being so close to another person while naked like this is achingly unfamiliar but learning it is nice, new, natural. Though it’s nothing like anything you’ve ever experienced before, you’re finding that you like it. You like smoothing your hands over his back, feeling the dips and peaks of his muscles there, or around to the slight pudge of his stomach, just above a thatch of hair similar to your own. You like the feeling of his palms on your shoulders, down your arms, across your waist. You like that when he kisses you, you feel the nudge of his nose beside yours. You like that he appears breathless to you, like your kisses are preferable to air, especially when he becomes restless and impatient.

Above you, his hand moves south, fingers burying their way between your legs. Without realising it, you’ve been squeezing them together, desperate for any relief you can find, but his fingers are certainly better. They push your knees apart so that he can climb into your space, his waist framed by your thighs, the weight of him crashing into you as he dips again to kiss you silly. You wind your arms around his neck and pull him in, enjoying the proximity rather than fleeing from it, and feeling desperate without shame.

One hand hooks under your thigh while the other plants firmly on the mattress beside your head.

“You ready?”

You nod. “Yes.”

“I’m going to go slow,” he tells you, his lips moving against yours lest he get too far away. “Just tell me if you want to stop, please?”

“Yes,” you pant, “Yes, of course, please-”

The hand beneath your thigh escapes and he holds himself as you wind your arms under his, around his chest, pulling him in tight.

It’s definitely slow. A slow, tantalising push between your thighs, filling that gaping yearning within your gut. He’s big, though it barely takes you by surprise because of course he is.

He’s panting, biting his lip above you. “Fuck-” he gasps, “Shit- You okay?”

You nod as fervently as you can because words are escaping you and all you can think about is him, hovering over you, pushing into you, breathing your air and nudging your cheek.

“You feel- You feel so good,” he breathes, pushing further. You nod in agreement and tug him closer still, until he’s in as far as he can go, filling you to the hilt.

The proximity dazzles you as you open your eyes and examine his face. The scrunch between his brows, the freckles across his crooked nose, his teeth biting firm into his lip. It feels only natural to lean up and plot a path of kisses across the hills of his face, bright, happy kisses that relax him until he can kiss you back. He lets the weight of his body fall into yours, keeping some pressure on his arm so as not to crush you entirely, but the feeling of closeness is too comfortable for him to forego.

He speaks into the flesh of your cheek when he says, “I’m going to start moving, okay?”

“Yes,” you pant, and he does, pulling slowly away before pushing back. The friction of the movement over your clit adds to the swelling feeling of fullness each time he returns to you, and the pleasure is almost overwhelming. You take heavy breaths until they become moans, matched by his own noises. Your head is empty and all you want to do is become him; being here, underneath him, is never quite enough. Instead you wish you could, in this moment, under the stars and the moon and wrapped in the night breeze, merge with your knight and stay here forever.

Your lazy daydreams are interrupted when he groans and mutters some kind of praise into your hairline: You’re doing so well. Fuck, so good. And then, to your surprise, you feel his free hand traverse the expanse of your body, between the two of you, over the hill of your stomach until the pads of his fingers find your clit.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Perhaps you haven’t melted together, but this somehow got even better. His cock moves just as quick as he draws lucid circles with his middle and ring fingers over you. He kindles the flame like an expert as his mouth drops kisses messily across your own lips. That’s it: everything is messy, lazy, desperate. He moves and kisses and whispers please, come on, come for me, are you okay? I know you can do it, you feel so good, you’re beautiful.

The hot wire returns. It burns as it coils, tighter and tighter around an abyss in your gut, tugging on each limb like you might implode and become a black hole right here in your bed.

“Eddie, oh my god-”

“Come on.”

“Unngh- It feels s- So good-”

“Come on, sweetheart.”

His movements never relent as you come, the wire burning out in a white-hot bang. You yelp, moaning his name, and he keeps going through it all, kissing you silly all over your face. It’s only when you start to squirm that he slows, brings his busy hand out from between the two of you and smiles. He allows himself a moment to watch you, face lax and mouth agape, sweaty brow and hair a mess, before he taps your hollow cheek with his knuckles.

You open heavy eyes to look back at him and watch as he smirks down at you and brings two messy fingers to his mouth. He’s still inside you and he feels it, the way you squeeze him just slightly as he tastes you on his tongue, making a little show of it for you. He hears you gasp, panting like a dog, and even the moan that leaves you when he pulls his fingers free and they glisten in the low light. “Holy shit,” you breathe, and he breaks out in a grin before he can stop himself. “Holy shit, Eddie.”

“Happy?” he asks.

“Happy? Fuck yeah, I’m happy.”

His laughter is deep and loud, a rumble from his chest that makes you grin back at him.

“What about you?” you ask, eyes drooping again, bringing the back of your hand to your forehead. It burns there, like you have a fever. You must look a state.

“I’m more than happy,” he says, smiling. “You up for a little more?

You look at him. “Hm?”

“I, uh… I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock,” he admits, flushing, “And you… You feel so good, and I’d like to… Y’know.”

He feels bad for a second when your eyes widen and you look down quickly. “Oh, Eddie, shit, did you not- Oh my god, I’m so selfish, are you okay?”

Your hands are everywhere all of a sudden, pawing at his arms and his chest, your fawning interrupted by another bellowing laugh. When you giggle back, he winces, feeling it in the way your body pulls him tighter.

“I’m fine,” he assures you, “But I want to try something.”

“Of course,” you say.

“You sure you’re okay to keep going?”

“Yes,” you sigh, “I want to help you, I want you to feel good too.”

“Hold on, then,” he says, threading an arm between your back and the sweat-damp mattress. You wind your arms back around his neck and yelp when he swings you around, all the while keeping his cock firmly inside your walls.

“Fuck,” you splutter, planting your hands either side of his head.

He likes this view. Your face hovering over his, your knees either side of his waist. He holds you by the hips, feeling the curves and dips, pushing impatient fingers into the flesh at the base of your back.

“God, you are gorgeous,” he says. He likes this view, too, watching you flush and bat your eyelashes, made nervous under his gaze and by his lovely, genuine words.

“Not too bad yourself,” you respond, smiling, lifting one hand to push curls from his warm face.

This feeling is new but it’s lovely. Gravity pulls you onto him and it feels as though he’s somehow even deeper than before. His hands at your ass fist at the flesh there and he tells you he’s going to help you, that you may be worn out and that’s okay, and as he helps you lift yourself upwards, you get the hang of it.

You plant your hands firmly on the expanse of his chest and drop yourself down before pushing yourself back up again. It helps to sit upright so you do, letting him hold you and watch you and god, his face is a picture.

He’s scrunching his nose again, eyes tight as he huffs each time you drop onto him. He’s droopy and blissful as you move up and down, circling your hips just a bit, letting him guide you. It burns after so long but it’s nothing compared to the warmth in your chest watching him near the edge. His stomach tenses, the muscles flexing between your thighs, as his breathing becomes more ragged. And suddenly his arms come up your back and pull you down flush and inside your walls, his cock sits as far in as he can push it. You feel him stiffen and shudder and the warmth as he comes inside, hugging you close, his forehead on your shoulder.

He warns you as he pulls out, and then you lie still, spent, limbs going soft together. The sky is a pale blue-green now, the sun soon to cross the horizon. You can hear birds, and the soft morning light coats your skin in a kind of effervescent glow.

Eddie’s breathing lulls you into a doze, but after a short while he stirs. The space between your core and his is sticky and damp and it’s uncomfortable for a short moment, until he tells you quietly that he’s going to get up and get a rag. He moves you softly onto your back and you sigh, a happy, contented sound, watching him move around your space so comfortably.

He returns from the water basin with a damp cloth, cleaning the remnants of your night from between your legs. You wince when he does, only because you’re tired and sore and the cloth is cold, but he apologises and kisses the inside of your knee.

“Eddie?”

He’s at the basin again, rinsing the rag. “Mhm?”

“Do you really think everyone will be gone until the afternoon?”

You catch him smiling at your question, like he knows what’s coming.

“If you want to play it safe, lets say noon.”

“And what time is it now?”

He looks over to the clock, which sits above your mantlepiece, ticking softly.

“Early,” is all he says. “Early enough.”

“Stay with me?”

He drops the rag over the side of the basin and pads over to you. The mattress dips as he rejoins you, this time lifting your sheets to bury the two of you beneath them.

“I told you,” he says quietly, kissing the peak of your shoulder and pulling you in, his arm around your waist, “I have all the time in the world for you.”

-

The castle is bustling. People rush here and there, carrying armfuls of floral arrangements, buckets of wine, heaving plates of food. Your home is lively and noisy and your mother is pacing, directing the placement of each bouquet and chair.

In your chamber, the noise seems far away. Your maids finish tying your corset and your shoe ribbons before filtering off to complete other tasks. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror above your fireplace. Red really is your colour.

There’s a resolute knock at your door. The maids stand to attention and move out of your way as your knight pushes the doors open and you step through to the hall.

“Thank you, Dustin,” you say to him.

Your new knight, a replacement both for Eddie and for the man who took his place all those months ago, bows kindly at your regards. He’s young, younger than yourself and Eddie, but keen and worthy and you’re more than happy.

And then he appears, your beacon, a gorgeous vision of handsome beauty.

Eddie, Ser Munson, your knight. Or, rather, your former knight. He’s been promoted to fiancé.

He stands at the top of the stairs, looking back at you like you hung the stars. To him, you may as well have. You are all he has eyes for now, especially now, after giving up his duties and telling your father: Your daughter is my true and only duty.

“My god,” he breathes. You step over to him, too giddy to maintain any air of grace or class. Your step is more like skipping, your love for him giving you far too much energy to merely walk to him.

He holds his arm for you and you take it, leaning up on tip-toes to give him a chaste kiss to the cheek.

“How do you do it?” he says in a low voice, dipping his head so you can hear him as the two of you descend the stairs, Dustin in step behind you.

You’re smiling while you cling to his arm. “Hm?”

“How do you keep getting more beautiful?”

“Just think, Munson,” you say in a whisper, “By the time we’re one hundred, think of how beautiful I’ll be by then.”

“I dread to think,” he says sarcastically, squeezing your arm with his. You look up at him and the noise and fervour of the castle falls away. He looks back down at you and smiles, and it’s truly the only thing that matters.

The engagement party, your sisters, your parents, your birthright - what is any of it for, what does any of it mean, when you have the one thing you ever wanted?

-

author’s note  Hey! Thanks for reading (or scrolling all this way). It's been so long since I uploaded my last fic and I’ve been lurking ever since - I miss u all but there isn’t really any room in my life for writing anymore. I have loved doing this and thank you all so so much for reading everything! I’ll be about, so the blog will stay and you can read whatever you want whenever you want. I love ya, I’ll miss ya, see ya l8r!

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

In Another Life, You Still Would've Turned My Head (ao3)

For @sjmromanceweek day 5 and the trope of... uh... white knights?

It's 1461, and after fighting in the bloodiest battle England has ever seen, Yorkist knight Cassian sprints from the battlefield in order to persuade the woman he's loved secretly for three years to come away with him. But now that the crown has switched hands, Nesta Archeron is the daughter of a run-away traitor, wanted by the king, and still the most stubborn person Cassian has ever met. And in such dangerous times, all he can do is hope that she just takes his hand. (Wars of the Roses AU)

England, 1461

There would be ballads, someday.

Poems and songs and epic-fucking-tales told by candlelight; a minstrel’s wages paid tenfold if he’d sing about the battlefield Cassian had just turned his back on, with the mud of the killing field still clinging to his greaves.

Like it mattered, now.

Thirty thousand dead and a river of blood spilled in the name of a crown that Cassian had just plucked from the ground and handed to his brother with both hands. He’d marvelled, at first, at the weight of it balanced between his fingers, but as he looked at that hollow crown, the metal smooth and polished, he wondered if it had always been so lacklustre. If the shine had always been so dimmed, or whether that was just the light of the afternoon sun, clouded by the smoke of the hundred small fires burning before a thousand canvas tents. 

He hadn’t ever thought that when he made Rhys king, it would feel so empty. 

Because what did gold matter, now? What diadem mattered, when the crown on Rhys’ brow meant that the woman Cassian had loved from afar, in secret and in silence, had just been hauled into the firing line?

The blood had been so thick that Cassian had been able to fucking taste it. The plate armour Rhys had paid handsomely for— dented now, scratched. The hilt of his sword, practically bruised from his grip. Everywhere there was blood and mud and shit, the screams of the injured and the dying. Broken spears had jutted up from the ground like broken wings, and all across the field lay the battered remains of men who had fought and died for what they believed in— the king they had believed in, whoever that might be. 

Rhys was king, now.

In a victory that was so complete and encompassing it was almost dizzying, his brother was the king now, and Cassian might have smiled at the victory had the blood not been so thick on his hands or his heart not one second away from beating right out of his chest. 

Other things mattered, now.

So Cassian had kneeled for his new king for all of one moment before rising to his feet, throwing aside the helmet that was battered beyond repair, and calling out until his voice broke for a horse to carry him— any horse at all.

Right then and there, he’d been willing to give his brother’s newfound and hard-won kingdom for a fucking horse.

Because a white rose was sewn into the tunic that covered his breastplate, and hammered into the steel beneath too, decorating his pauldrons and vambraces both. But she lived under the banner of a red one— a Lancastrian rose to his Yorkist. Cassian had woken that morning as a rebel about to wage war on the king, but Fortune had saw fit to turn her wheel on that field today. As the sun set, he was the brother of the man who wore the crown now, and where Nesta Archeron had woken that morning as the daughter of one of the wealthiest members of the gentry… she was ending it as a pauper. 

His rise had been her fall; his good fortune her destruction. 

He couldn’t let that stand. 

Wouldn’t let that stand, especially not when Rhys ordered all of the old king’s most loyal adherents to be rounded up and brought before him to kneel, and Cassian glimpsed her father at the edge of the field, already running for the hills. So Cassian had bowed to that crown - nearly five hundred years old already, with a patina of age and glory that ought to have brought him to his knees with awe - and then turned away, telling his brother in no uncertain terms that he’d be back to help secure his new kingdom once he’d dealt with something far more pressing.

Then he’d raced like the devil himself was at his back, and kept going and going and going, long after the sun had set. 

And now his spurs clattered on the cobblestones as he dismounted, his stiff muscles protesting each move as he tied his horse to a post with hands aching from holding the reins for more hours than he’d bothered to count, and a sword for even more before that. He tipped his head back to feel the cold night air brush against his neck; a welcome relief given the plate armour and heavy chain mail that he still wore.

God, not even Rhys knew how much of the world Cassian would let burn for her. 

Not a single soul alive knew how much Cassian had yearned for her since the very first day he’d glimpsed her across the hall at one of the old king’s Christmas banquets, when the entire court had been gathered, before they’d descended into war. He had spoken to her since, small snatches of precious conversation they’d stolen when backs were turned, but none of them knew just how madly, desperately, and irrevocably devoted he was to Nesta fucking Archeron.

Perhaps it would have changed things, if Rhys had known exactly how much Cassian cared for the girl whose father had just refused to swear allegiance to the new king. But there had been no time to explain, and it didn’t matter now, anyway. 

Before him, the moonlight was a shard of silver splitting through the clouds, bathing the Archeron manor in an eerie, ethereal glow. Roses climbed the pale walls, and all was in darkness. Not a single candle shone inside, every window void of light, like those inside had stopped waiting for the master of the house to come home and were already expecting the enemy to come hammering on the door. 

Cassian was the enemy, he supposed. With that white rose on his chest, so at odds with the red one he’d glimpsed on Nesta’s father’s banner today, as crimson as freshly spilled blood… yes, technically Cassian was the enemy.

But he could never be her enemy.

It was why he’d raced to that manor, allowing neither hunger nor thirst nor fatigue to slow him. He’d switched horses thrice, determined to let nothing on this God-given earth stop him. He hadn’t even wasted the time it took to change from his armour and it glinted weakly now, the moonlight glancing off the planes of it that weren’t covered in blood. 

Because Rhys would arrest them - arrest her - as soon as daybreak came. Cassian would bet his life that there was already a contingent of soldiers on the way, ready to apprehend the daughters of Sir Henry Archeron and bring them to court, where they could be kept an eye on and ensure their father’s loyalty. And Cassian knew what that meant. Each of the three sisters would be married off to some minor, inconsequential lord and shipped off to whichever corner of England was the least likely to rise up in rebellion against the new king. They would be sold off into marriage to lessen their value, their threat, and though the part of Cassian that had led Rhys’ vanguard in battle knew it was the right move…

He couldn’t let it happen.

So he didn’t bother to quiet his steps as his spurs rang out against the stone of the courtyard, an announcement in and of itself, and he didn’t bother, either, to knock on the thick wooden door with the skin of his knuckles. No— Cassian banged his armoured wrist against the door, loud enough to wake the dead.

And within moments, as though she had been waiting as soon as his horse crossed into the courtyard, Nesta Archeron pulled open the heavy door on creaking hinges, a scowl on her face that was enough to send him to an early grave as she stood on that threshold between them, half concealed by the shadow, with the moonlight only barely gracing the angles of the face that had haunted his dreams ever since he’d laid eyes on her.

And though she tried to keep that scowl in place, her pale hand fluttered to her chest as she took in the sight of him, silvered fully by the moon, and surely looking as wild as anything. And as though there was nothing else she could think to say, Nesta breathed,

“You shouldn’t be here.”

***

“Where else would I be?”

His words were smooth, and the smile that pulled at his lips was wry with a hopeless sort of sincerity, but still there was an edge in his voice, serrated by exhaustion, like the hours of travel and battle both had taken their toll on a body that simply refused to give in to the need for rest. 

God, he was a mess. 

The armour, moulded so perfectly to every plane of his body, was dulled instead of polished, and somewhere along the way he had discarded his helm and his gauntlets, as if preferring to feel the wind on his face and the leather of the reigns against his palms as he raced to her in the dying light, crossing miles like they were inches. His surcoat was covered in blood and dirt, and Nesta didn’t know what it said about her that instantly she began to pray that it wasn’t his own. God save her, she didn’t even think to ask after her father, not until—

“Your father escaped,” Cassian said, almost as an aside as he took a step forward. His eyes were fixed to hers, like she was a cardinal point he couldn’t hope to navigate himself without, and as he moved, the sword at his hip clinked against the armour he still wore. Idly, casually, he balanced his wrist on the pommel, curling his fingers around the decorated handle, and when Nesta noticed a fresh cut right across his knuckles - like he’d taken off his gauntlets during battle and been caught short - she didn’t like the way her focus centred on that one cut. Not when it was clear by the look of him that he had left a string of more serious wounds in his wake today. 

How many lives had he ended on that battlefield today? How many women had he made widows? 

But his eyes were unfailing, his gaze steadfast. Like he was her most devoted servant.

She forced herself to think of the matter at hand. The danger facing them now, without her father to protect her name or that of her sisters.  Deep down, she’d always known that he’d abandon them to their fate if the battle went south for him. That he’d save his own skin before thinking of theirs.

“He fled the field?” Nesta asked.

Cassian snorted. “He never entered the field, love. He spent the entire battle at the edges and when it was clear his side was losing, he fled. He’s probably half way to France by now.” He took another step forward, his face turning grave as shadow fell across half of his frame. “You need to come with me.”

Nesta blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You need to come with me.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “Please.”

The entreaty alone was almost enough to make Nesta agree. Here was a man who begged for nothing, who asked for nothing, standing before her and saying please. 

And yet she could not accept.

No matter how much her heart yearned, how much her soul ached.

She could not accept.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said firmly, her eyes rising briefly to the lintel above her head, the stone carved with the Archeron family crest. The seat that had been occupied by an Archeron for centuries, ever since the Norman Conquest. What would become of it, if she were to vacate it now? 

The scar that split Cassian’s eyebrow was pulled taut as he frowned. His hand darted out, closing around her arm, his fingers warm through the fabric of her sleeve as he held her. As though he hadn’t thought the better of it, hadn’t bothered to check himself. And it didn’t matter what future Nesta might have imagined once, in the dark when she was alone. It didn’t matter that, once, she might have harboured dreams of him being the one she slept beside each night and woke up to each morning. None of it mattered; he should not have been touching her. 

Not like this.

She pulled back, stepping entirely into the shadow.

His hand dropped into the empty space between them, a void that felt impossible to bridge. 

“Your father is enough of a landholder in this county to make his loyalty imperative to whichever king sits on the throne,” Cassian said slowly, keeping his voice low. “And since he’s made it clear that he won’t accept any king save the old one…”

“My father is one of the king’s chief moneylenders—“

“Not anymore, sweetheart,” Cassian interrupted. His armour clinked as he took another step, as he reached for her again, his fingers falling just short of hers. He left his hand there, hanging in the air for a moment, as if waiting for her to reach for him. She wanted to. God in heaven, she wanted to. But the moment stretched and in the end his fingers curled towards his palm as he let his hand drop back to the pommel of his sword, leaving neither of them satisfied. “And your daddy isn’t powerful enough or wealthy enough anymore to warrant Rhys keeping him alive. He’ll make an example of him, and it won’t be long before he throws him in the Tower.”

Nesta paled.

Her relationship with her father was… complex. It was her duty as a daughter to obey him, and yet… the man had proven himself a fool on more than one occasion since her mother’s death. He had been lucky, lately, that his ventures had given him enough revenue to loan his gold to the king in order to fund this godforsaken war, but it was luck, not strategy, that kept him in a position of influence. And if Cassian was right, her father’s luck had just run dry.

Fortuna no longer smiled upon the Archerons or the Lancastrians, and they would all of them go down with that ship unless they abandoned course and chose another.

“Rhys won’t let your father live,” Cassian repeated, eyes wide and silvered by the moon, like he was hoping to convey each ounce of his desperation with his gaze alone. “And I won’t let you die with him.”

He shook his head, errant curls escaping the leather band he’d used to keep his hair back from his rugged face. His scar was stark in the moonlight, evidence of all that he had fought for, and when he held out his hand again, bloodied fingers and all, Nesta could have sworn there was a tremble there, an apprehension that said he didn’t know what he’d do if she refused him again.

“Please, love. Come with me.”

There it was again. That word— please.

His brother had just taken the crown of England with both hands. He was one of the most powerful men in the entire kingdom now, and yet he stood before her and said please.

“Come with you where?” Nesta asked, her voice rising even as she looked at that proffered hand and felt herself leaning towards it. “What will you do, secret my sisters and I away somewhere where Rhysand - your brother, your king - won’t find us? How long will you lie to him for?”

Cassian’s face was hard. “I’ll figure something out,” he said.

Nesta huffed a laugh. “Ever the tactician, I see.”

“When it comes to you?” he said, his eyes clashing with hers, as sharp as the blade at his side. “Sweetheart, you ought to know by know that I am never fully in possession of my faculties when you’re around.”

She turned her face away.

She couldn’t bear it. The honesty in his voice, the earnest drag of his eyes across her face. 

“It would ruin me, Cassian. And both of my sisters.”

Another step forward, another inch she allowed him closer. “I won’t let it. Just allow me to do this. Allow me to make sure you are safe.”

Nesta swallowed. She could feel her resolve wavering, melting like wax above a candle flame. And when she looked at him, taking in the marks of battle as if for the first time, she felt her heart splinter and crack. To think she could have lost him— that he could have been felled on that field today, and she would never again have seen those eyes, or that smile, or wondered what it was to feel his touch.

“My father won’t ever kneel,” she said in a whisper. “He’ll never kneel for Rhys, no more than you would for the old king.”

“No,” Cassian mused, reaching forward boldly, as if he could sense the erosion of every last one of her reservations, and with gentle fingers he tucked a piece of her unbound hair behind her ear. Her skin sparked at the touch— his bare fingers against her skin. “But then, the only person in this world I’ll truly kneel for is you.”

Her lips quirked, a smile trapped at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t tell Rhysand that.”

“He’d forgive me,” he said softly, an echoing smile gracing his own face, curving his lips and revealing a flash of teeth as he tilted his head, studying her as if she were the sunrise after an endless night. And when neither of them moved and the silence stretched, Nesta felt her heart pounding in her chest like a drum and suddenly felt the need to touch him too, for nothing else than to remind herself that he was alive.

His armour was cold against her fingers as she trailed her hands over his shoulders, the smooth silver plate a chilling contrast to the warmth of his fingers when he lifted a hand and brushed the backs of her knuckles with his own. Her heart keened when she trailed over the tops of his arms, feeling each dent in the metal where a sword or spear or arrow had tried to pierce his skin. There was sickening scratch, too, stretching from his ribs to his stomach that Nesta knew would have been the end of him had the armour not been there to save his life.

But he wasn’t dead, she reminded herself.

He had survived, when so many hadn’t.

Survived, and raced like the hounds of hell were at his heels to reach her. 

“Was it terrible?” she asked quietly, tracing that deadly scar along his breastplate before her eyes dipped to his wounded hand; that thin line across his knuckles a shard of glass piercing her heart, like she was the one who had been dealt the injury. Without thinking, her hands slid from his armour to take that hand and lift it up into the moonlight, her thumb tracing a delicate path along the bones of his fingers. They had never been so close as this— skin on skin, her fingers swallowed by his as he turned his hand over and pressed their palms together, the heel of her hand sitting so perfectly in the centre of his. 

He didn’t need to ask what she had meant. 

“It was battle,” he said, with a blithe shrug that didn’t quite land as truthfully as he had hoped. His eyes shuttered, like he had seen true horror on that field today and wished, now, to chase away the memory with something sweeter. “Battle is always terrible.” 

His voice quieted, his lips parting on a breath as he lifted his free hand and dragged the back of his curled fingers down her cheek. Nesta savoured his warmth, but felt a shiver crawl along her skin as he reached her jaw; felt the fingers that were still wrapped around hers flex as he added,

“But I knew what I was fighting for.”

“And what was that?”

“A world where you and I don’t have to be on opposite sides. A world where I could finally be worthy of you.”

Because before, when Rhysand had only been the king’s cousin and Cassian just a household knight, her father hadn’t even spared him a glance. When she had first seen him, at the Christmas festivities three years previous, there had been no hope of them even speaking together in public. When he had first asked her for her name, it was on a chance meeting in an empty courtyard, when she was on her way to find her father and he was on his way to the stables. When he had first smiled at her, it was from beneath a helmet, just before he closed his visor at the Easter joust. Touching him had been out of the question then; a fantasy she reserved only for the darkest of nights. 

But as the adopted brother of the new sovereign, Cassian had suddenly been elevated to one of the most eligible men in the entire kingdom. 

Not that Nesta had ever really cared about any of that. Not really.

“You were always worthy of me,” she whispered, feeling herself slipping farther and father down a slope that she knew there would be no hope of climbing back up. 

His fingers still lingered at her cheek, his face tipped down so that the tip of his nose was just barely separated from hers. She could feel his breath on her skin, could see each and every scar he’d ever earned. 

“It doesn’t matter now,” he whispered. “Just— come with me. Tell me you’ll come with me.”

Her eyes closed, his thumb running back and forth across her cheekbone in a slow, measured caress. It was one she wanted to savour, a feeling she didn’t ever want to be without. Because how could this man end lives with those hands and yet hold her so tenderly, like she was the most precious thing in the world to him, even when his fortune had changed so drastically today?

As if he could tell what she was thinking, he said,

“None of it matters as long as you are safe. The crown, the riches. I care for none of it.”

“Don’t you have a mighty coronation to prepare for?” Nesta asked, opening her eyes and raising a brow. “Ermine robes to be measured for and golden spurs to be fitted?”

He laughed, and the sound rumbled from deep in his chest and through hers, until she felt it like an ember, glowing in her very centre. 

“For all I care the kingdom can go to hell, now.”

“You don’t mean that,” she breathed.

“I do if it means losing you.”

And good God, how could she ever withstand that? How could she ever hope to defend herself against the way he looked at her? The way his touch was so soft against her cheek? The way he all but signed his heart over every time he asked her to come away with him?

And the truth was - the terrible, damning truth was - that she didn’t even want to deny him.

Not anymore.

So when he looked at her again, his thumb sliding down from her cheekbone to trace the curve of her lips…

Nesta nodded.

There were no words between them; none were necessary. She watched his throat move as he swallowed, throat left exposed by his lack of a helm, and as her hands travelled back to his shoulders, he nodded once too, lips curving as understanding passed between them like a current. There was no going back now, not as Nesta felt the hand that had lingered by her mouth moving to her neck, Cassian’s fingers spanning her nape as—

All at once, he hauled her mouth to his. 

Nesta felt her gasp get caught in her throat, felt it die as his lips moved against hers in a kiss that was neither tender nor tentative but far more substantial— something alchemical, turning even the most innocent of touches into a brand. Shock gave way to something sweeter, surprise yielding to hunger as she melted against him, her fingers slipping on the silver plate at his shoulders and coming to rest right above his heart as he banded an arm around her waist to steady her, to keep her standing as her knees threatened to buckle. Her fingers curled against the metal, cursing the barrier between her skin and his as she searched for something to grasp, wanting to feel the planes of his chest beneath her palms and settling, instead, for cool, hardened steel. Still, as Cassian tilted her head back and kept her pressed tight against that armoured chest, pouring every ounce and facet of his desire for her into that one, singular, kiss…

She caught fire.

That first kiss, so destructive and beautiful and certain to be the making of her and the damnation of her at the same time. Because, she thought as his thumb stroked the hollow at the base of her throat, how could she ever hope to kiss another after this? How could she hope to ever forget it, the way his touch sank into her skin? Or the way he pulled back to let her breathe, only to pepper her jaw with a hundred more kisses, soft and sweet this time, yet fervent enough to have her chasing his lips all over again, like it wasn’t sin itself to let herself fall.

And all she could think was… 

He’s not dead.

He’s not dead.

And this… God, this felt like living.

And so when Cassian pulled back to study her face, it was her, this time, who grabbed him by the neck and pulled his face back down, demanding another kiss, one he was all too willing to give. Demanding more, when her back arched and his fingers splayed at the base of her spine. Demanding everything he had, in return for everything she was in return.

And he met her, stroke for stroke for stroke.

Like this was a battle of a different kind, but one where there was no losing side. There was only his body and hers, and the slow surrender of every single one of her defences, yielding, parting, lowering with every swipe of his hand across her spine, every brush of his tongue against hers. Suddenly it didn’t matter who she was or who he had been; didn’t matter that his brother had just taken the crown and her father was on the run. Her hands skated up the column of his neck, searching for whatever skin she could find, and when his lips dropped to her collarbone, smiling against her as he nipped at the skin he found there, Cassian’s broad palms dropped to her waist, holding her in place as he looked up at her with a glint in his eye that wouldn’t have been out of place if he had been the one to win the crown today.

“Say it,” he whispered, before lowering his mouth back to her neck, lining her throat with more kisses until he reached her jaw. “Let me hear you say it.”

She quirked a brow. “Say what?”

“Say that you’ll come with me. That whatever happens tomorrow and beyond, we’ll face it together.”

Nesta placed a palm against his cheek. “Together,” she nodded.

And then, with an insatiable sort of hunger driving her to madness, she let herself smile properly for the first time in an age as she dragged a hand over that damned plate armour and hummed. 

“Now,” she said as Cassian tilted his head, his eyes glittering with amusement. “Are you going to come inside and let me take off that armour, or are you going to stand in the doorway all night?”

Taglist: @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @valkyriesupremacy @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome @pyxxie @jmoonjones @unlikelypersonalknight1

[minticecodes]

A (late) piece for dmcweek2024 day 4! I was buzzing to put forward something for the week. Prompt was alt universe.

AU where Eva survived the fire and had to figure out a way forward, believing the twins dead. She becomes an RPG shopkeeper selling wares ranging from antique books to magical goods (Devil May Scry). She's also out for Mundus' blood.

Image descriptions are the same as in alt.

[ID: 7 Digital illustrations and sketches. 1: Coloured illustration of a bookshop at sunset. Eva, a pale blonde middle aged woman mans the bright patterned counter. She wears a turtleneck and red shawl, has shoulder length hair, and diagonal facial burn scar and scarring on her left hand. Light rays illuminate her gently smiling face. Besides packed books, on the shelves are potion bottles, statuettes, succulents, and a displayed katana. Roses and plants decorate the shop. On the counter are a thick hardback, bookscanner, and crystal ball. Cards are displayed inside the counter. On the wall hangs a price sign, featuring doodled vital stars (large star drawn with sunglasses), holy water and fortunes. Beneath it is a rose wreathed divinity statue display, with 2 red orb offerings in a dish. 2: Eva from behind, sitting hunched alone at a table where a birthday cake sits untouched. It's a two flavour cake. By her clenched hand are crumpled tissues. Caption: 'Vergil...Dante...happy birthday...' 3: Eva bracing the Devil Sword Sparda across her shoulders, aimed at the ground. She wears a bell sleeved, ruffled funeral/wedding dress with a slit for leg movement. A veil trails behind her like a ribbon. Close ups of her show the headpiece design; a pacifier made of a long bird skill, feather, rose, and four skeletal 'legs'. 4 & 5: Trish taking on teen Dante's image: a tan teen in black, with chin length white hair, a halter neck tank top, leather pants, kneelength boots and black polish. Her leather jacket collar resembles lightning bolts. She leans against an invisible wall, one leg bent to brace her foot against it. She looks askance with arched brows, lifting shades from her face. The 2nd image is a 3/4 profile with shades perched on her forehead and popped collar. 6: Helmetless portraits of Dante and Vergil in armour, expressionless. Dante's hair is shoulder length and falls across his face. 7: Full body of 2 somewhat lanky demonic knights. One (Nelo Angelo) in black and blue with droopy horns rests his palms atop his blue broadsword's pommel, the sword upright against the ground. He stands straight, staring ahead. The other in white and red and curled horns has a palm clapped on Nelo Angelo's shoulder, other hand at his hips. Somehow the eyes on his helmet express playfulness. At his back is the hilt to a flail, the spiked ball resting on the ground by his armoured heels. They're labelled '~16' . End ID.]

Read more for some wordy backstory and sketches. TW for mentions of torture, abuse and solitary confinement surrounding the twins.

I had...so many more ideas that I'm leaving out to keep this short. It's fun to think how she'd mesh with the cast.

Like! her and Lady. Mother that lost her kid and kid that lost her mother. It writes itself how much unwitting projection can go wrong. And pretty much everything about her, the twins, and Trish :)

In terms of backstory:

After the fire she's alone. Her birth family disowned her long ago. She thinks about revamping the mansion but the idea of staying in that empty space with only memories for company is too much. So she eventually opens a small store.

Starts off paranoid and distant. Still is distant but gets entangled with the local community overtime. Greets people by name and they'll chat about how life has been going. This includes demon hunters and demons and supernatural beings living peacefully; her shop becomes a small safe haven to exchange information to stay safe.

Gets very good at forging protective charms. Haunted by the memory of the enchanted closet, smashed in and empty.

A regular is a schoolgirl who originally came to pick up reserved books for her father but stuck around because hey, this place is quiet and interesting, and the owner serves stellar teacakes. Great place to study. To Mary, Eva's kind, though odd, secretive and a little lonely.

I got inspired by Eva's association with the bangle/bracelet of time and the amulets for her fighting style. It's based around item crafting, like an RPG character slapping on every stat boosting item.

She stitches together different outfits for different needs Cardcaptor style. They're all exceedingly dramatic. It's not clear here but I wanted a bird motif to eventually come through. Phoenix motif, really.

[ID: Rough sketches: A magician esque outfit with vest, feathered tophat and cape. A longcoat with long skirt and long scarf at her back like a cape. The cape is tagged with 'spells stitched into fabric'. Close ups on the coat lapel show two pins (strawberry and wing), labelled 'charm lapel pins.' Close up of the shoes show sharp heals and ankle bracelets. Eva leaping in a black bodysuit and leotard, with feathery collar, quill behind her ear, and ballet shoes with a claw at the heel. Eva making a triangular 2 hand sign in a hooded cloak and longskirt. Around her shoulders are claws. At her hips is an hourglass. Above her heeded head is a clocklike halo. Beside her is a sketch of a woman with a lionhead mask. A funeral and wedding dress inspired outfit. Eva crouches, wielding the Devil Sword Sparda in scythe form. Her face is covered by a tattered veil. She wears a knee length ruffled dress, black gloves, and a long, ruffled cape. Close up of her left hand shows a ring and finger claws Rough comic. Chibi lady talks to chibi Eva. Lady holds up a black body suit with billowing sleeves and a cleavage window. Lady: "Eva what is this" Eva (smiling cheerfully): "Oh - that old thing!" Eva: "My old hunting outfit. Gosh I'd almost forgotten about it. Not the most comfortable thing - so skin tight..." However Lady fixates on 'my old hunting outfit'. The words go in one ear and come out as a younger Eva in a catsuit, pointing a gun with a serious expression, wind blowing through her hair. Lady stares into the distance, bewildered, and slightly blushing. End ID]

Meanwhile the twins are having a terrible time but they have each other, even if they don't remember they're brothers. I think it'd be sweet if they have a bond anyway. Everyone else thinks they're rivals at best.

(Nelo is Mundus' favourite to toy with as the proud, eldest son. But when he gets rough, Bianco butts in and acts up for Mundus' attention. This gets him sent to solitary confinement; Mundus figured out Bianco hates small spaces and designed an iron maiden for him. Others think Bianco is a brute who acts out for a fight. But that's ok. It means Bianco can keep buying Nelo time.) (When lucid, Nelo despises his own weakness when this happens.)

[ID: 2 Images. Nelo and Bianco Angelo in fisticuffs in a cartoony dustcloud, glaring at each other as they fight. They're captioned 'Mundus' most competent generals'. Additional text: 'silent, obedient, crushing force when apart. Perfect soldiers. ... until they're put together. Complement each other's battle style OR clash terribly. Nelo Angelo staring off, arms crossed and furrowed eyes somehow expressing being completely fed up. Behind him, Bianco and Griffin talk at each other. Griffin's glaring. Bianco has a hand up to gesture. End ID]

[rosefinch07]

Okok so im putting this royalty arranged marriage gunbug au snippet here since in the reblog it was in the entire post was too long jsjs

The clicked title slipped dully from his lips. He had bitten them raw.

-

"Scarab."

Jaime curled up further into the side of the carriage. It had been sent from somewhere. He wasn't sure where from, but it wasn't Palmera Village or any other Reach settlement. That was for certain. Dark and elegant both outside and in. It wasn't industrial and harsh. It wasn't Reach construction. Not at all. The Reach Empire is nothing but harsh.

"Elytron." Khaji Da replied in turn, likewise in Reach dialect, settling themself primly beside him. Beetle regalia covered them. Their armour was clean, newly polished. Not an effort usually spared for field work. It was as if the Reach wanted one of their soldiers to look... presentable for a foreign audience instead of ready for a battle. "When I heard that you were getting sent elsewhere for your disobedience, I was not expecting that I would join you." They bit out dryly.

Jaime tugged idly at his bound wrists.

No. Couldn't be.

"Well, you are here as Reach. Not as captive." He shrugged. "You have reason?"

The Reach soldier rolled their eyes. "You know as well as I that there is no need to give a reason for this. We are soldiers, not generals."

Nothing, then.

Jaime just huffed and turned his head away as the carriage began to move. The driver came, apparently. Hopefully the ride won't be long.

There was silence for a few moments before Khaji spoke again.

"It is... unusual to see you in peasant garb, chained as a prisoner." They admitted. They settled their armour's helmet into their lap. "I have never seen you in this indignity."

Jaime barked out a laugh. Khaji's icy stare peered out from a young scarred face; their dark eyebrows set firmly into neutrality.

"Then spare yourself the sight." He said. "Indignity is not for the Reach."

[hcdragonwrites]

Barbed Words (@journey-to-the-au Fic) Part 2 Tea Trouble

So…. This has turned into …,,, three parts. Yes. Three. There’s a lot of dialogue and I… yeah. It’s a lot of different characters talking a bit. So … ENJOY- I’ll post the last part later today.

The day couldn’t have been more perfect on the mountain. The sun was shedding glorious warmth upon Willows back. She was dressed in her finest court attire to impress upon her sisters. Willow would have been in her more relaxed attire but today… was not the day to buck courtly garb in the sisters eyes. They would be dressed just as she, hair done in loops and paint pressed to lips, as the court dictated. Willow would not let her dress be the reason her sisters turned their nose up at her home.

She would impress those same sisters who came stepping off their celestial mounts with the grace of clouds. But It was like the mountain had heard Willows frantic beating heart and had bent to kiss her brow in comfort. The apple blossoms were in full bloom, the scent heady and sweet on the air. The grass was perfectly green and soft beneath the blanket she was settled on. The tree they were beneath was one strong Honeysuckle, it’s emerald leaves chattering in the breeze as if in welcome to the six sisters who walked forward. The morning dew had not burnt off yet which led to a coolness in the ground Willow could feel. Nature was in its best and most beautiful untamed self.

As her sisters steeds touched ground, a monkey named Ocean and his sister Spray stepped forward and collected the horses. The celestial beasts would be put to pasture to enjoy the days warmth and beauty. Which seemed just fine to the horses, as they swished cloud bobbed tails or snorted vapor into the warming air.

That spring air was fresh and the mountain felt it- the troop was out and about. Littles played and tussled between brambles and thickets. Mothers groomed and talked about their babes or gossiped about their mates in trees with low slung branches. Fathers were about, either tussling with others of the troop or collecting foods and polishing weapons. Unmated males, those who felt the spring air a bit too warmly, strutted and fastidiously groomed themselves. Then they would make their way to the bend in the river where the Water Curtain Caves spray coloured the air in a rainbow. Here the bachelorettes of the troop would be sunbathing. Here they would braid flowers and feathers into fur, and blush or chuckle at the sauntering show ponies who walked by to woo their besotted.

The laughter and the noise of the day was like music to Willow. Her Earthen family was about her, frolicking and living life. It set a small bit of her tension to ease.

Thank you Huaguoshan, Willow quietly said, wanting to kiss her mountain home. It had put on its best colors, it’s most beautiful and harmonious of welcomes. Wukong was dressed in battle regalia, soft leathers and polished armour that could set the suns rays to envy. He had dressed as king upon her request, kneeling beside her as the celestial sisters walked forward.

Summer Turning Flower was the forefront, dressed in greens and embroidered in a stitch of golden apples along the hem and wrists. Willow greeted Summer warmly with smile and a hug as her second sister knelt.

“Oh Willow its so GOOD to see you! A veritable beauty among the beasts.” Summer smiled to her.

Ah… was that intended ? Willow looked into her sisters eyes as they parted. She tried to figure out just what could have happened - or what that had been about. Was it an intentional saying ? Her sister had stepped back, casting her eyes downward.

“Hello Great Sage.” Summer bowed to Wukong, head low.

“Arise sister in law. You need not treat me with courtly courtesy. Wukong will do for my family.” Willows heart wanted to stretch in warmth at Wukongs kindness.

“Oh good.” Winter Frosted Grace sighed. She dropped onto the blanket with only the confidence that she could exude. Her ice blue robes crumpled beneath her as she sat, letting go of stately decorum for her posture. “I have had enough bowing to break a back for one day.”

“Was it a rough time in the palace then?” Willow asked.

“Oh sister dear,” Winter sighed, snapping a fan from a sleeve to wave at her face. “You have no idea. On this escapade I had three suitors try and prevent me from leaving. All of them beseeched me to reconsider for the ‘Grace of Heaven cannot loose another to the Savages’”

As Summer laughed Willow felt a bit of rage begin to build in her. A second slight. This time directly at myself. A small wave battered inside her, hitting against the sea wall she had erected all those years ago. Willow looked to Wukong. He seemed fine- his eyes not betraying the friendly warmth it still held.

“Of course I told the fat man to take his worries back to his mistress beneath the peach blossom trees.” Winter flapped a hand with the fan, as if blowing the man away. “I have no interest in any man so foolish as to think me to flights of fancy.”

At least it is only me they target so. She could handle that. Willow had dealt with plenty a honey coated barb from her sisters.

Another crash of that ocean inside her.

Autumn Leaves Falling, dressed in her habitual golden and browns, was stopped talking to Liu just several paces away. The Marshal had agreed so courteously to be the guard today, to play the role of protector. And though Wukong had tried to dissuade his dear friend, Liu had simply stared him down.

“It is to honor our Lady Willow. To make a show that Huaguoshan is well kept in both beauty and manners.” Liu had said. The Marshal would hear no more of it, his mind set.

The monkey greeted Willows laughing sister with kindness and such delicate court courtesy that Willow felt a wave of love swamp her little anger. Liu, of all the monkeys besides Wukong, knew how nervous Willow had grown. He was always carefully watching everyone and had seen how she had begun to pace It had been He who had first told Wukong of her exertions to the caves after bed to start gathering materials and go over supplies. That had been several months ago when the little bit of chill still hung in the air.

As Autumn came gayly up, she was surpassed by Wind Over Sea and Weaves The Clouds. They came in a whirlwind, laughing and tumbling over eachother. They fell head first into the blanket, grabbing and tugging at one another.

Wukongs quick thinking pulled the tea tray and treats up and away before the sisters could crash into the set and make a mess.

“You cheater!” Cloud accused.

“I didn’t cheat at anything!” Sea countered.

“You wagered and lost!”

“I didn’t wager a thing!”

Wukong set the tray aside with grace and pulled the sisters apart with ease as if her were picking two ladybirds up from a rose bush.

“What is this I hear of a wager ?” He asked.

“Sea made a bet that she has no intention of keeping!” Cloud accused, crossing her arms.

“You didn’t win though!” Sea began, voice rising.

Oh good Greif. Of her sisters, Cloud and Sea got into the most trouble together. It was almost as if they took after their namesakes- each feeding off the other and bringing a storm to blow into court. Cloud was game for any challenge, to prove herself in any contest placed before her. She would get along with Wukong, Willow had thought many a time.

Sea was sly and always seeking mischief. Being the second youngest sister meant she did not leave a lasting impression upon the court. She was too far down the birth order for some to set their sons or themselves to courting. Or she was too ambiguous in courtly power to try an ally with. So Sea had found another way to get attention: pranking.

It seemed like this spat was just the typical stirring of the pot Sea would create.

“I will have peace this day for my wife’s sake.” Wukong admonished them both. Sea at least had the propriety to send a sheepish glance her eldest Sisters way.

“As King of Huaguoshan I will hold court.” And Wukong set the two sisters down taking a very mocking and kingly air. Willow giggled and Autumn chortled while Winter looked on with a tired gaze.

“Oh a game!” Little Weaver Girl came bounding up, the last and youngest of the sisters. Willow saw the genuine smile on her baby sisters face as she settled on the edge of the blanket, her body wriggling in excitement. Little was the gem, the glowing jewel, of the court. She was beloved by all for she was the youngest, the most open, and the one to create the unrivaled robes of their Fathers attire.

“Honestly these two gamble over the stupidest bets.” Winter snorted. She grabbed a teacake, sniffing it before taking a bite.

“I think it’s adorable.” Autumn smiled. She looked back to Liu who stood at attention. “Especially as they play act at courtly politeness.”

Play act ? The water in Willow swirled again, sharks smelling rage. Liu was never Play acting. Of all the world, the Marshal could rival generals in Heaven with his respect and kindness. Willow had to bite her tongue, fingers curling into her sleeve.

“Speak first Sister Cloud.” Wukong intoned, taking to the game quickly and with joy. “What sort of wager did you get cheated out of?”

“We bet to see how many colours of Monkeys we would see!” Cloud glared at her sister who stuck a tongue out.

“A fine wager.” Wukong agreed, looking out over the monkeys who walked by. Willow ignored how her sister Summer curled away from the friendly faces of her earthly family. Or at least she tried to.

Sand Crane, a kind old monkey slowly approached the party. She was one of the older grannies, face worn and leathered by the sun and laughter lines. She walked up to Willow, her smile making her eyes crinkle at the corner.

“For you, Dear one.” And she unfurled her hand. On her palm were some of the ripest berries plucked from a raspberry patch that Willow had every seen. The little gems were large and swelled with tart juice.

“Thank you Sand Crane.” Willow bowed.

“I picked them myself this morning.” The great old monkeys silvered muzzle and hair flashed like moonbeams in the sun. “The east mountain gets a nice breeze this year from the sea. The berries should be sweet for you and your sisters.” Without a second glance, the old matriarch stepped to the side, slipping into a throng of old grannies who set to chatter. Willow held the berries like gold. The east side of the mountain was steeper, the ever present monsoon rains having carved the terrible rock into a steep and slippery trap.

Sand Crane had quietly given her a great gift and had reassured her in a simple gesture. We love you, We want the best for you. Willow felt a swell of love threaten spill from behind her eyes.

I cant cry. I will cry later. And I will find that old grandmother and give her a hug for her kind words.

Willow slipped a cool berry into her mouth. The juice burst on her tongue, made all the sweeter by the gesture. Summer was watching her with a befuddled expression.

“Here- I know how much you love Raspberries!” She held her hand out to her sister.

“You are going to eat that ?” Summer asked from behind a polite smile.

It hit Willow like a slap.

Willow pulled back politely, taking the berries in her hand and keeping the fingers uncurled. She would not. Could not. Make a scene. These had been loving picked and given to me. Sand Crane had thought of me and had gone out of her way to gather them…

The waves inside Willow were crashing.

“And what was your guess?” Wukongs voice had Willow come back from that crashing anger, from that perilous rising sea. She saw the Monkey King mediating between her two younger sisters who had significantly calmed down.

“Twenty five colours.” Cloud said with a sniff.

“Alright. And Sister Sea what wager did you set ?” Wukong asked.

Seas smile was sly, a fox curling its lips around a chickens throat. “I said as many as the rainbow.”

“Which is not FAIR!” Cloud accused, throwing one finger in Seas face. Autumn laughed at the antics. Little simply helped herself to another mooncake, used to her sisters competing.

“But there IS A RAINBOW.” Sea insisted.

“No there isn’t !” Cloud spat like a cat.

“THERE IS RIGHT THERE - AND THEIR ARE MONKEYS BENEATH IT!” Sea hissed back, pointing to the waterfall spray that threw a perpetual mist into the air.

“That’s not a Heaven made one so it does not count!” Cloud sniffed. “It’s not a proper rainbow.”

It may have been the past barbs from Winter and Summer, but this phrasing following so close to Summers rejection to Sand Cranes gift- it stung already sore places. Willow couldn’t hide the small falling of her smile.

“A trickster then is Sister Sea.” Wukong leaned into the two fighting groups, giving a wink to Sea who chuckled.

“Do not make wagers with tricksters dear sisters.” Wukong philosophized, placing his hands behind his back to take a bit of a haughty air. “Especially if they are tricksters you call sister.”

“Aren’t you a trickster ?” Summer asked pointedly, her eyes sliding to Willow. What is that look ment to communicate ? Was she implying that Wukong was not to be trusted? That she had somehow been hoodwinked to come here ?

“Why yes.” Her friend rolled the sharper comment off his shoulder, letting the barb fall harmlessly. Or not recognizing the pointed slight. “ I am the best and most well know of cunning minded and sharp witted tricksters in stories. There are lessons to be learned in many a thing I have done.”

“Could you tell us Wukong?” Little asked around a mouthful of coconut cakes.

“Of course.” He leaned over and grabbed a napkin to wipe Littles face clean. Summer shivered and Winter fanned herself, puffing about the stuffy air. Hold it together Willow. She felt the waves rising, the surf surging in her heart. Wukong was being so gentlemanly. He was poised and well mannered. He was taking care of Little like he would any of his troop. It touched Willow with love. It also made her want to actually freeze her sisters in ice. Or politely push them into a rice field. On accident.

Maybe a good dunking will make them come to their senses.

“Now did I tell you of the time I dressed as my brother Bahjies Ex Wife to trick him into divorce ?” Wukong implored and Cloud, Sea and Little all clambered forward.

Whatever slights these three had said were not meant. It obviously had tickled down from on high. Willow saw the elder of her sister in the corner of her eyes. As Wukong launched into his story of disguise and acting, Willow took to leaning back and gauging the elders of the group. Autumn seemed fine- more amused by the journey and curious. Malicious no. Or maybe ignorant in how malicious her comments come off.

“It’s so hot dear Willow.. why is the air so … pungent?” Winter snapped her fingers and Willow felt her body go ridged. “Where’s the servant with some cold water ? I’m dying in this heat…”

Another slam into the sea wall inside herself.

“I will get it for you dear sister.” Willow said, rising from her place and stepping to the path that would lead to Water Curtain Cave.

“No servants to fetch things?” Summer cast about her, taking in the multitude of simians frolicking and enjoying the air. “No help for a daughter of the Royal family?”

Another crash of that wave.

“I prefer to get things myself instead of relying on others. I wouldn’t want to atrophy with the lack of movement.” It was a very sharp and direct barb but Willow had to deliver the reprimand. Summer had a tendency in court to be sloth like, relying on others to fan her or asking to be carried by palanquin. The harsher and more viceroys women of the palace said it was because Summer wanted to remain diminutive of stature and demur of nature. “All the better to woo our men.” One women, had whispered loudly. Willow would usually not try and use the court gossip to make a point. However … her patience was skating thin. She heard more then saw the intake of air as she walked away.

She hoped that was the last of it.

Willow entered the cave beneath the waterfall feeling a rush of emotions. Today was supposed to be lovely. It was supposed to be like that day back when the sisters had first crept to the earthly river, when they had all been girls and had laughed at the pleasure of just being.

Winter was miserable and melting and growing more corse by the second. Autumn found amusements in Lius severity thinking it was a game when the Marshal meant every word.

If she knew the courtesies Liu had she would never look to another man of the Palace. He’s worth twelve of those vipers in manners and in genuine heart.

Then there was Summer. Her second sister. The one who had the most aversion. Who had turned her nose up at a polite gesture. Willow felt her blood boil.

Willow pressed her hand to the cold stone of the cave, trying to take some of the chill into her blood. She did not want to cause a scene. Even though her sisters were digging for it.

[saltysideblog]

★ 𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝕴 𝕲𝖔 ★

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Rick Flag x Delphia Holman, Fairytale Au, chapter 1 (?)

A gift for the incredible @anniesocsandgeneralstore based on this moodboard and her original character ♥️

Summary: A princess plagued with prophetic visions, the knight she loves and the cursed sword that would come between them…

Additional inspiration: ★ • ★

★━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━★

He took his oath to protect her with his life, armour glistening in the light, reflecting the colourful stained glass, down on one knee, a paragon; a man driven by duty.

She felt a gentle brush of gloved fingers against her own in the same cathedral where they’d first met, a quiet comfort after a loss; a man driven by compassion.

His lips crashed against her own, fingers frantically tangling in her intricate braids, clinging to her, the sounds of two desperate people echoing in her darkened chambers; a man driven by lust.

She felt his cold skin, held him against her breast, weeping, the eyes that once held all the warmth in the world, extinct and lifeless, his blood seeping through her dress, staining the fabric red; a man driven by love.

Delphia awoke with a start. Never in all her years had she seen someone’s path so clearly. A bright thread she could follow all the way to his demise. A man she knew she would love, a man who’s loss already brought her so much grief, long before they’d even met.

He must be so young still, she thought, probably not even a man yet.

She herself had just celebrated her thirteenth nameday. She wiped her tears, the dream already fading from her waking mind as the sun filtered through her curtains.

Everything in due time, she repeated her mother’s wise words to herself, no sense in being heartbroken today for something that will happen tomorrow…

Ever since she was a child, Delphia had been wary of the woman in the walls. Her father’s advisor maneuvered through the shadows, a whispering voice in the winding castle corridors. Always watching, always listening, the woman’s motives never fully revealed themselves and when they did, it was often too late. Despite all this, her father held Amanda in high esteem. She was, after all, loyal to the crown.

“You’ll come around once you realize just how heavy that thing is”, she’d mused one day.

A promise or a threat? Delphia could never be sure.

Rick Flag had always been a faithful servant of the realm. To the peasantry and courtisans, he was a paragon of virtue, fiercely loyal to the crown, and good looking too: the perfect knight. To Amanda, he was an obedient lovesick puppy, too blind to see he’d been turned into a pawn…

They shattered the witch’s spell and with it, Ser Flag’s heart.

When Delphia first laid eyes on him, she knew he was the one. Silently trailing behind her father, standing tall and upright in his bright polished armour, dark soulful eyes that made her heart ache. She wanted nothing more than to reach out and smooth the creases in his forehead, ease the burden that weighed on his shoulders. Her legs had taken her towards him in purposeful strides long before she even realized she was walking. Her father greeted her with a smile, but her eyes were fixed on the knight behind him.

“Ser Flag…” she’d uttered his name breathlessly. He startled,

“Yes?”

She’d so anticipated his arrival, she nearly forgot he was a stranger. She blinked and shook her head with an awkward chuckle,

“Welcome!”

“Thank you.”, he nodded and caught himself, adding a quick your highness and polite head bow.

Amanda, from her usual vantage point right behind the king, observed their exchange like a cat might observe a mouse; calm, quiet, calculating.

The man beside her looked bewildered as the princess exchanged pleasantries with the old king. He leaned down to whisper,

“The princess knows my name.”

Amanda’s face betrayed no emotion, as unreadable as the stone walls around them,

“News travels fast around here.”

Try to keep up.

Though unspoken, Rick heard her loud and clear. She’d pulled a lot of strings to get him where he was and he was more than aware she held the shears to cut him loose. He was not immune to manipulation, he’d learned that the hard way and Rick Flag wasn’t the kind of man to make the same mistake twice.

His gaze wandered back to the royals in front of them, the princess’ eyes glued to his as if she saw something beautiful in his troubled soul and it made him feel fuzzy. She waved to him as she left, sunlight caught in her hair, a shade of red that reminded him of a hearth. A warm, inviting flame and he, the little moth, unaware that it would burn his delicate wings.

Rick Flag wasn’t the kind of man to make the same mistake thrice.

[hamsterclaw]

Dragonfire

Lord Namjoon commands the dragon riders of Mount Halji, he's authoritative and respected, a fearless warrior, celebrated for his prowess on the battlefield. So why aren't you afraid of him, damnit?

Pairing: Namjoon x F! reader

Genre: Fantasy AU, smut, a spin-off from the Royal Pain AU

Rating: 18+

Word count: 7.3k

Warnings: Sex, Namjoon mounting everything in sight

Namjoon’s watching from across the room as she greets guests at the banquet. She’s striking, not only because she’s beautiful, with her dark hair and lovely eyes, but also because of her bearing. There’s pride in the way she holds up her head.

When it’s his turn to greet her, he bows, low, and kisses the hand she offers to him.

‘Good evening, your highness,’ he says. 

He can feel her eyes on him, his black armour, the mark on his hand signifying his status as a dragon rider.

‘Lord Namjoon,’ she murmurs. The way her tongue flicks over her full bottom lip, the spark in her eyes, makes his blood warm.

Then she’s letting go of his hand, stepping away gracefully to greet the next person, and Namjoon’s left with the faintest scent of lavender, tantalising and sweet.

When she reaches the end of the line, she looks straight at him, like she’d known he’d be watching.

She inclines her head just slightly, but it’s enough.

Blood hot, lust thrumming through his veins, Namjoon follows her out of the banquet hall.

***

Namjoon’s tired from his night with the beautiful and lusty princess of Ijil, and it takes him longer than it should to realise that his armour is missing.

Even worse, his sword is gone.

He storms out of his chambers, looking for Jimin and Taehyung. He’s heading for the stables when he sees you.

His first impression is of softness, which is ironic given you’re staggering under the weight of his armour. His sword swings from your hip, he doesn’t even know how you managed to attach it you.

‘Stop,’ he commands.

You glance around, looking for where his voice came from. 

Namjoon doesn’t know how you could possibly miss him. He’s always been tall, and of recent years, his build has filled out, a byproduct of wrangling Styx, his bonded dragon.

He still feels a thrill of pride when he thinks about her. Styx, with her midnight black scales, her wingspan wider than any others in her clan. She’s a magnificent beast, fiercely loyal, with the instincts of the finest warrior in battle. 

He snaps out of his reverie when he realises you’re limping away, dragging his armour with you.

‘Stop!’ he commands again. 

He catches up to you easily. ‘Where are you taking my armour and my sword?’ he demands.

‘Didn’t Jimin tell you? I’m your new squire,’ you tell him, like it’s a done deal.

Namjoon’s flabbergasted.

‘I’m a dragon rider, not one of those fanciful royal knights,’ he scowls. ‘I have no need for a squire.’

‘The dullness of your armour tells a different story,’ you have the audacity to say.

‘It’s black!’ protests Namjoon, not sure why he’s arguing with you but unable to stop himself.

‘You’re a disgrace to Styx,’ you mutter.

Namjoon realises he’s walked with you all the way to the stables.

Cursing, he lifts his armour off you, and you sigh, relieved.

‘It’s very heavy,’ you remark. ‘No wonder you’re so muscular.’

Namjoon stares at his sword, hung carelessly around your shoulder.

‘How are you supposed to be my squire if you can’t lift my armour and sword?’ he mutters, more to himself.

You’re already gesturing to a small area you have set up with a scrubbing brush and a bucket, a polishing cloth and a tin of oil.

‘Leave it with me,’ you say airily.

You frown at his sword. ‘Sweet mother of Jaesu, how old is this blood? It’s caked on.’

Namjoon scowls. ‘I’ll be back in an hour to collect it for a sparring session.’

You wave an arm at him, muttering something that sounds awfully like ‘Lord Jimin’s armour is pristine.’

Namjoon decides to pretend he hasn’t heard you.

***

When Namjoon returns, Taehyung’s leaning against the wall, chatting to you.

‘Did you know about our new squire?’ Namjoon asks.

‘I’m right here,’ you announce, bright, chirpy.

Namjoon ignores you.

‘She’s very good at mending clothes as well,’ Taehyung replies, smiling at you.

Namjoon’s forced to turn to you when you push his armour into his arms.

‘I only do mending for selected people,’ you say, haughty, like he’d shown any inclination to ask.

He’s about to snap a retort when the Princess of Ijil arrives.

Namjoon bows deeply.

You drop into a surprisingly graceful curtsy.

She eyes you.

Namjoon’s already stepping in front of you when you say, ‘I’m the squire to the dragon riders of Mount Halji, your highness.’

‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ she says, dismissive.

She turns back to Namjoon.

‘Do you have time for a quick catch up in my chambers before you set off back home?’ 

‘Of course,’ Namjoon replies, admiring the way her skin glows in the late morning sun.

She flicks her gaze over his shoulders, gaze meaningful.

‘I can help you mend that rip in the seam of your tunic,’ you say, helpfully, calling everyone’s attention to it. 

Namjoon narrows his eyes at you, then turns back to the princess.

She’s already walking away.

***

‘Oof,’ you remark, holding up Namjoon’s tunic. ‘What’s this stain?’

Namjoon’s gaze flies to you.

‘Just kidding,’ you say, chuckling gleefully. 

‘Are you ever quiet?’ Namjoon asks, exasperated. ‘Being a squire is a serious task.’

‘She’s a very good squire,’ Jimin says, emerging from the stables with their horses in tow.

‘Thanks, my lord,’ you say cheerfully.

‘You don’t call me my lord,’ Namjoon observes, tetchy.

‘I’ll call you it, if you can tell me my name,’ you say, smiling at him.

Namjoon realises he doesn’t know your name.

‘You didn’t tell me your name,’ he complains.

‘You didn’t ask,’ you shoot back, merrily.

‘Is everything a joke to you?’ snaps Namjoon.

‘Ignore our grumpy commander,’ Jimin says, giving Namjoon a quelling look. ‘He gets cranky when he’s tired.’

Jimin hands you the reins to your horse. ‘Need anything before we set off?’ he asks, offering you his knee to help you mount.

You shake your head, seating yourself. ‘Thank you,’ you tell him.

Namjoon mounts his steed and sets off, nudging his stallion into a brisk canter.

He doesn’t look back to check on you. 

***

The first hint of trouble is a rustling in the trees overhead.

Then, firebolts rain down.

Namjoon’s about to urge his steed into a gallop when your horse, spooked and less battle-worn than all the others, rears up.

You land in an ungraceful heap on the forest floor and immediately get up, dazed.

A firebolt grazes your foot, and you lift an arm up over your head in an attempt to protect yourself.

Taehyung and Jimin are up ahead, turning back to help, but Namjoon’s the closest to you. 

‘Get your horses away!’ shouts Namjoon. ‘It’s fire demons!’

He turns his steed, Thunder, and speeds towards you.

You watch him approach with wide eyes.

Namjoon reaches down and plucks you off the ground.

You land, hard, on the front of his saddle, face planted in the breastplate of his armour. 

‘Hold on,’ grunts Namjoon. He leads Thunder towards a clearing he noticed earlier, to another route that will take you both to the edge of the forest, away from the fire demons.

For once, you appear to have no snappy remark at the ready. 

You wind your arms around his waist, holding on tight, and Namjoon’s stomach flips unexpectedly when you press your face into his chest.

He leans forward on Thunder, urging him on, you soft and pliant between his thighs, and gets you both the hell out of there.

***

It’s late afternoon, the sun filtering through the trees, and you’ve yet to catch up to Taehyung and Jimin.

Namjoon stops by a brook to allow Thunder to drink and dismounts.

He lifts his arms to help you down.

You place your hands on his shoulders trustingly, and Namjoon’s stomach does another curious flip.

He wonders if he drank too much arabica before leaving Ijil.

You stay for a moment like that, pressed against him, arms up, face tilted to his.

‘Thanks for saving me,’ you say. 

‘You’re one of mine,’ Namjoon says. He doesn’t think he’s saying anything but the truth, but you look pleased about it just the same.

He looks around. ‘It’ll be dark soon. We should set up camp around here.’

***

Namjoon lets out a sigh.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, barely concealed impatience in his voice.

‘It’s cold,’ you complain, even though he can barely see you under the mound of blankets you’ve stolen, including his own.

Namjoon rolls his eyes. ‘Live with it,’ he says, unsympathetic.

‘They say body heat is good,’ you suggest.

Namjoon scoffs. ‘Is that an attempt to get into bed with me?’

You’re quiet, he almost thinks you’ve fallen asleep when you say, ‘we’re not technically in beds.’

Namjoon thinks it’s dark enough that he doesn’t have to hide his smile. 

‘Come here then,’ he says, gruffly.

‘No thanks,’ you say rudely.

Namjoon reaches over and yanks you into his arms, blankets and all.

‘Just shut up and sleep,’ he advises, when you open your mouth.

Your mouth closes and you nod.

You’re asleep in seconds. 

***

When he wakes, too hot, you’re already up. For some reason you’ve wrapped him in blankets, even though he runs hot all the time, a byproduct of his bond with Styx.

Namjoon fights his way out of the blankets and rises, stretching and yawning, rolling the stiffness out of his muscles.

Footsteps make him straighten up and turn around.

You’re bright and freshfaced, holding out a mug to him. 

‘Made you arabica,’ you chirrup.

‘Thanks,’ he grunts, accepting.

Your eyes fall to his bare forearm. 

‘You’re burned!’ you say, sounding genuinely worried.

‘It’s nothing,’ Namjoon says, amused by your concern over the tiny burn. You should see the scar on his side from the last dragon battle.

You’re rustling through the leather bag you carry near your hip.

‘Let me put some salve on it,’ you say.

Namjoon sits and drinks his arabica whilst you fuss over his arm.

‘You’re aware I’m a dragon rider,’ he can’t resist teasing you, but he lets you rub salve into his arm anyway.

He can’t deny it feels soothing. 

He realises you’re looking at the dragon rider mark on his hand.

‘Pretty,’ you say. Your thumb rubs over it, a quick smooth swipe, and then your hands leave his skin.

Namjoon doesn’t think anyone’s ever called him pretty before.

Big, yes. Tall, certainly. Ruthless. 

Not pretty.

To hide his discomfiture, he stands. ‘We should get going,’ he says, brisk.

You’re already heading to Thunder. 

You stop in front of his enormous steed and look to him for a leg up, as though you’re expecting him to kneel before you like Jimin did.

Namjoon mounts Thunder, then holds out his arms for you.

You reach up, trusting like you were yesterday, and Namjoon’s stomach flips again. 

It’s definitely the arabica, he tells himself as Thunder falls into an easy canter.

***

Namjoon says, grumpily, ‘stop wriggling.’

‘It’s just, the hilt of your sword keeps poking me,’ you complain, wriggling more, another smooth movement that makes him grit his teeth.

You look back at him just in time to catch him clenching his jaw.

‘It’s not my sword,’ Namjoon growls.

Your hand on his thigh makes his muscles jump.

‘Something in your breeches —-‘ you trail off abruptly.

‘It’s just the friction,’ Namjoon says, as your whole body stiffens between his legs, against his chest.

You don’t say a word.

‘You’re my squire. I don’t think of you lustfully,’ Namjoon continues.

You’re still silent, ramrod straight against him.

‘I prefer women who are —-‘

‘Beautiful and curvaceous,’ you fill in for him, describing the princess of Ijil.

‘Less annoying,’ finishes Namjoon.

You suggest, ‘I can ride behind you, if my ass is too tempting.’

Namjoon snorts a laugh. ‘And press those pretty breasts into my back?’

You look down at your chest thoughtfully.

Then you quip, barely stifling your laughter, ‘want me to polish your sword, my lord?’

‘Silence, wench,’ growls Namjoon.

Your laughter is equal parts infuriating and infectious.

***

You both catch up to Taehyung and Jimin at the gates guarding the dragon rider enclave on Mount Halji.

Namjoon takes a moment to savour the familiarity of it. He was born to be a dragon rider, the latest progeny of a long line of Eosulian warriors. 

He was fourteen when he bonded with Styx, a lanky, graceless teenager with no idea what the hell he was doing. There was more than one surprised reaction at the unlikely combination of the studious teenaged Namjoon and the most fearsome dragon in the clan.

It’s been a while since anyone’s looked at him and Styx with any incredulity.

These days, Namjoon leans into his powerful build, his broad shoulders and chest, the lean muscles of his thighs. 

Underneath he’s never stopped studying, learning, trying to better himself.

You nudge his chest with your shoulder, and he realises you’re talking.

He’s quite pleased with how he’s managed to tune you out.

You’re much more easy to tolerate when you’re on mute.

Namjoon allows himself a moment to admire your piquant little face.

He’s almost smiling when your voice manages to break through. 

‘Plain?’ you ask.

Namjoon frowns, and obligingly, you repeat yourself. ‘Heading to the plain?’

He nods. He’d automatically guided Thunder in the direction of the plain, where he knows Styx will be waiting for him.

Namjoon stops and dismounts, instinctively reaching up to help you down. 

It’s funny how he’s got used to doing that so quickly.

He faces North, and within moments, there’s a change in the air.

Styx lands noiselessly before him, sleek and so beautiful his skin thrums at her proximity.

Namjoon bows, and her massive head dips low to the ground in response. In two steps he’s mounted her, feeling at home in the way he never did in the vast Royal Palace of Ijil.

Something makes him look towards you.

You’re watching him and Styx, unmoving, hands clasped.

Namjoon doesn’t realise what he’s going to say until the words leave his mouth. He’s never invited anyone else to ride with him on one of these journeys before.

‘We’re reacquainting for the bond,’ he tells you. ‘You can come, if you want.’

He can sense Styx’s assent, but she lowers her head again, as if to show you, too.

You approach tentatively. 

Namjoon holds out his arms to pick you up, and you say, ‘wait. Would you prefer tits or ass?’

Namjoon, to his surprise, can sense Styx’s mirth.

‘Just get on, and be quiet,’ he grumbles. He lifts you in front of him, locks his thighs around yours and pulls you tight against his chest, and then you’re off, gliding through the mountains of South Eosul.

***

Namjoon looks up as you enter the courtyard where he and the other dragon riders are combat training.

You march past everyone and head straight for him.

‘I need your muscles,’ you announce, without context.

Namjoon mops sweat off his brow and waits.

‘I’ll help you,’ Taehyung volunteers. 

Namjoon stops him with a look. 

‘What do you need help with, squire? And why is it so important that you’re interrupting our training?’ 

You frown. ‘The merchant down by the market is a swindler and a scoundrel,’ you tell him.

‘A swindler, and a scoundrel,’ Namjoon teases, amused by your vehemence.

You stare at him. He can almost see the smoke coming out of your ears, the way you’re vibrating with rage.

‘Fine!’ you burst out. You stomp away. ‘I will take care of him myself.’

You’re walking so fast you’re most of the way to the market before Namjoon catches up with you, even with his longer stride.

‘I’m sorry I teased you,’ he tells you.

‘I’m sorry I interrupted combat practice,’ you reply immediately.

You sigh. ‘I needed cloth for your jackets for the Harvest banquet next month. This merchant’s got the best supplies, but all the cloth he’s delivered is less than what we bargained for. Less than what I paid for.’

You’re getting worked up again, indignant. ‘How dare he try to swindle us?!’

Namjoon falls into step beside you. ‘It could be a genuine mistake,’ he says, trying to be reasonable.

You snort in disbelief.

Namjoon accompanies you to the stall, a little worried about how you’re going to approach this.

The merchant bows as you both approach. 

‘Can I interest you in the new silk taffeta I’ve imported from Seldinia?’

‘No, but you can interest me in the remainder of the order I put in last week, of which only half has been delivered,’ you say, firmly.

The merchant eyes you narrowly. ‘Which order is that? I’m afraid I’ve completed all the orders from last week.’

You’re apoplectic. ‘Surely you have a ledger!’

You step around the table displaying his wares as he sighs and opens a worn ledger.

‘There!’ you say triumphantly, pointing to an entry that takes up half a page.

The merchant elbows you away from the ledger, making you step back. 

Namjoon’s not sure how it happens, all he knows is one second he’s watching you and the next he’s got his forearm to the merchant’s neck, holding him up against the pillar.

The merchant’s looking at his dragon rider mark, spilling apologies.

Namjoon takes a moment, letting the rage recede. 

You’re unharmed, you hadn’t even flinched when the merchant pushed you.

So why is he so goddamn incensed that that asshole had the audacity to touch you?

You can hold your own.

So why does Namjoon want to grind this man to a pulp?

He grunts, lets the man down, and he scuttles to do your bidding.

You wait until you’re both walking away, cloth tucked in a basket over your arm, before you turn to him.

‘What?’ snaps Namjoon.

You put your hand on his arm. ‘Thanks for ——‘

You pause, searching for the right phrase. 

Namjoon lifts the basket off your arm.

‘Thanks for helping,’ you say carefully.

You seem to not know what to do with your arms now that he’s taken the basket, so you clasp your hands demurely in front of your chest. 

‘No problem,’ Namjoon replies. 

You keep sneaking glances at him as you walk, until Namjoon sighs. 

‘What?’ 

‘You look quite dashing when you’re angry,’ you tell him.

‘Is that why you’re always vexing me?’

You nod. ‘That jaw clench you do.’

Namjoon glowers at you. 

‘You’re doing it right now!’ you point out, delighted, skipping alongside him.

Namjoon says, ‘Quiet, or I’ll make you carry this,’ nodding to your basket.

‘Pfft,’ you scoff. ‘It’s nothing.’

You give him a sideways look. ‘Especially after I’ve got used to carrying your sword .’

You waggle your eyebrows meaningfully and nudge him between the ribs, like he wouldn’t get the innuendo otherwise.

Namjoon turns away so you can’t see him biting back his smile.

***

Namjoon answers the knock at his chamber door with a brisk, ‘come in.’

You take two steps into his chamber, eyes fixed on his chest. 

‘My lord,’ you say, bowing. ‘You look very well indeed. That material suits you.’

Namjoon finds he’s distracted by your own appearance.

Has your body always been this lovely shape? And surely you’ve done something to your hair, too. 

‘My eyes are here, my lord,’ you say, but you sound more amused than vexed.

‘You look beautiful,’ he tells you.

‘Thank you. Did you call me in here to seduce me with your sweet words and broad chest?’ 

Namjoon rolls his eyes.

‘I have something for you.’

You look suspiciously at the black bangle in his outstretched palm.

Namjoon says, ‘hold out your wrist.’

You hold out your hand, palm up, and Namjoon fastens the slim black band around your wrist, securing it with a tiny key.

You lift your arm, admiring the way the onyx gleams in the light as Namjoon threads the key along the silver chain he always wears around his neck.

When you speak, there’s a softness in your voice Namjoon’s only heard a handful of times.

‘What’s this for, my lord?’

‘The merchant at the marketplace,’ says Namjoon. ‘He changed his tune when he realised I was a dragon rider.’

He shrugs. ‘You don’t have a dragon rider mark, but I want people who deal with you to know that you have our protection.’

You’re standing so close to him he can feel the warmth of you, smell the fresh scent of your hair.

You look up at him, and he braces for whatever smart retort you’ve thought of.

Instead, you say, very sweetly, ‘thank you, my lord, that’s very thoughtful of you.’

Namjoon opens his mouth to speak, but you’re already speaking again.

‘Thank you for my shackle.’

Namjoon stares at you, speechless.

‘Shackle?’ he splutters, incredulous.

‘It goes round my wrist, it fastens with a key that you wear around your neck. It’s a shackle,’ you say, nodding.

Namjoon glares at you.

‘Aaaaa there’s that sexy jaw tick,’ you say, beaming at him.

Namjoon sets his jaw and ushers you out of his chamber.

‘Ooh, you look like you’re about to turn me over your lap and paddle my bottom,’ you say, chuckling merrily.

‘Maybe I will one day,’ Namjoon threatens.

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ you say, looking positively thrilled at the prospect.

Namjoon slams his door in your really rather pretty face.

****

Namjoon’s near the end of his speech to open the Harvest Banquet when the doors to the Great Hall open.

‘The Princess of Ijil,’ announces the herald.

Namjoon remains standing as she crosses the room, beautiful and resplendent in a gold gown that matches the brocade embroidery of his jacket.

She raises a hand, and Namjoon automatically leans down to kiss it.

She smiles at him, skin burnished gold in the candlelight, eyes full of promise, and Namjoon feels that familiar heat pool low in his groin.

She takes the seat next to his like she belongs there, and on any other day, Namjoon would be proud and honoured to have her by his side.

Today, though, his attention is divided by you, sitting in between Jimin and another dragon rider, Mingyu.

You’re chatting to them merrily, more than a little tipsy, judging by your bright eyes and the way you’re letting Mingyu lean against you.

Namjoon doesn’t realise he’s glowering at you until the Princess says, coyly, ‘I’ve come all this way, and you haven’t so much as complimented my gown, Lord Namjoon.’

He turns reluctantly from you. ‘How remiss of me,’ he says, politely. ‘You are very beautiful, as always, your highness, and we are privileged to have you in our midst.’

A burst of laughter and a round of applause erupts from your end of the table as Jimin leaps up, gracefully, to catch a tray of mead on the verge of tipping over.

Namjoon watches as Jimin deposits the tray safely on the banquet table and twirls you around triumphantly.

Jimin is his second in command, and has saved Namjoon’s ass more times than he can count. He’s a gifted fighter, instinctive and merciless when he has to be. 

It’s also vaguely annoying that he has the face of an angel and a physique sculpted by the gods. 

Namjoon tears his eyes away from you in Jimin’s arms.

He turns back to the princess.

***

Namjoon’s heading to his chamber after dinner, wondering where you are and why he cares. 

If you’re with Jimin, you’re in safe hands. 

Jimin likes you more than he does.

Namjoon stops in front of the looking-glass by his bed, staring at his reflection. 

Does Jimin like you more than he does?

He slips his jacket off, starts unbuttoning the white silk shirt underneath. 

There’s a knock on his door. 

Namjoon cracks it open, an odd burst of warmth blooming in his chest when he realises it’s you. 

You hiccup and reach out, curling your fingers into the open placket of his shirt.

The tips of your fingers are cold, and Namjoon realises just how much he wants to warm you up.

He’s reaching for your arm to pull you into his chamber when you both hear approaching footsteps, an entourage.

The Princess of Ijil.

Namjoon’s distracted for an instant, and when he looks back at you, you’re giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

His hand closes around nothing.

The Princess of Ijil reaches his chamber door.

And you?

You’re gone.

***

Namjoon has to admit, you’re quick.

By the time he’s made his excuses to the princess and tried to follow you, there’s not a trace of where you might have gone.

It’s only when he passes the stables and hears Thunder whickering and stamping his feet that he finds you, sitting on a groomsman’s stool in a corner of Thunder’s stall.

You give Thunder an accusing look that makes Namjoon bite back his smile.

Namjoon looks at you, at the petulant way your lower lip is pushed out, the bottle of potent mead in your hand, and says, gently, ‘want to go for a ride?’

Before you can come up with whatever terrible innuendo he knows you’re capable of, he’s saddled and mounted Thunder, and is holding out his arms for you.

You give him a curious look but it doesn’t stop you from letting him lift you up into the saddle in front of him.

You settle back into his arms, between his thighs, against his chest, like you belong there. 

Namjoon leans forward, urging Thunder into a gallop. 

The cool night air is like a balm on his brow, and for the first time Namjoon decides to let himself enjoy how you feel in his arms.

He thinks you’re trying to say something to him, but it’s lost in the wind as the fields of Mount Halji speed past.

He’ll ask you later.

***

Namjoon beds Thunder down in the small barn and heads to the tiny farmhouse.

He finds you standing by the door where he left you, waiting for him.

He lights a lamp, holds his arm out to you. 

You say, ‘wait.’

You set the mead down on the wooden table and step up to him, hand on his chest, going on tiptoe.

Namjoon stays perfectly still as you press your lips to his.

It’s sweet, chaste, and yet it makes him want to push you against a wall and take you right here.

You pull away. 

‘Just wanted to check if you’re a good kisser,’ you say, breathlessly.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow at you, tilts his chin. 

‘Am I?’ he asks, like he doesn’t care what you think.

‘Yeah,’ you say. 

‘I’m good at a lot of things,’ he tells you.

‘Stop showing off,’ you chastise. 

You squeal as he chases you into the bedroom.

***

Namjoon’s trying to take it slowly but you’re writhing under him, rubbing against him in all the places that he likes, and god, he’s so hard he can’t imagine there’s any blood going to the rest of his body. 

He can’t think . 

You’re kissing his neck, tongue flicking against his skin, and Namjoon groans at the pleasure of it. 

‘I didn’t know you were so sensitive, here,’ you note, a purr to your voice that makes his eyes close. 

You grind your hips against his, arms splayed around him. 

Namjoon’s got no idea how you managed to get on top of him but Jaesu, he loves the view. He already knows he’ll never get tired of taking the weight of you. 

Namjoon raises his head, trying to kiss you as you’re pulling away, and you press your hand to his lips. 

‘Look at you, my big dragon rider,’ you taunt. You roll your hips against his cock, still covered in the dress pants he put on for the Banquet, pulling another grunt from him. 

‘You like being under me?’ you ask. 

‘I’d rather be in you,’ Namjoon tells you, honestly. 

He runs a hand down his torso, cups his length. ‘Get these off and I’ll show you.’ 

Your eyes meet, and the heat in his gaze makes you visibly shiver. 

Then you’re undoing his pants. 

Namjoon lifts his hips to help you slide them down. 

His cock brushes your parted lips, and quick as a cat, you open your mouth and take him in. 

Namjoon’s fist clenches in the silk of your dress as you take him deeper, tongue flat against the underside of his cock. 

‘You unman me,’ he utters. 

You look up at him, mouth full, eyes wide, and he groans at the sight of you. 

‘Do you like this?’ you ask, pulling back, lips swollen, stained with the stickiness of his seed. 

Namjoon reaches down to cup your cheek. ‘I want you on top of me, love,’ he tells you. 

He never knows if you’re going to do what he says, but to his relief, you wriggle up to sit on his chest. 

He reaches out, undoes the ties fastening your gown carelessly, enjoying the way it falls open under his hands. 

He tugs it up over your head, leaving you in a chemise so gossamer thin he can see the outlines of your pretty breasts, your hardened nipples imprinted against the fabric. 

Past the length of your torso he can see between your legs, and, he realises he can feel the dampness of your arousal on his own stomach. 

You’ve wetted through his shirt, and Namjoon doesn’t think he’s ever been more aroused. 

Your mouth opens, and Namjoon shakes his head. 

‘Look what you’ve done,’ he tsks, his voice husky, low. 

You open your mouth again, and again, he shakes his head. 

‘You and your smart mouth,’ he says. ‘You’re so wet you’ve ruined my shirt, and I’m so hard I hurt.’ 

He hisses as you roll your hips over him. ‘What are you going to do about it, my love?’ 

You’re moaning at him, and he laughs harshly. ‘You want my cock? Do it yourself.’ 

‘Or do you just like talking with that smart mouth,’ he taunts. ‘Can’t follow through?’ 

Your eyes flash at him, and then you’re bracing against his chest, taking him in hand, lining him up. 

Your eyes flick to his, and Namjoon stares you down. ‘Shy?’ he asks, voice mocking. 

‘No,’ you gasp, as you lower your hips onto his pelvis, taking him in increments. 

Your hand tightens on his arm. ‘Too big,’ you murmur, breathless. 

Namjoon has to take a breath when he’s in all the way. You’re wet, and warm, and he can already feel his pleasure starting to coil out from his shaft, sending tingles across his groin, making his balls tighten. 

You’re moving on him, thighs flexing as you ride him. Namjoon has the loose thought that the definition in your thighs is probably from carrying his armour around for months, because he’s never seen you do any other form of exercise, then you’re leaning forward on his chest, murmuring in his ear, and his thoughts evacuate his head again. 

Fuck, you’re beautiful when you come. 

You cry his name, and Namjoon cups your ass, helping you move on top of him, wringing every last bit of pleasure out of you until you’re limp on top of him. 

He waits, hard and throbbing inside you, until you look up at his face. 

‘Did you think we were finished?’ he asks. 

There’s a spark of something in your eyes at his challenge. 

‘I did, actually,’ you say haughtily. 

You make as if to move off of him, and as always, Namjoon’s amused and outraged by your audacity. 

He grips your thigh, admiring the mark his fingers leave when he lets go. 

You’re watching him carefully. 

‘Should have known you’d like that,’ you remark. 

‘You know,’ Namjoon says thoughtfully, pulling you underneath him, thrusting once, experimentally. 

You wait for what he has to say. 

‘I like you better when you’re not talking,’ he says. 

Your squawk of outrage turns into a moan as he starts to move, his cock sliding in your slickened cunt. 

‘Yeah,’ he says, as you moan. ‘This is better.’ 

He seals his lips against your own and fucks you until you’re crying out and coming on his cock. 

***

Namjoon’s awakened by a pounding on the door. 

He stumbles to the entrance of the tiny farmhouse and is greeted by Jimin, dressed in full battle gear, thrusting his armour at him. 

‘Halians,’ Jimin says grimly. ‘They’re en route to the Hold.’ He pauses, meaningfully. ‘The Princess of Ijil is still within our Gates.’ 

Namjoon’s pulling on his armour, methodical. ‘The dragons?’ he asks. 

‘They’re all in formation,’ Jimin says.

He looks up as you walk into the room, dressed in Namjoon’s shirt from last night. 

‘Ah,’ says Jimin, unsurprised. ‘Tell me later if I need to defend your honour to your brother.’ 

You laugh. ‘Seokjin can’t talk,’ you say, and Jimin grins. 

‘Don’t I know it,’ he agrees. 

Namjoon doesn’t have time to unpick this conversation right now. 

He tightens his sword and says to Jimin, ‘Let’s go.’ 

‘Wait,’ you say. 

You step forward and pull him down into a kiss. 

‘Stay safe,’ you say. 

Namjoon casts a look at your pretty face, wishing he had the time to appreciate how good you look in his shirt. 

You’re already stepping back. 

‘Look after him, Jimin,’ you say. 

Jimin nods. ‘I always do.’ 

The laugh you both share at his expense makes Namjoon scowl. 

***

Jimin grew up with Namjoon, and he’s been analytical, an overthinker, for as long as he’s known him.

Namjoon was the friend who always used to get caught when they played dragons and wizards, the kid who was busy trying to strategise when what he needed to do was run.

He made up for it by becoming quicker, stronger than anyone else. So then he didn’t just win at games, he annihilated his opponents.

He’s fought alongside Namjoon in countless battles against the Halian army, and there’s no doubt that Namjoon’s brilliant strategising has saved their asses many a time. 

It’s just that, Namjoon’s so damned serious all the time. He wears his responsibility as commander on his shoulders, bears the weight without complaint. 

When he started sleeping with the Princess of Ijil, Jimin had realised he was in real danger of losing his friend to a life of power seeking and political manoeuvring. 

That’s where you came in.

Jimin’s known you for years, he’s friends with Seokjin, your brother who’s currently making a name for himself in the vast plains of Daljeon.

He’s always liked your sense of humour. Like Seokjin, you cloak your inner steeliness in jovial banter. Also like Seokjin, you’ve been blessed with a face as pretty as Jimin’s own. 

You’d been at a loose end when Seokjin left, and Jimin had quickly realised that your personality was the perfect foil for Namjoon’s seriousness.

He’d watched in amusement as you ran circles around Namjoon with your quick wit, and had relaxed after he’d seen the way Namjoon had consistently chosen to laugh with you rather than flatten you. 

Today, though, Namjoon’s not laughing.

They’d returned from a skirmish with a Halian sub unit at the border of Eosul to find the farm cottage empty. 

A search of the Hold has so far, not revealed your location.

Namjoon looks up as the doors of the Great Hall open and a messenger comes in carrying a package.

Namjoon tears it open and stops dead as pieces of onyx fall out.

He looks at Jimin, jaw set. ‘It’s hers. I gave it to her the night of the Banquet.’

Jimin’s already grasped the messenger. ‘Where is she?’ he demands.

‘It’s from General Dei of the Halian army,’ splutters the messenger. ‘That’s all I know.’

Namjoon moves so quickly the messenger’s against the flagstone wall before he finishes his sentence.

‘Tell me where she is and I’ll spare your life,’ he utters, voice low and deadly.

One move of Namjoon’s hand toward the hilt of his sword yields the information they need.

Then Namjoon’s running, heading for Styx on the plain.

***

Namjoon glances over at Jimin as they approach the caves where you’re being held. 

‘I’m worried, Jimin,’ he confesses. 

Jimin places his hand on Namjoon’s shoulder, drawn taut with worry. 

‘She’s the only bargaining item they have, even the Halians wouldn’t be stupid enough to harm her knowing you’re on your way.’ 

Namjoon’s gaze is dark. ‘I’m more worried about what this is going to cost them,’ he tells Jimin. ‘I’m angry.’ 

His fists clench. ‘I’m really fucking angry right now.’ 

Jimin says, carefully, ‘This isn’t a reason to start a war.’ 

Namjoon laughs, short, humourless. ‘I don’t want a war,’ he agrees. 

He sets his jaw as they reach the entrance. ‘I want a massacre.’ 

You’re against the back wall of the cave, flanked by Halian guards. 

General Dei’s standing by. ‘Lord Namjoon,’ he says, inclining his head in greeting. 

Namjoon, imposing in his battle armour, gives the General a look that has the guards behind him shifting nervously. 

‘I know you wanted a negotiation, General,’ Namjoon says, ‘but I don’t negotiate when one of my own hangs in the balance.’ 

He draws his sword. ‘Release my squire.’ 

***

In the clamour of battle, Namjoon has a direct line of sight to you, and sees the moment you flatten yourself against the wall to avoid a wayward strike. 

He’s by your side in moments, cutting you loose, pushing you behind him. 

‘It took you a while,’ you point out. He can’t see your face but he can hear the smile in your voice. 

‘I’m sorry I left you,’ he says, tucking you under his arm, cutting down two Halian guards in a swift movement. 

He heads for the entrance of the cave, where Styx is waiting to dispense with any Halian guards who manage to get past Taehyung and Mingyu. 

Jimin emerges a moment later, sheathing his sword, breathing hard from exertion.

He draws you into his arms, raises an eyebrow when Namjoon doesn’t let go of his hold on you.

‘I’m taking her back to the Hold,’ Namjoon says.

Jimin murmurs, ‘and the rest?’

Namjoon helps you onto Styx, jaw tightening as he takes in the rope marks around your wrists and ankles. 

He can find no mercy in his heart for anyone who’s tried to hurt you. 

Honestly, he can’t even trouble himself to look.

He turns to Jimin. 

‘Let them burn.’ 

***

You awaken so quietly Namjoon’s got no idea how long you’ve been watching him sit by the window.

You clear your throat. 

‘You’re beautiful,’ you say, the words heartfelt.

Namjoon looks at you, at your skin coloured in the hues of the rising sun, at the sincerity shining in your eyes, and thinks that you’re the beautiful one.

He comes to sit on the bed next to you.

You clamber into his lap, face close to his, legs either side of his waist.

‘Thank you for coming to get me,’ you say.

‘I’m sorry I let you get taken in the first place,’ he replies. ‘Did you get hurt, my love?’

He’s looking at the mark on your wrist, where your bangle was.

You catch the direction of his gaze.

‘It didn’t hurt apart from that I didn’t have anything to show I belonged to you,’ you tell him.

Namjoon lifts your wrist to his lips, kisses over the bruise marking your skin.

‘I can take care of that,’ he says.

He moves his mouth further up your arm, sucks your warm skin, laves the new mark he’s left with his tongue.

You’re breathing faster now, watching him intently.

Namjoon tugs the shirt he put on you apart, presses his lips to the warm curve of your left breast, and sucks.

You make a pretty sound, and he does it again, suctions his lips over your softness, admires the lurid colour of the mark he’s made.

You’re shifting your hips slightly, moving over his thigh.

Namjoon flexes his thigh between your legs, and you whimper.

He dips his head again, this time to your other breast, coaxing your nipple out from under his shirt. He licks over your nipple, and to his pleasure, you let out another pretty moan.

You’re still moving your hips over his thigh, more boldly now, grinding harder with each pass.

Namjoon keeps up a steady pace laving your nipples with his tongue. He takes your breast into his mouth, lifts a hand to tweak your other nipple, and you gasp.

He can feel your wetness on his thigh.

His free hand lands on your thigh.

‘Ride me,’ he utters.

‘Namjoon,’ you gasp.

Namjoon can tell by the raggedness of your breathing that you’re close to your release.

He flexes his thigh again, helps you drag your hips along, laps at your nipples, and with a cry of his name you come.

Namjoon pulls you onto the bed, slides his hand onto your bare hip under his shirt and admires the view.

Your breasts look so pretty covered in the marks his lips have made, nipples taut and slick with his saliva.

There’s wet between your thighs, your cunt glistens with your release, and Namjoon’s never seen anything prettier.

His cock, already hard and aching, swells even more as you pull him down to you.

‘I want you, Namjoon,’ you plead.

‘You have me,’ he replies.

He settles himself between your spread legs and pushes into you.

Your back arches as he slides in, slow, giving you time to adjust.

He can feel your hands on his back, one near his shoulder blade, one low on his hips, urging him on, and Namjoon doesn’t want to hold back anymore.

He sheathes the rest of his manhood within you with another push of his hips, groaning at the pleasure of it.

He can feel the walls of your cunt fluttering around his hardness, the rush of slickness from you coating him.

You’re so wet, so warm Namjoon finds himself without words.

He starts to move, and you cry his name so loudly he stops, worried he’s hurt you.

‘Don’t stop,’ you reassure him, teeth on his earlobe. ‘Jaesu, don’t stop.’

Namjoon drags his cock from you and enters you again and again, going deep with every thrust, hard the way you seem to like.

He rolls his thumb over the swollen bud between your legs, and you buck your hips against his, chasing your pleasure.

You’re tightening deliciously around him now, clamping down on him like a vice, and Namjoon’s close himself, leaking into you with every thrust.

He strokes between your legs, dips his head to lap at your nipple, and then you’re coming again, gasping his name.

Your pleasure drags him over his own edge, Namjoon manages another thrust before he’s coming, spilling his seed into you with an intensity that robs him of his breath.

You’re pulling him down onto you now, arms around him. Namjoon has just enough awareness to move slightly so you’re not taking his full weight as he collapses onto the bed, tangled up with you.

***

When he stirs, you’re up already, but thankfully not any more dressed than you were.

You’re looking at him in the looking glass by his bed.

‘I like these marks you made on me,’ you announce, nonchalant.

‘I’ll make more,’ Namjoon says. 

He rises from the bed, drops to his knee before you.

‘On my legs?’ you ask, looking down at him quizzically.

‘If you want.’

Namjoon reaches for your hand, looks up at your face seriously. 

‘I vow fealty to you, in this kingdom and beyond,’ he promises you. ‘I will protect you to my last breath.’

‘Well,’ you drawl, with the familiar quirk to your lips he’s grown to love, ‘we’d better make sure you live a very long life then.’

©hamsterclaw 2023

[prattery]

ao3 first lines

tagged by the brilliant @queerofthedagger—thank you!

rules: post the first lines of your 10 most recently published AO3 stories. if you have less than 10 fics posted, post the first lines of all your fics.

The door opens with a loud bang and Gaius jumps out of his skin, nearly dropping his brand new and very expensive vial. 

(Storm and Hellfire | wip | featuring: a kidnapped merlin, magic and scar reveal, and an awful lot of talking)

“They’ll go after you,” Arthur tells Merlin.

(The Heart of a Star | featuring: a losing battle, court sorcerer merlin, and arthur anchoring merlin to keep him from going full emrys™)

When Arthur was a boy, just on the cusp of adolescence, his nursemaid gifted him with a crystal vial.

(The Sword and His Shield | wip | au featuring: guardian!merlin, an accidental soul bond, and an arthur who knows of merlin’s magic from the very start)

Arthur is nine-and-twenty when he wakes by the lake alone. 

(A Line that Goes All the Way | featuring: a merlin who dies at camlann, a lifetime of love and grief, and a modern-day reunion)

When Merlin enters Arthur’s tent and says, breathlessly, “I found a way to end this”, Arthur can tell, just from Merlin’s expression alone, that he is about to say something stupid. 

(Baby We’ll Be Fine | featuring a self-sacrificing merlin and an arthur who is having none of it)

“Will you give yourself to the spirits to save your prince?” Merlin takes a good look around the ruins of the once-great hall, his gaze lingering on each one of his friends, strewn unconscious on the stone floor. 

(Flickering Embers | featuring a temporary death on merlin’s part, a camelot where magic is no longer banned, and arthur reminding emrys who he was)

They found Morgana’s remains in the woods. She’s not the only one they found.

(Stone Cold | featuring a magic reveal gone terribly wrong, merlin turned into a statue, and a grieving arthur)

Arthur spent what felt like centuries planning for this day, making sure that every single hour of his day would be occupied from the moment he steps away from that courtyard.

(Quiet Before the Dawn | wip | sequel to winning the battle and losing the war)

In a very typical fashion, they were on a hunt when they were ambushed.

(Live and Live Again | the one where arthur witnessed merlin dying and coming back to life)

Merlin is polishing Arthur’s armour in the corner of his chambers. It would be nothing unusual, except for the bit where Merlin is doing it in total silence instead of filling the room with his inane chatter.

(Quiet Light | what could happen post 407 if merlin stayed angry and arthur kept going after the traitor)

[fluffallamaful]

Scars and Feathers

🦙🦙🦙…

(kinda) written for Llama’s Lee Dream Month

— Day 5 (Scars)

this has quite honestly been a wip for so long damn long 😵‍💫 and it’s not late at all shh

inspiration taken from this ask from @starlightrosa from yonks ago :D

Summary: An AU where George and Dream actually get along on the smp. Dream is sad, George knows how to fix it, but wow his technique for cheering him up works so much better than both he and Dream remembered? STUPIDLY PLATONIC

Warnings: tickling, SCARS!! implied torture (in minecraft)

Word Count: 3340

hope you enjoy 👍🏼

🦙🦙🦙…

Water logged soil squelched beneath Dream’s feet, the once sunlit plain now receiving the full force of the blackened sky’s downpour, drenching the biome and its inhabitants in a cooling shower.

Perhaps he should have paid more attention to the growing grey mass that George had pointed out earlier, the soft rumbles of distant thunder having been heard even whilst he was sharpening his weapons that morning. But in all honesty he had just been so excited to take his friend out hunting — after quite literally weeks of convincing him — that he had just hoped that ignoring the weather’s promise would be enough to deter it…

He had been wrong...

Green eyes flickered over to the last few pigs that scampered off into the nearby forest’s sanctuary, Dream’s hands twitching as the thought for reaching his bow nudged at him. Even if he were to shoot and hit in this weather though, the fire aspect on his bow would not be applied, and so reluctantly he dropped his gaze back down with a huff, focusing it back onto the large oak tree ahead instead — the one that sat atop a hill, and had been deemed suitable enough to shield them from the cruel shift in weather, and was particularly chosen

As far as he could tell, George was still following closely behind him, but he was doing so in silence. The only way that Dream even knew that he was still keeping up with him was from the soft sound of tinkering rain pellets over netherite armour. He suspected that he could sense his disgruntled state, for the brunette had even refrained from mocking him once the first rain drops of the day had fallen. In fact he had not spoken a single word since.

By the time they reached the edge of the biome it had felt like hours had passed, and by the time they climbed the hill that the large oak resided on, it had felt like five more. Just as Dream suspected though, the oak served as the perfect escape from the changing weather, providing a dry space to sit comfortably under as they awaited for the storm to pass over, as well as an astonishing view.

He immediately unequipped his armour, laying it out in a neat line in front of the oak’s trunk, and letting out a mopey sigh as he slumped back against the solid wood. He peeled off his mask, frisbeeing it a couple of blocks in front of him and offering a meek smile to the George as the older did the same with his goggles and armour, before joining Dream against the tree.

For a while, the two explorers simply sat in silence, partly because neither of them knew what to say, but also partly because the weather’s antics were just so entrancing. Rumbles of thunder rolled over the plains, the passing dark clouds and occasional lightning strike aiding in the natural phenomenon’s wonder.

The oak’s thick foliage provided them with enough coverage from the heavy rainfall, but even still Dream managed to find a weaker leaf that was unable to hold all of its water. The slow line of drips that formed beneath it provided him with a distraction needed to drag his mind away from the failed hunt, as he used the damp sleeve of his hoody to polish away the rain’s markings from his chestplate. But apparently the expressions off dismay on is face were not so easily cleared, for after a while of silence he felt George take his arm.

The slow paced drips were immediately abandoned as Dream glanced down to his friend instead, quirking an eyebrow up in question. George offered him a small smile in response, gesturing for him to remove his hoody with a single tug to it’s damp sleeve.

At first Dream had been slightly bewildered by the request, but only a few seconds passed before he realised what the brunette was offering, feeling slightly sheepish that he was able to be read so easily. He sighed his defeat, providing George with a reluctant nod, before sitting forward to peel away the wet material from his body.

It was simple really. The two friends had known each other long enough now to spot even the smallest signs of discontent — even when they tried to hide it from each other. And it hadn’t taken them many attempts in the past to find that gentle arms traces could quite literally melt away any and all bad feelings. Although… Dream had figured that a year of prison would have been enough to break such a tradition... Apparently he had been wrong.

He dumped his lime green hoody on top of his mask, running his hand through blonde hair to tame some of the static strands that still longed for the missing fabric. Then tentatively, he leant back against the large tree, offering his arm back to George and watching as a few goosebumps pinpricked over his skin as the weather’s cool air clung to the wet of his black tshirt.

George accepted the arm with another soft smile, bringing it into his lap and rubbing his hand over it briefly to chase away the goosebumps, before dragging the backs of his nails lightly over the skin. Dream hadn’t expected much of it, having assumed for it to not have the same affect as it had done a couple years prior, however much to his surprise he found himself relaxing into the touch almost instantly… as though nothing had changed…

He hummed his content, leaning his head back against the oak and allowing for his eyes to flutter closed.

“I’m sorry.” He murmured. George immediately shushed him, but his hand lifted up from his arm, causing Dream to peak an eye open and look down to him in confusion.

“Wait hang on… I’ve got a…” George muttered, rummaging through his inventory with a concentrated frown on his brow. Dream laughed to himself, sitting up to watch the brunette’s digging.

After a couple of moments George managed to wrestle out a chicken feather from his pocket, one collected earlier from the short-lived hunt. He showed it to Dream with a face of permission, receiving a scoffed laugh in response.

George had always had a strange way of being resourceful that would never fail to amuse Dream. The older male could somehow always manage to find the most specific uses for the most useless of items.

He nodded his head in response to the brunette’s creative offer, settling himself back against the tree as George’s hand returned to rub over his arm once again, allowing for his eyes to flutter back closed in preparation for his relaxed state from earlier to return. Only much to his surprise, instead of practically melting under the touch this time, Dream felt himself tense up entirely, his eyes shooting open as soon as the feather came into contact with his skin, and fingers balling into fists as it traced circles all the way down his forearm.

“What’s wrong?” George asked, immediately pulling the feather back in concern once he noticed Dream’s reaction. Dream felt the need to rub a hand over his arm, the leftover tingles from the feather still dancing over his skin. This was odd. In all the years they had been doing this, he had not once felt this on edge. It was as though the feather was brushing directly over his nerves, forcing a relentless giddiness to settle in the back of his throat — one that he was all too familiar with, but not willing to admit in the slightest. He swallowed it down.

“N-nothing.” He assured, removing his hand from his arm. He had a thought to reach out for his mask beneath his hoody, but that would’ve made his predicament far too obvious.

“You flinched? Does it hurt your scars?” Dream looked down to his arm. The whole limb was littered with lines and lines of scar tissue, most of them being the leftover markings from Quackity’s cruel persuasive ‘methods’ in prison. His gaze returned back to the slow drips of water from before, shifting himself against the bark behind him.

He could easily say that it did. He could simply tell George that the reason that he flinched was because the feather was hurting him… but it would be a absolute lie.. and was he really ready to start lying to George all over again? Even after turning over his supposed ‘new leaf’?

“N-no…” He began carefully, keeping his gaze over the drops. “No it just feels- weird…”

“Weird?”

“Different.”

“Different??” Dream huffed, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration. He could feel the beginnings of a blush forming over his cheeks.

“Different.” He stated again, this time more firmly. George got the message not to question further.

“Can… Should I keep going then?” He asked instead. Dream nodded his head firmly, though he had to fight every muscle in his body to not tense up again.

“Yeah it’s fine. It doesn’t hurt. I promise.” He affirmed. George eyed him suspiciously, but thankfully decided to drop it. He reshuffled himself, bringing his knees up to cradle Dream’s arm against his body, before continuing his feather tracing from before.

Dream immediately winced, managing to recover himself with a few deep breaths as he focused on keeping the targeted limb as still as possible, latching onto the storm’s gentle pitter patters on their canopy umberella to distract himself. A giddy smile still managed to threaten the corners of his lips as George began swirling shapes into the underside of his forearm, and he was forced to turn his head away to console himself.

It must be the scars, he thought. The new tissue that had formed there must be more sensitive than the older skin that had survived Quackity in prison.

His theory was unable to develop any further from that however, for a simple flick from George’s feather up Dream’s inner elbow suddenly compressed a betraying gasp out of him, to which he immediately countered by puffing out his cheeks. The soft bristles then lingered over the crease for a moment, fuelling the giddiness that had already lined Dream’s throat, and then setting it alight when it swiped up Dream’s bicep, and zigzagged back down his tricep. The ex-prisoner finally broke.

“Geohohorge Gehehorge okahahay wahahit!!” He suddenly spoke, pulling at his arm and grappling at the hand that was holding the feather. George gave him neither satisfaction, pulling the feather out of his reach, and clasping a hand firmly over his wrist. Dream’s eyes widened.

“It tickles doesn’t it!!” The brunette exclaimed, eyes full of the mischief that Dream had been worried about.

“No! It d-dohoesn’t ihihit- HEhEy!!” He denied, yelping as his arm was yanked further into George’s lap, the older twisting to face him and wedging the limb between his knees. A sudden rush of adrenaline pulsed through him, urging Dream to pull hard at his arm and fight against the strength that the smaller man challenged him with. But despite the known advantage that he had over the brunette, he still found that his fight entirely melting away once the feather’s bristles returned to brush over his forearm again, this time with more intent.

“NOHo Geohohohorge staHAhap!!”

“Your scars are ticklish!!”

“StAHAhap!!” With his facade now fully broken, built up giggles flowed out of Dream in an uncontrollable manner, entangling with the baseline that the rain already provided.

“Is it just your forearm??” The brunette questioned, dragging the feather up to Dream’s bicep again and swirling it over the lines of scar there.

“NoHO GEOhOhorge!!” Dream yelped, pulling weakly at his arm again as his body doubled over in laughter, sending his free hand down into the earth below to stabilise himself. Each completed swirl from the feather sent another wave of tingly sparks up the captured arm, permitting the limb to do no more than contract uselessly in George’s grasp.

“Nahahaha okahay okahay enohohogh!!”

“No! Let me see! Why didn’t you tell me about this before?! It’s adorable!” Dream ducked his head away as a heat swelled over his cheeks, shielding himself behind George’s knees.

“Ihihi dihihidn’t know!!”

“You’re blushing!!”

“Stahahap!!” Dream protested, ducking his head down further and attempting to hide his reddened cheeks into the crook of his neck. He glanced back behind him to gage the distance between himself and the safety of his mask, but his neck was promptly forced to snap back into place when George began tracing the feather over the exposed skin there instead.

“GeHoHoHorge!!” Dream shook his head wildly, hunching up his shoulders as high as they could possibly go and using the weight of his body to up the desperation of freeing his trapped arm. Annoyingly enough, the brunette managed to match each twist and dodge of his with another swipe to his neck, his attempts at blocking out the feathery onslaught being no match for his speed.

“Ohh you can’t get away!! You can’t get away this feather is going to tickle over your little neck somehow Dream!!” George crowed.

Dream let out a frustrated whine, resorting to sacrificing the support of his free arm and using it to grapple frantically at George’s offending hand instead. Though this too was countered perfectly by the older, who noticed the wobble in Dream’s support-less balance within a split second, and before Dream could even process the action he had already been tugged roughly into George’s lap, landing face up and paralysingly startled.

He was only given no more than a few seconds to blink away his disorientation, before the feather’s tingly sensation returned to his neck once again, flicking and twirling under his jaw with a much higher surface area to work with.

“NOhOhO!!” He shrieked, voice upped in pitch from his startle. He immediately tried to sit up, but the brunette’s firm hold on his wrist quickly put an end to his escape, and he fell back into George’s lap with a grunt, panicked green eyes meeting a rather smug, upside-down grin from above.

“You’re not going anywhere~” George teased, dusting his feather down a large scar across Dream’s cheek. A rather loud squeal immediately erupted from the younger in response to the spot change, sounding oddly similar to that of a ghast scream for a moment. His eyes immediately widened in horror at the reaction, free hand shooting up to cover the apparently sensitive section of skin from George’s sight.

Even though the movement of the feather had been so light, it had felt as though it had suddenly been doused in the storm’s electricity, each soft bristle sending an electrifying shock directly into the nerves in Dream’s cheek.

“Whahat was thahat!?” George asked incredulously, barking out a cackle and dragging the feather over the top of Dream’s protective hand. Dream squeaked, feeling his his cheeks darken as a few panicked giggles toppled out of him.

“Geohohorge plehehease…” He bargained, mustering up the best puppy dog eyes that he could as his face warmed beneath his palm by the second.

His pleads for mercy were met with none other than a devilish smirk from the man above, his heart practically sinking down to his gut as George pushed up his glasses to reveal the set of eyes behind them that had darkened to a deep shade of mischief.

“Dreeeam~”

“Nohoho Geohorge…”

“Dream, what have I found here?” The brunette asked, circling his feather over the back of Dream’s hand, concentrating on a feint scar in the middle of it. Dream whined, quickly launching his hand up to grab at the feather while it was in reach, but pouting when it was simply pulled away as before.

“Ah ah ah!” George tutted, swinging his leg over the rogue arm and pinning Dream’s elbow to the grass below, effectively disassembling his last defence. “I’m not done yet.”

The combination of George’s taunts and his now defenceless cheek sent Dream into a flurry of panicked pleads, giggles and bargains, pulling at both the wrist in George’s hands and the one under his leg. His flustered panic was not helped by George slowly swirling the feather in the air just above the sensitive scar, slowly turning Dream to putty more and more as the boy psyched himself out from anticipation alone.

By the time the feather actually touched down on his cheek, Dream had worked himself up enough to not even consider stifling his react, producing the same squawked yelp from earlier as pulses of electricity zipped through his nervous system again. The initial scream then tapered off into sporadic bursts of giggles and hiccups, his eyes squeezing shut and feet scuffing into the dirt in hopes of lessening the sensation.

“Nohohohoho!!” He whined, a huge smile splitting his cheeks as he twisted and turned into the grass below him, shaking his head rapidly to throw off the older’s tracing.

For a split second it actually worked, the electrifying sensations stilling for a moment as Dream managed to roll himself into George’s thigh for protection. However the break was only momentary, for soon afterwards he felt a firm, yet gentle, hand cupping his chin, guiding him out from his burrow and keeping him stable for when the feather returned once again to his cheek. This time he couldn’t wriggle away.

Barks of cackles were quick to join the rain’s melody, Dream’s legs flying chaotically to account for stolen mobility in his upper body. He hadn’t even realised that George had released the hold on his wrist until much after its freedom.

“sTahHAHAP!!” He wailed, slamming the hand down on his face and rubbing gratefully at the tingling skin, this time incorporating his smile underneath the defence as well.

“Nawwww, was my little feather to tickly for the little baby~?” George crooned, sticking out his bottom lip into a pout. Dream felt his cheeks darken.

“geohohohorge…” He whined.

“Was it too much for the little Dreamie to handle~?” The brunette continued, tilting Dream’s head to the side to better access the gate-kept scar. A few spluttered cackles tumbled into Dream’s palm as he twirled the feather over the back of his hand again, this time travelling up over Dream’s jaw and forehead as well.

“Youhu-uhuhu’re so anno-ohohoying…” He tittered, hiccuping through the insult.

“Annoying?!” George’s tone made him giggle even more. “You were the one that was grumpy! I’m just here trying to help you feel better!!” He defended innocently, circling the feather over the shell of Dream’s ear. A yip escaped the blonde at the feeling, squeezing his eyes shut and scrunching up his neck to block it out.

“I alrehe-eheady feel beh-hetter you idihihiot!” More hiccups peppered their way through Dream’s admittance, rolling himself towards his trapped arm and burying himself against George’s thigh again.

“Well how am I supposed to know if you’re not showing me your smile? Idiot.” George retorted, smiling through his words now. He easily followed the blonde’s movements by swiping over the back and sides of his neck instead. Dream’s giggles we’re muffled into his pant leg.

Almost symbolically, as though the weather had somehow noticed that the ex-prisoner was now feeling better, a cast of light pierced its way through the mass of grey cloud, dousing the hill that the two explorers were sat upon in a ray of colour and warmth. The rain’s leftover droplets sparkled amongst the leaves in the oak above, and the metallic glare from the two sets of netherite armour twinkled and winked as more and more sun broke through the finishing thunder storm.

The sound of Dream and George’s giggles continued on for many minutes longer, only stopping after Dream’s titters became breathy and weak. The taller man then remained rested on the smaller’s lap, too weak to move, and too comfortable to deny George’s request for him to stay.

For the first time in a long time, he could say that he was completely free of worries. Just for a moment. Just for a bit.

🦙🦙🦙…

it’s not late it’s not late it’s not late

[bellsyafterdark]

so im obsessed with your robot paz au and one of the things you said gave me an Idea™ (paz throwing back another vial of juice when he starts to run low on cum) that combined with my love for somno... din confesses to paz that he has a fantasy of falling asleep after sex/being fucked unconscious and waking back up to find that he's still being fucked and i just. din waking up to being So Full of paz's cum that his belly has expanded and it looks like he's pregnant and paz is still going, just throwing back another vial for the next few rounds, a ceaseless merciless fuck machine and who knows how many orgasms paz has fucked out of him while he was sleeping... and how many more he'll keep going for 😈

🙇🏾‍♀️🥵🥵🥵💦💦💦💦💦💦

oh my god YES 😩 you have exquisite taste ✨✨✨ imagine-- the back of Din's thighs are soaked, Paz still going though he changes up his pace and occasionally adjusts their position to not disturb Din's rest, keep him comfortable and as much of that cum inside as possible, but where the FUCK does he keep pulling those vials from, how many does he have--

Din can't even open his eyes anymore. His whole body throbs as one raw, oversensitised nerve.

The sound of Paz's pistons is hypnotic but the filthy wet squelch of his grind, the rhythmic thud of the wooden table under Din's back chase sleep again from his mind. His ears burn, weak moans pushed from his chest with every broad thrust to the hilt. His mouth is dry and his throat scratches, hoarse. He needs water.

The air above him shifts with the crest of Paz's release, polished durasteel hands tightening where they hold Din's thighs wide, "Din'ika," groaning, guttural, how can he sound so human, how dare he snarl like this hurts when it's Din who keens as the head of that vicious cock surges within his womb again, spilling and shuddering.

He winces, hand moving to the aching swell of his belly. It's so much. So much.

Just as he wanted. His inner muscles spasm and clench and ripple, drawing every drop further inwards as though his body is too broken to realise there's no space left to fill.

"Mmnnnn," he groans, lungs burning as he takes and takes, thighs trembling as he pushes into the cruel press to feel it even more, forgetting to breathe.

"It's time we cool you down, cyar'ika," the fucker above him croons.

Behind his eyelids, the corona flare of Paz's core glimmers from red to blue. Din's eyes fly wide, unseeing, as that cock within him spirals wider.

Fuck.

Mechanised hips draw back, hands drop to anchor at his waist. Paz snaps his hips in.

Din's spine bows off the table, eyes rolled back, screaming as a confusing shock of ice/burn/ice throws his body into spasms, fuck it's-- good-- he's coming impossibly again and it hurts--

Paz's engine purrs above him, pleased. "Mmm, the reaction."

He draws back his hips. Plunges down again. Again-- again again againagainagain-- Din wails, sputtering, cursing and clawing uselessly at synthetic muscle and armour. He begs.

"Ye-- nngh, f-fu-- unh! Unh! Pl-- ea-- oh m--"

He could die like this. There are worse ways to go.

A machine never tires.

[painted-kaleidoscopes]

Silver Lining

First thing I’ve written in literal years. Um, good to be back in the saddle.

Enjoy son Din Dijarin fluff!

Mentions of sex, briefly. No other warnings. Liberty on timeline here but before the crest is destroyed. Kind of an au with the timeline so don’t come for me!

————————————————————————

It had been 4 months, give or take, since you had joined The Mandolorian and his foundling. Yet somehow you both slipped into an easy, domestic routine. It had started off with you as simply cargo, desperate to escape your unfortunate living situation on tattooine, and Mando having killed your enslaver; he agreed to take you to Navarro. Somehow along the way Grogu grew attached to you, so you stayed on with the boys and although he often said otherwise, Mando had decided you were staying long before you had reached Nevarro.

It began subtly, glances that lingered too long, jokes that you definitely read in between, moving to touches and sweet words that you would come to know as Mando’a; eventually after a long night of celebratory drinking, him sneaking shots under the helmet, you got him into bed. Once that wall fell, everything settled into a steady life. You had grown used to waking up in the cot, your unarmored Mandalorian, save for the shiny helmet. Once he had let his walls down around you, you realised how much sleep the poor man must need without getting because you always awoke first. You had no complaints though, enjoying the moments where you’d steal looks at his dozing form, usually sliding from the warmth of bed to rouse the child and make breakfast. By this time you would usually lazily crawl back into the cot with the child in your lap for a nap, humming random songs from your childhood while you used the last bit of your morning to repair his battle torn gear. Restitching gloves or shirts.

The first time you did it you had wanted to do something nice for him. He always treated his armour delicately, gently setting it in place when he would undress around you, when he polished it he took his time, like it was a ritual. You admired it. After all those pieces of steel were the reason your Mandalorian returned to you everytime, and you understood the respect it deserved. So you had woken up one morning, eyeing the blaster smudged metal and snuck out of bed to get the oil and cloth. Returning with Grogu you started to softly serenade the space while you worked. When he finally awoke, you were beaming, excited for him to see your work. He looked at you and tilted his helmet slightly.

“What is is cyar’ika?” His eyes darted from your face to your hands and then to the bed beside you. You watched him take in your effort and even though his face was unknown, you could feel the smile radiating from him.

“You- you cleaned my armour for me?” You could hear bashfulness in his voice. As if he couldn’t believe you would do something like that for him.

“Well, I consider myself the housekeeper around here, figure if I can wash your flight suits and clean around here, I can help with keeping you reflective too.

You knew it was deeper than that, both of you did, but you lightened the act, trying not to embarrass him even more. You couldn’t tell, but under his visor he was gazing at you with pure adoration, it was the moment he knew he loved you. You didn’t know that, but you do know that small act of domestic intimacy changed things. He had already dropped walls, but suddenly he was doting. Bringing you gifts, and flowers when he could. Radioing you more while he was out on missions. You also noticed that he was leaving his amour unpolished more and more, and it made you happy knowing that he trusted you enough to be the one to do it.

The one garment he wouldn’t let you touch drove you crazy, his cape always smelled burned and had more holes then a grated door. But he would always deny your attempts to stitch it up.

“Mesh’la. You do enough. It’s just going to get ruined. And it’s not as important as the things you already fix.” He would say. You always protested but let it go. Knowing it was a loosing battle and deciding peace was better.

Until one morning. Mando had left for a bounty and you and the kid were stuck in the middle of the jungles of Endor. Before he left he always tried to give you timeframes, both of you knowing they were prone to changes constantly, but he was usually right with his estimates.

“I’ll be back in 4 days.” He stood on the boarding platform, looking back at you and Grogu with a final nod. He turned and stepped off into the grass.

“Please be safe.” You saw a nod of his helmet, but he didn’t stop. Biting your lip, contemplating your next words carefully, but wanting them spoken before he was gone.

“We love you!” You quickly spit out. Instantly regretting the immediate stillness your words had caused the Mandalorian. He turned around, thoughts and expressions concealed from the questioning gaze and your breath hitched in your throat. He sauntered back up the plank slowly. The whole walk you could feel his eyes boring into you. He reached out his gloved hand, placing it gently on your cheek. From your hip Grogu gurgled at the softness from his father and observed the two of you. The Mandolorian was a man of few words, you had learned to interpret his actions and body languages to decipher him. With your free hand you grasped his hand from your cheek and starred back into the black t of his helmet, waiting for his response.

One never came. He instead moved his hand to the back of your head, and gently brought your temple to his metal cladded one. Your heart fluttered and you almost dropped your child at the action. After a few moments of basking in the moment he pulled away. He never actually responded, but you understood the message. He felt the same. You gave him a massive grin and nod, sending him off as he retreated back down the platform.

“Four days, Cyar’ika.”

You could hear the smile even through his modulator and nodded eagerly back as the plank raised. You looked down at Grogu and gave him a doting look. “Let’s get this place spotless for your dad’s return, huh?” He gurgled in response and squirmed to be released. You put him down, starting to tidy up your home.

Once you were satisfied with your chores and you and the kid were fed you took him to the cot for a nap. You had been waiting eagerly for Mando to be gone on his next bounty so you could give him his first gift from you. You gently reached under the mattress, hoping he hadn’t noticed the wrapped package you stashed and found the paper sack. While exploring the shops on Nevarro while he collected his next puck you had found a cape. It was similar to his, black woven and plain, but the shop keeper had also sold you some thread. It was a beautiful hematite colour that the people of Nevarro wove out of a mineral found in the lava rocks. It was strong and delicate, offered a slight glint of metallic against the black cape.

Before your ensalvement on Tattoine, you had lived the daughter of a knight. Your mother had taught you to embroider, to care for his equipment, thinking you would find a Soldier of your own to care for one day. Although she had thought it would be from your own people, you had ended up like she thought. You remembered right before The Purge, she had taken your fathers cloak, helping him get fitted for the coming battle, she had stitched words of love and strength into the garment, hoping it would save him in the fight. Your memories ended there, getting taken in the purge and loosing your life. You never forgot that act of devotion though.

Tears from the memories bristled your lashes as you stitched. Your time with the Mandolorian had taught you enough Mando’a that you included his native tongue, knowing it would mean even more. Finally, you hemmed the bottom, adding a single strip of the silvery thread all the way through. A sign of always finding the positive should the words fail. You sat back, admiring the work, looking for flaws to fix. From next to you Grogu began to stir and you looked over to his big eyes gazing up at you. You motioned to the cape, “Think he’ll like it?” He babbled and you chucked, taking it as a yes, but mostly for your benefit. A loud beep you recognised as your com was coming from somewhere in the sheets. You desperately tore apart the bed until your hands closed on the device.

“Y/N?” You heard Mando rasp from the other side.

“I’m here, Mando.” You could hear him sigh in relief at your voice and it made you blush.

“Cyar’ika, I’m returning early with the target. I’ll see you before nightfall.”

You grinned at the thought of him having shaved 3 whole days off the hunt.

“Hm, that was quick. Desperate to get back to me or what?” You quipped. He huffed softly at the joke. “Yeah, something like that.”

“I lo-“ you began, but the line went dead. He would be here soon anyway, ‘Ill tell him then’ you thought. You picked the kid up, going to grab him a snack, and prepared the ship. You knew he was more than capable of preparing the carbonate chamber, but it made you feel useful to help. Right as you finished powering up the craft the plank lowered and Mando stomped on, dragging a limp man in tow. You moved out of his way as the Mandolorian shoved the bounty into the chamber, only relaxing his battle ready stance when the target was frozen.

“Hi.” You whispered.

“Hi.” He breathed back, grabbing your arm to pull you into his chest. You both stood there, taking the other in, elated to be back within arms reach. The peace didn’t last long as a crash came from the upper deck and you both let go at the same time as said:

“Grogu.”

Knowing the child was causing havoc upstairs. Hand on his blaster just in case, Mando was up the ladder first. You weren’t far behind and when you cleared the top you began to laugh at the scene in front of you. Somehow the child had grabbed the cloak you made for Mando, obviously desperate to be the one to show his father. He and gotten wrapped up and was looking to his dad for help from the mess he got himself into. Mando grabbed the kid first, paying the garment no mind until you reached over him and grabbed it. Looking to the child you gently chastised him.

“Naughty. That was my gift to him.” You chuckled and tapped his ear gently turning back to the Mandolorian who had his head cocked at you in confusion. “Well, it was a surprise for later. But, I made you something. Mando” You began to blush, suddenly shy and questioning if he would like it. You sheepishly held out your work, feeling his surprisingly gentle gloved hands grasping it from your grip. He let the clock unfurl, taking it in.

His hand found the subtle embroidery, fingers tracing the words and you heard a slight inhale from the voice modulator.

“This is Mando’a.” He stated it like a question, glad you couldn’t see the redness on his face at the fact that you had been learning his language. His eyes took in the words admiring the protective prayers you picked for him.

“Yeah. I’ve been learning so I can teach Grogu.” You admitted, at ease watching him take in. His helmet looked back up at you and you smiled at him. He was a man of few words you reminded yourself, hoping he did like it. “Well Mando?” You gently questioned, prodding him for a response.

“It’s Din.” Your brow furled in confusion. Was that his- you didn’t finish asking yourself before he was standing right in front of you still clasping his new cape. “My name, it’s Din.” You felt your knees get weak at his declaration, heart swelling that your simple act had inspired such openness from him. “Can’t have the woman I love calling me some nick name now can I?” You could hear his emotion through the helmet, and collapsed into his arms. Placing a kiss on his metal cheek. He had said it back, your heart fluttered as he embraced you.

“I love it, Mesh’la. I love you.” He signed in contentment, forehead falling to yours in the most intimate touch his people had.

‘He loves me too’ you quietly hummed, knowing you had finally found your silver lining after all this time.

[melisusthewee]

I am HERE to beg for Quinn x Morris in the Happy Ending AU where they get to be bisexual knight husbands in love. pls see “I didn’t expect you to be into cuddling.” “I’m not!” “Then what is this?” “Just… close skin-to-skin contact.” “Uh-huh.” for inspo lol

You never have to beg because Bisexual Knight Husbands is my new favourite AU and I want all the excuses to write all the Quinn/Morris antics! I need practice writing Morris POV, but he's new!

(for background info, this is an AU concept where Quinn Trevelyan successfully enters the Grand Tourney, does not ruin his own life, does not become the Herald of Andraste, and becomes a professional tourney knight alongside his big softie husband Ser Horatio Morris.)

In Which It Is Important To Cuddle For Warmth for @dadrunkwriting

When Quinn sneaks into Morris’ tent, he staunchly refuses he is doing anything of the sort.

“I simply don’t want you hiding away and being anti-social,” he says, wiggling a bottle of wine he’s likely stolen from among his older brother’s things.  Even though he’s no longer tied to the man as a squire, Quinn says he’s still not recognized the same way his brother is.  He’s won a few archery rounds, but he hasn’t earned any titles yet.  Not that it matters… he’ll always be Lord Trevelyan, but the younger lord doesn’t get the good wine.  At least that’s what he claims.

Morris isn’t being anti-social.  He’s simply tired.  He hasn’t found himself a good squire yet, so he’s doing both jobs himself and even though Quinn always offers to help him in and out of his gear, he has to polish his own armour and saddle his own horse all while keeping on top of his exercise and training.  It is tiring, and by the time the sun is down, he is ready to fall asleep on his little cot and say goodnight to the world.

Yet whenever Quinn appears, he radiates an energy that Morris can’t help by feel taken by.  The way he wiggles the bottle, eyes bright and mischievous, his grin wide beneath the wispy beginnings of yet another attempt at growing his first beard, Morris can’t help but smile and throw back the blankets to join his friend for a little stolen drink.

“That’s the spirit!” Quinn says with a laugh, and soon the two of them are passing the bottle back and forth.  Quinn is engaged in telling some sort of story that Morris is almost certain isn’t even half-true, but the man is at least fun to watch.  Everything Quinn does is energetic and animated, but what stands out the most is how focused his gaze is whenever he speaks.  Those bright blue eyes fixate on Morris in a way that has always made him feel like he’s the only person around.

Morris smiles, because Morris always smiles whenever their eyes meet.  It leaves him warm and fuzzy in a way the wine could only ever hope to, which is all very fine because the vintage Quinn has brought with him is not one of the better ones.

Suddenly, Quinn’s hand flies up to his hair, pausing mid-sentence to peer suspiciously up at the canvas ceiling.  Morris follows his gaze and sets the wine bottle down in disappointment.  His tent is leaking yet again.

Morris sighs and gets to his feet.  It does this sometimes and he hasn’t earned enough money to get a proper oilskin to drape across the outer canvas… not yet, at least.  It’s on his list, but it’s little more than a mild inconvenience so it isn’t really a priority to him.  He instead fetches his empty washbasin to place beneath the drip.

Quinn is also on his feet now, but he looks down disapprovingly and shakes his head.  “No, this won’t do at all.”

Without waiting for permission, Quinn grabs Morris tightly by the wrist and marches towards the tent entrance.  He is deaf to Morris’ assurances that the roof isn’t about the collapse in and drown them, and becomes rather rude and insistent on how he won’t have them spending the night in such conditions.  Morris could resist.  He’s strong enough to do it.  But he knows a determined Trevelyan is not to be deterred.

It isn’t very far to run, but they are both soaked from the rain by the time they make it to the Trevelyan pavilions.  They are a colourful collection of tents that all look considerably larger than Morris’ own.  Even Quinn’s - despite being the youngest son - has all the grandeur and heraldry of a wealthy noble.  It all makes Morris still feel a bit out of place among the knights.  In his heart of hearts he still is just a boy from an insignificant farming village.  Quinn knows this and for the most part always takes great care to meet Morris at his own level.  But leaky tents, he supposes, are the man’s limit.

Quinn pulls back the flap of his tent and gestures for Morris to hurry inside.  To Morris’ surprise the place is considerably less opulent than he expects.  Quinn’s bedding is certainly nicer and has far more pillows, and the lanterns hanging from the supports above look much nicer than his own, but there is significantly less velvet or plush carpeting and gold than Morris is expecting.

Quinn is already half-undressed, tossing his wet tunic in an unceremonious heap on the floor and fidgeting with the buttons on his boots in order to get them off.  Morris shifts his weight back and forth, feeling his worn leather boots squelch from the mud they’ve trekked through.

“This better come with laundry service,” he says, wringing rainwater out of his own tunic.  “I was perfectly dry even with a small leak in the ceiling.  Now look at me!”

Quinn looks up and gives Morris a once over before that horribly clever grin of his appears.  Quinn himself is just as soaked, his golden hair more like the colour of burnished copper.  He runs a hand through it, brushing wet strands of hair back from his forehead.

“I think you are terribly handsome.  Perhaps we should do this more often.”

Morris rolls his eyes in dismissal, but he’s never quite able to hide the little smile that creeps up on him whenever Quinn pays him compliments.  He tries his best to resist, however, choosing to instead elbow Quinn just a little harder than would normally be considered playful.  “I’m likely to catch cold now.”

Quinn makes a noise that sounds rather disgruntled before he begins to rummage through a trunk that’s tucked away in the corner.  He pulls out a woolen blanket that looks decidedly plain considering what Morris knows about the man’s tastes, and wraps it around his shoulders before making a grand show of collapsing onto his bed.

Morris knows how this goes.  He’s expected to react, but instead makes his own pointed display of ignoring Quinn and continuing to remove his wet clothes.  It isn’t until he hears a rather insistent clearing of Quinn’s throat that he pays him any attention.

“Well?  If you’re going to stand there all night like that then you can’t blame me when you do get sick.”

“Move over then.  You always take up too much space.”

Quinn looks offended for a moment but then does his best to scoot over on his bedroll and cot.  He unwraps the blanket just enough to beckon Morris over.

There is more room than they usually have whenever Quinn sneaks-but-does-not-sneak into Morris’ tent, but not much.  The cot creaks significantly less though, which Morris appreciates.  Quinn turns onto his side as Morris slides in next to him, throwing the blanket across them both.

It is warm beneath the covers, and Morris can feel the softness of Quinn’s thigh brushing against his own.  This is nice, he thinks, though it would be better if they hadn’t left behind the bottle of wine.

There is a rustling of the blanket as Quinn shifts and before Morris can say anything, an arm wraps around his waist and Quinn’s weight settles half on top of him.  Quinn’s skin is damp from his wet clothes and the rain.  His cheek, however, is soft as it settles against Morris’ chest.  Morris takes in a breath, uncertain for a moment of what he should do.  Quinn’s weight and the way he pulls him close is better than anything else in the world.  He just isn’t exactly used to it.  Quinn’s thinner frame usually means that Morris is the one playing big spoon.

“I didn’t expect you to be into cuddling.”

Quinn’s voice is muffled, but no less petulant as he replies, “I’m not.”

“Then what’s this?”

For a brief moment, the arm around Morris’ waist loosens as Quinn appears to reconsider things.  But before he can properly extricate himself, Morris reaches around and threads his fingers through Quinn’s hair.  He smiles to himself as Quinn’s arm tightens agains and he settles in closer.  One of his legs hooks around Morris’, and the two are quickly tangled up together.  Not that Morris minds.  He’s quite content to lay here all night if he can.

Quinn, however, is speaking again.  “It’s skin to skin contact, that’s all.  Very important for keeping warm.”

Morris laughs and plants a kiss to the top of Quinn’s head.  “You’re full of shit, Trevelyan.”

Quinn makes a disgruntled huff but still turns his face up to steal the next kiss directly from Morris’ lips.  “Don’t be an ass, Horace.”

[kittydemon9000]

Same Bugs

Playing Hollow Knight and got inspired, guess the only thing that can get me to put down that game is a fic that needs writing who knew.

Haha SBBNR (Same Bugs but not really) AU go brrrrrr-

------

The sky was falling.

That was the only thing running through Kai's mind as the shadow blotting out the howling sky above grew closer. Behind the safety of a rock, Garmadon hissed with laughter. "Fool, you thought you could stand against me? The Dark Spider?"

Kai drew his Nail, the weapon nothing more than a toothpick in comparison to the shadow that towered over the Crystal Peaks of Hallownest. This was his home, his family was still down in the tunnels below, he would not let this creature Garmadon had somehow summoned harm them-

His antenna shook from the wind, armor creaking. It felt like standing on the precipice of the Howling Cliffs.

What was this creature? It had no shell, no armor, just silk-like covering and flesh like an earthworm. A giant earthworm. And not 'giant that it filled and blocked the cavern tunnels', not 'so giant it filled the cavern that held the City of Tears', but so giant that Hallownest would not fit it at all; hell, the thing was almost bigger than Hallownest from the surface to its deepest cavern by the void.

A fleshy thing reached down from the sky, like five earthworms attacked to a round surface. It dug into the rocky dirt around Kai and lifted him from the cliffside. Despite his yelled protests and stabs with his Nail, the creature did not drop the dirt Kai stood upon.

The last of Hallownest he saw was Garmadon, balanced on four of his legs while he hailed the sky with the other four in a roaring laugh. "Farewell, Red Knight! You cannot hide the vessel, my son, forever!"

Then the dirt beneath Kai fell away and he plummeted into a glass cage, blacking out as his head smacked into a transparent wall.

---*---

Lloyd was having a very, very bad day. Worse than his usual form of bad day. So he did what he usually did on those days;

Visited the one pet shop on the block that didn't hate his guts.

It was run by a normally cranky old lady who only seemed to be nice to Lloyd, which was an astoundingly stark contrast to everyone else in his life (minus his mom). He loved wandering the aisles of the small shop, waving hello to all the birds and critters, and helping the lady tidy the small shop.

His favorite, however, was the bug section. Her assistant occasionally brought by new bugs they found in the forest or wasteland desert around Ninjago city. There were so many unique varieties in the area. Lloyd had befriended five of the bugs and brought them home before; a Hercules beetle he named Cole, a lightning bug he named Jay, a white-tailed dragonfly he named Zane, a water strider he named Nya, and a fire ant he named Kai.  "You're in luck," the old woman said. "My assistant just brought in some new bugs from the wastelands. There's a rather peculiar one that seems to fit the type you gather."

Lloyd's mood began to perk up. "Really?"

He wandered to the back of the store where a new tank sat. In it were a variety of small, common bugs, wandering around and buzzing into the glass walls. One bug, however, seemed to be attacking the walls with vigor, a strange-looking bug that resembled a fire ant like Kai and yet was... different. 

Different like the five bugs, yet... a different kind of different. Polished. Almost... knight-like.

It wasn't much of a surprise that Lloyd ended up taking the strange fire ant home, dubbing him 'Smith'. He kept them in a smaller tank next to the big tank at first, planning to slowly get the bug used to the others first before just dropping them in. He got the feeling they were a little... aggressive at the moment. Stressed. Lloyd didn't want a fight breaking out.

He sat back and watched the tanks.

---*---

Kai/Smith didn't know what in the Pale King's name was going on.

Compartmentalize. Right. Figure things out. Right. PK'S SAKE, WHY WAS THINKING SO HARD-

What did he know? Right. Start with that.

He knew he'd been fighting Garmadon on Crystal Peaks, up on the surface. He'd been lured there by a couple of weavers- strange, for them to be so far from Deepnest- and ambushed. Then Garmadon has started summoning... something. He didn't know what. Just something to 'get rid of Kai' without killing him. 

Then the giant descended from the distant horizon, snatched him up, dumped him in a large glass box with non-sentient bugs, and carried him away.

What was the giant? Why did it grab him? Was it summoned by Garmadon, or was it just chance? 

Right. Back to what he knew. 

He'd ended up in a large... shop? Maybe? And while he'd been trying to slice apart his glass prison with his Nail, the sword-like weapon doing nothing but bounce off the thick walls, another smaller giant had entered, he'd been scooped into a smaller tank, and carried to another different place.

And that brought him to now, in a room while the smaller giant stared at him.

Great. Just great.

He huffed, slamming the tip of his Nail into the dirt, leaving it there for now. With a spin, he found himself facing a larger glass tank.

There was a lighting bug staring at him.

The bug squeaked when they saw Kai looking back, light flashing under a small knitted orange scarf made of threads. They flew off.

Well. That was a thing that had happened. At least that bug looked more sentient and civil than the critters at the shop. 

A dragonfly came by after, staring at Kai with an almost unnerving, no blinking look in their eyes. Kai tried for a smile but he was, in his defense, still quite a deal shaken from the ordeal, so he wasn't quite sure how it looked.

The small giant, satisfied with something, picked up Kai's tank and slowly lowered it into the main glass box. He tumbled a bit into the dirt, his Nail flipping to smack him on the head a little unceremoniously. Just perfect.

And while he was disoriented, a water strider got in his face and started yelling about 'don't you dare hurt the others, got that?' and something about a very unfortunate encounter with an orchid mantis who pretended to be their friend only to hurt everyone, bite their giant friend, and escape.

And there was a fire ant that looked like Kai here too. Just peachy.

Kai/Smith slammed down the visor of his helmet. He didn't need this right now. He needed to find a way home.

He had to get back to Hallownest.

------------------

YESSSSSSSS BUGGY BOIS GO BRRRR!!!!!!

[besanii]

shattered mirrors 50

WangXian ; 1368 words

[follows part 05]

He watches from the parapets as the soldiers assemble in the courtyard below, the foot soldiers arranging themselves into neat formations and the cavalry gently nudging their horses in line. There are wagons laden with supplies—food, water, weapons for use on the road—although the majority had been sent ahead in batches to replenish the supplies on the front lines. Overhead, the blue clouds of Gusu Lan curl across white silk banners fluttering in the breeze, the same shade of blue as the soldier’s robes beneath their polished lamellar armour.

It is easy to spot Lan Wangji and Lan Guoyan amongst the crowd: they are the only ones with helmets decorated with plumes of Gusu Lan blue, and their polished armour gleams silver in the sunlight.

“Wei-gongzi.”

He turns and bows with his fingers clasped before him.

“Taizi-dianxia,” he says in greeting.

“You may rise,” Lan Xichen says, waving him to his feet with a smile. He is alone, his personal attendants standing further away and just out of earshot, their heads bowed to offer them privacy. “I am surprised to see you here, and not down there with Wangji and Guoyan.”

In the courtyard below, Lan Guoyan is shouting orders at the men and gesturing towards the wagons while Lan Wangji frowns beside him, his attention focused on the map in his hands. Wei Wuxian shakes his head.

“I thought it would be best if I let them work undisturbed,” he says. “I fear I would only hinder their task and delay their departure.”

“Would that not be a good thing?” Lan Xichen asks, a twinkle in his eye.

Wei Wuxian ducks his head, his cheeks heating.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Taizi-dianxia,” he says carefully.

Lan Xichen laughs softly, no more than a quiet exhale accompanied by the faintest of smiles and a shake of his head; he walks over to the edge of the parapet, his hands tucked behind his back as he surveys the preparations.

“Jing-junwang withdrew his petition for your hand this morning,” he says, voice deceptively light. When Wei Wuxian does not reply, he continues: “I must admit, Wei-gongzi, I was surprised to receive his petition in the first place.”

“Jing-junwang has shown me great favour,” Wei Wuxian replies without raising his head. “I am unworthy of his affections.”

“I’m sure that isn’t the case,” Lan Xichen tells him magnanimously. He turns away from the parapet finally and looks at Wei Wuxian with a critical eye. “Forgive me, Wei-gongzi, but I had always been under the impression you and Wangji…or was I mistaken?”

Wei Wuxian takes a step back and bows low at the waist.

“Taizi-dianxia,” he says. “Wei Wuxian asks for your forgiveness.”

Lan Xichen looks surprised. “Whatever for, Wei-gongzi?”

Wei Wuxian straights, but keeps his head bowed, his cheeks flushed. This far above the ground, the noise from the soldier’s preparations down below is little more than a constant buzz punctuated by the occasional horse’s whinny or the clash of metal, but it is familiar enough to soothe Wei Wuxian’s nerves as he formulates his reply to Lan Xichen with care.

“Wei Wuxian has been fortunate to receive Er-dianxia’s affections,” he says. “For that, I am eternally thankful.”

“But you do not share the sentiment?” Lan Xichen asks, keeping his voice level. Wei Wuxian shakes his head quickly to disabuse him of the notion.

“Please do not misunderstand, Taizi-dianxia,” he says. “I am unworthy of such high regard from Er-dianxia. But…I hope to be.”

The last words are spoken softly, hesitantly, and he dares not raise his eyes from where they are fixed on the ground at Lan Xichen’s feet. He has not had many personal dealings with the Crown Prince during his time in Gusu; the Crown Prince no longer lives within the Palace now that he is of age and married, and Wei Wuxian had been preoccupied with lessons,but he knows enough—not just from Lan Wangji’s deep-seated respect and love for his brother, but also what he overhears from ministers and servants alike—to know that he is just and fair, and unfailingly kind. Such men are rare, and he would very much prefer to win his favour than cause offence. Gusu is a powerful ally, after all, and he is here to strengthen that alliance.

There is also the fact that he is Lan Wangji’s brother. If nothing else, Wei Wuxian would like to win his approval for Lan Wangji’s sake.

“Wei-gongzi,” Lan Xichen says now. “Please raise your head.”

His eyes—a darker shade of hazel than Lan Wangji’s, more of a light brown than a honey-gold—are kind when Wei Wuxian lifts his head to meet his gaze. A small, knowing smile plays at the corner of his lips.

“I am glad to hear that, Wei-gongzi,” he tells him. “Although it is customary for men of power to take multiple concubines—especially those of us in the Imperial Family, in order to secure the lineage—neither my brother nor myself, or even our Fuhuang, is very much inclined towards the practice.”

He takes a step towards Wei Wuxian, the light in his eyes turning serious, more meaningful. In that moment, Wei Wuxian glimpses the statesman, the future Emperor, behind the brother: the self-assurance, the confidence, and the commanding presence in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin, and the sharpness of his gaze.

“Wei-gongzi, you’ll find my brother can be quite single-minded in his devotion,” he says seriously. “Once he has set his heart and his mind on something—or someone—it is there to stay, for better or for worse. There will be troubling times ahead for all of us and the future is uncertain, but I sincerely hope my brother’s affections are not misplaced.”

Do not break my brother’s heart.

As if Wei Wuxian would even entertain the idea.

“Taizi-dianxia, please be assured,” he says, sinking into a formal bow as expected of a courtier to his future Emperor. “I would sooner cut off my own head than betray Er-dianxia and your faith in me.”

This seems to mollify Lan Xichen’s concerns; the severity of his expression clears into something lighter, friendlier, and the smile returns to his lips. He nods his head slowly and motions for Wei Wuxian to rise.

“I am glad, Wei-gongzi,” he says, and turns back to the view over the parapet. “And I am sure Wangji will also be thrilled to hear it. Have you spoken to him?”

“Ah…we’ve come to an understanding of sorts, Taizi-dianxia,” Wei Wuxian replies, scratching the bridge of his nose with an awkward chuckle. “With the current state of affairs, we agreed it would be best to wait until after everything has settled before we make anything official. We both have our duties, and they must come first. But afterwards…” he trails off with a wistful sigh. “I guess we’ll see.”

Lan Xichen hums thoughtfully.

“And you will be returning to Yunmeng in Wangji’s absence.”

“Yes, Taizi-dianxia,” Wei Wuxian replies with a short bow. “I will be leaving later today, once the troops have departed and I have settled my affairs here.”

“Very well then.” Lan Xichen walks towards him in measured steps until they are shoulder-to-shoulder. “Safe travels, Wei-gongzi. I look forward to seeing more of you after the war.”

He leaves as Wei Wuxian turns and bows low in farewell. When he is alone again, he leans over the parapets, his folded arms resting on the stone walls. Down below, Lan Wangji looks up amid the crowd of people surrounding him and catches his eye; Wei Wuxian smiles and waves.

Yunping attacked. Heavy casualties. Return immediately.

Lan Wangji gives him the slightest of nods in return, but there is a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, and turns back to his work. Wei Wuxian allows his smile to fade.

Everything will be alright, he thinks, echoing Lan Wangji’s words from last night as his heart sinks. The war will be over soon.

--

Notes:

Fuhuang (父皇) - Imperial Father, used by children of the Emperor when talking to/referring to their father.

--

ANNOUNCEMENT

Due to Tumblr messing with the way things show up in tags, there are some changes I’ll be making in hopes of circumventing those issues until I work out how best to do this.

Tracked tag: originally was “shattered mirrors au”, now I’ll also be tagging posts with:

shattered mirrors fic - for fic updates

shattered mirrors verse - for non-update, verse-related posts

The existing tag will still be used just in case, but from what I can see nothing is showing up in it regardless of whether or not I’ve removed the links, so I’m being extra cautious.

Master Post is available on the sidebar of my blog. 

You can also copy the following and append it to the end of my tumblr homepage: shattered-mirrors-master-post

Ko-Fi link is available on the sidebar of my blog.

If you want to look me up directly, my username is besanii

This information is also pinned at the top of my blog for reference.

[archesa]

A little insight in my characters sense of fashion and choice of colours ^^ (prompted by @i-mybrunettelady ‘s post ^^) Long post incoming!!

Elianora (#canonverse!commander)

For long, Elianora has worn purple - because as a ginger, it’s a colour that flatters her, and because she’s directly inspired by the main character of the novel I’m writing, and purple plays a huge role in her story. After Tybalt’s sacrifice, she added a touch of red to her apparel, as a reminder of her mentor, and replaced it with the apple jewel after the Pact recaptured Claw Island and Tybalt was avenged.

Then, when the Pact was formed, and Trahearne named her Commander (and his second in command), she elected purple and teal as her main palette, as they were colours that were not associated with any of the Orders, thus enforcing her stand on her neutrality, in spite of her former affiliation with the Order of Whispers.

She’d switch back and forth between purple and teal until the defeat of Scarlet, and from there stick to teal and deep blues, as she found it put her adversaries on edge, expecting her to hit them with ice just before she engulfed them in flames and lightning.

During the campaign of Maguuma, she forsook her Astral Scholar regalia in favour of a more practical outfit, maintaining her teal aethetics as an unwitting reminder of what - or rather who - she fought for.

After Trahearne’s death, she dons black (ie very dark variations of her colours) for a year - abyssal sea and abyssal twilight (the shade of purple a reminder of her dear friend). She undertook the pilgrimage for the restoration of Caladbolg expecting never to return. The second vision, where she encountered a memory of Trahearne, allowed her to process her feelings - the guilt of being too late to save him, of being forced to take his life, of surviving when he didn’t - to mourn him and accept that she had to go on - she owed him that much. She keeps blue and wintergreen as her dominant colours, adding a touch of violet with an amethyst shaped like a leaf.

Anwen Evergreen (#trahearne lives au!commander)

Anwen’s gold and blue armour was a heirloom from her birthparents. The Farens had it restored, polished and completed with new pieces to be fit on the day of her vows, since the moment she first considered joining the Seraph. Unbeknownst to her, she wore an actual - albeit incomplete - Shining Blade armour on her first battle. (no, I didn’t make an Anwen clone just for that screenshot, I don’t know what you’re talking about...)

The old pauldrons did not survive that first fight against the elemental. And she would awake from her week of unconsciousness with a flamboyant new pair of pauldrons waiting for her - a gift from her one of her many visitors, the priestess explained, Lord Faren.

She kept these pauldrons till her fight with Faolain, when a whip of the vinetooth’s tail tore her chestplate open, forcing her to forsake all but her chainmail to carry on the fight to Mordremoth. She's had an identical armour crafted for her upon her return in Divinity’s Reach - just in case the world needed saving again... And sure enough!

The sun and heat of Elona forced her to reconsider her choice of armour, and she got herself a set of lighter clothes from a merchant in Amnoon. After all, when it comes to fighting a god, it’s not armour that will save you.

Galaëd of the Cycle of Dusk (#mesmer extraordinaire)

Galaëd emerged from the pod white and golden as a birch in autumn. He’s kept these colours because they feel natural to him - and quite honestly striking with the bright purples of his illusions! He has a liking for fireflies and stars, everything that glows in the dark and glistens at sunset and his apparel is always donned with little flecks of dancing light, either born of magic or his own luminescence.

When he joins the Vigil, he dons their uniform, but keeps his colour scheme, albeit darkened by the mendatory black of the order (which, incidently, compliments the markings on his skin quite right too!)

He will eventually forsake the uniform after the formation of the Pact, but that’s a story for another day!