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arabellasleopardcoat · 1 year ago

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Bestiary (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Your husband and you do not speak the same language. During your wedding night, you find out that High Valyrian and the Common Tongue pale when compared to the way your bodies allow you to communicate.

Warnings: Heavy smut, not much dialogue. P in V sex. First time.

A/N: Who would have thought the most enthusiastic consent I have ever written with Daemon would be in a fic with nearly no dialogue?

Being coached through your wedding vows is not a good omen for your marriage. At least, that is what your husband must think, by the thunderous look on his face. You fight the urge to scream at him that you have practiced for this moment and that you do not need to be coached through the vows. It would be no use. The two of you do not understand each other.

Everything is strange to you in Westeros, from the language to the wedding ceremony. They make you cut your lips and hand, in a procedure you do not enjoy. Your husband does the same. Your blood flows into a goblet, from which you will have to drink later on.

It's barbaric. You suppose it must symbolize the joining of bloodlines in the crudest way.

At least Daemon kisses you at the end, a cold brush of his lips against yours that tells you he is still mad. He had probably felt betrayed, being forced into this arrangement you entered willingly.

If you had known he was that petty, you would have not shown your hand so fast. Your father had wanted dragons, which meant becoming part of House Targaryen. Daemon was the only one available for you to ensnare in your web.

As any good hunter, you had watched your prey first, taking notes of his behavior. Only an afternoon was needed to understand you started the race with a disadvantage. His eyes followed Princess Rhaenyra, Princess Rhaenys and her little daughter, but never lingered on other women.

While you might have lacked the silver hair, you did not lack the wits and charms necessary to be taken in consideration.

You had needed a few days to ready your song, but you had approached him not even a week later. He had been sitting in the library, so you had knocked on the table twice to draw his attention.

Daemon had lifted his eyes from the scroll he was reading, annoyed. He had a handsome face, decorated with age lines that only served to make him look more regal. He looked more the part of the King than his brother, a decaying corpse that you had heard had also acquired his own nubile bride.

Such was the fate of the daughters of powerful men. Sold to other powerful men, old enough to be their fathers, birthing them their own litter of sons and daughters. Sons that would grow up to become powerful men in their own right, daughters that would become pawns to establish dynasties. On and on it went.

Daemon had spoken then. His words were much harsher than those of the language you were used to, lacking the airy song of the languages similar to the one from the Rhoynar. You had not understood. You did not speak a lick of the Common Tongue.

No silver hair, no words, but plenty of resources. You had placed the book you had brought with you on the table, and looked at him.

His eyes had lit up with curiosity. He recognized the title. He spoke again, intrigued.

Despite his tone sounding much more auspicious, you had no other option than to shake your head and speak, with a tremulous voice.

“Bodmagho.” It's the only word you know, one that you have prepared especially for this. But just in case your pronunciation is not perfect, you open the book and mimic the gesture of passing the pages.

Daemon looks stunned. He says something else, still in the Common Tongue. You were able to tell from the intonation he was asking a question, but you didn't know what it was about.

“Bodmagho.” You repeated, stubbornly. You placed your book down and pointed to it.

Daemon sighed. He pointed to the chair. You sat, happy as a clam.

“Prince Daemon.” He pointed at himself. Then, to you. “Lady…?”

You told him your name. He nodded.

“Daor.” He shook his head. “No.”

You stared. He shook his head again. You understood that no, daor and shaking head meant the same.

“Daor. No.” You shook your head. Daemon squeezed your shoulder, a proud smile on his face.

Your father told you that afternoon that you were to be married to him. Just as you had made efforts to catch Daemon, your father had been setting his trap.

Daemon did not oppose, nor encourage the match, but he was angry at you. Angry that you knew before him and tried to charm him into doing your bidding.

Men like him, you learn, like to be the ones pulling the strings. They hate being treated like hounds, even if that is what they are.

You get no further lessons.

This is how you manage to get to your wedding feast only knowing two words. Teach and no. It makes you the most riveting company, and so, it's no wonder you are soon ushered into a chamber with your new husband.

You had not noticed before, but it is the first time you are alone with him since the morning at the library. To you, it had been a matter of no consequence. You had to marry a powerful man, one day. Your father decided it should be him because he wanted dragons. It was as simple as that.

As a rich man, your father had known rich men only get richer at times of unrest. And unrest was coming for the Seven Kingdoms. He could smell it in the air, hear it in the whispers of the common folk. Princess Rhaenyra wasn’t going to inherit without issue.

Your family moved here for that reason. An opportunity to get richer could not be dismissed. Your father had taken one look at the dragons and decided that they were the key to turning his legacy into an empire.

Giant war machines that could level castles in one afternoon. Raze a city to the ground in mere hours. Fire so hot it could melt stone. They could not be bought, you had to be a Targaryen to have them. It was only natural to turn into one, then.

Your children would get dragons. You would provide funds and as many children as you could, and House Targaryen the magic in their veins. Simple business transaction. But apparently, Daemon disagreed.

His face is thunderous. You can tell he is about to berate you. He starts talking, brows pinched together and an accusing finger pointed towards you.

Has he forgotten you do not speak his language? You step closer and poke his arm, hard.

It was the wrong choice. Daemon's face turns even more murderous. His lips twist into a snarl, teeth bared. His posture turns aggressive. He puffs up his chest, he advances on you. The Prince tries to intimidate you through his body language alone.

You are not a small woman. But you are young, and you do not train as much as he does. His looming over you feels menacing, and it reminds you once again of the fate his late wife was rumored to have suffered.

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. Daemon is forcing you to walk backwards, pushing your forehead and nose with his. You either move, or get a broken nose and a concussion.

Daemon is terrifying. You will not cross him again, you think to yourself. Only a fool goes around poking dragons with a stick. You feel your palms starting to sweat, a knot forming in your throat. You fight the urge to cry.

The back of your knees hits the mattress, and you fall into the furs with a small noise of surprise. Your husband does not lose any time. He gets right into your face, trying to intimidate you even more.

But if you hope to survive this marriage, to make it work as your father has requested, you can't bend. Daemon will never respect you if you do. He will see you as no more than a frightened girl, who will not disagree with him and serve for little beyond warming his bed. You are not that. You will build an empire, a dynasty out of his dragons and your wealth. The only thing you can do is persevere or break trying.

Daemon scowls at you. He notices the change in your eyes, the fight coming back to you.

“Daor.” You say, staring him down with all your might. It doesn't matter if you are lying down, and he is hovering over you, pinning you under him. You will triumph.

Daemon doesn't heed the warning. He starts tugging at the buttons of your bodice, tiny pearls sent flying all over the room. The gesture is as brutal as it is calculated. It is meant to remind you of your place, always under him from now on. Daemon has a right to your body, and he intends to exercise it as he sees fit. You are no more than an object, and if you cry or scream, it is not relevant.

Despite knowing why he is doing it, you can't avoid grimacing. He looks more beast than a man, snarling over you, ripping your clothes. It's a sight that would scare any woman, no matter how cold.

You look up at him. You give him your own little snarl. Daemon pauses. It's not the reaction he was expecting. He wanted you to cry. You would never give him the satisfaction.

It's a balancing act. You will have to bring him to heel, but soothe his pride in the next act, less he turns on you. Push away a man too much, and he will think you are disrespecting him. He will call you names, thinking you are the problem. Daemon feels entitled to you. You need to show him he is not, but that you are giving yourself to him. He needs to value you. The treasure to his dragon.

“Daor!” You say, firmly. You push him away. Whatever he anticipated, you giving him a fight wasn't something he was prepared for. It shows in the way he folds, stunned by your behavior. You give him hard little slaps to the chest, until you manage to get him off you.

Daemon's scowl turns more confused than angry. He looks at you as if you are a particularly challenging riddle to crack. He rightens his clothes and starts to retreat.

“Daor.” You repeat, grabbing at his shirt to keep him in place. You do not want him to leave.

Daemon wretches free from your grip on his arm. He mutters something, angered.

“Daor.” You use his trick against him, stepping right into his path and forcing him to back off. You use your body to make him advance backwards, toward the bed.

He sits on the edge of it, still scowling. You giggle, making Daemon madder still. You look at him with what you hope is a seductive expression and pull your bodice down.

“Bodmagho?” You ask him, as your dress pools around your feet, leaving you in a sheer shift. Daemon's eyes darken. His expression changes into an amused smile, and he gestures for you to come to him.

You do. You step closer and get on his lap. His hands envelop your waist, warm and calloused.

Then, the unexpected. Daemon grabs your hair and pulls, forcing your head back. You moan, pain and arousal mixing into an unknown emotion that makes the place between your legs slick.

You can feel his breath against your neck, making you shiver. His face comes closer, and closer. Daemon stares into your eyes, lips slightly parted. You mirror his expression, feeling as if you are being consumed by your lust.

He arches an eyebrow. Never been one to shy away from a challenge, you brush his lower lip with his thumb. Daemon parts his lips and sucks it in his mouth.

The shock must have shown on your face because he laughs, giving your thumb a playful bite. You squirm, instinct overpowering modesty, and roll your hips against his.

The two of you stare at each other. Closer, and closer, until his features blur, until two purple eyes turn into one. A dragon turned cyclops by the mere force of lust. There is hunger and want, and confusion. Both of you are so close that you are sharing the same air, the same breath. And Daemon pulls, and you are kissing, and you shake in his arms, feeling like how you think the gods must have felt when the cyclopes formed the lighting.

His hands go to greedily knead at your thighs, slipping under your shift. His palms feel rough against your skin, impatient. The shift rides up, up, up. You mewl against his mouth, desperately reaching for something unknown to you but that you know Daemon will help you reach.

You are restless as he pets you, biting at your mouth, hands sinking in his hair. You tug him towards your neck, knowing his kisses, scorching hot, would burn even sweeter along your nape and ears.

Daemon, though, has other plans. He pulls away and pecks you on the lips. “Vūjigon ” He says. He touches his mouth. “Vūjigon”

You kiss him, softly. “Vūjigon”

He pets your hair.

“Vūjigon.” And he points to his collarbones. You frown in confusion, thinking perhaps the word doesn't mean what you think it does. He sighs and leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the space between your collarbones.

“Vūjigon.” You perk up, and start kissing his shoulders. Your hands pull his shirt more open, letting you bite and lick more of his flesh. The urge to consume and be consumed is overpowering, making you desperate to touch him.

Daemon laughs. He pulls you upwards. Can't he see you are starving?

“Daor.” He says, when you try to go back to it. You give him your fiercest pout. Daemon tuts at you.

He squeezes one of your breasts, making you moan, before cruelly twisting the bud. You gasp, your nails digging on his naked shoulders.

“Shhh.” Daemon soothes you, his hand going to squeeze your breast tenderly once more. “Daor?”

You don't know how to tell him what you want, so you grab his hand and make him pinch the tender bud again. Daemon smiles. He kisses you, muttering something fervently on your lips.

He lays you down on the bed, despite your attempts to sit up. Daemon pins you down with a growl, hand on your chest.

You can't help it. No matter the warning, you squirm as if you were in pain. It certainly feels like it. There is some sort of hunger in your belly, making you want to rub your core against him. You can feel your shift starting to become wet right above your tailbone. Daemon has you so bothered you are dripping into the shift and the bed.

Daemon gives you another growl and leans down to bite your breast over the fabric of your shift. It's meant to be punishment, but you arch into it, gasping.

He laughs. He takes as much of it as it can fit in his mouth, sucking greedily. The noises are obscene. The sight must be, too. Your mouth, open, moaning yourself into a frenzy. Daemon, nipping, biting, sucking, like a man starved. Your shift with two giant wet spots, one at the chest and the other by your arse.

You moan, surprised at the feeling. You had never thought bodies could be used in such a way before. Nor had you hoped for him to please you so eagerly.

His lips close around your bud. His tongue twirls around it, lavishing it with attention. You grab at his hair, his nape, desperately trying to hold onto something. Daemon just sucks harder on your breast. You moan, and moan, and moan some more. Desperate little sounds, gathering in the air around a desperate girl.

He switches to your other breast. Your shift feels sticky on your skin, so you start trying to take it off. The task distracts you enough for his hand to find its way to your core, and you squeak at the first sensation of his fingers against it.

Daemon smiles against your skin. He presses a finger inside you, and you squeal some more. He lets go of your breast to better gaze into your overwhelmed face, seemingly getting an enjoyment out of it.

Another finger joins the first. You cry out. It stings a bit. Daemon shushes you, kissing your cheek. He rubs at something above your opening that makes you squirm in delight.

His other hand comes into your sight. Daemon makes a gesture, two fingers together, separating. You stare. He nuzzles you, his cheek against yours, before repeating it.

You nod with a pout.

He starts prying you open slowly, this time. Despite enjoying causing pain, it appears your cooperation has granted you privileges with Daemon. He understood the distress on your face, and read you correctly enough to know it was not going to go well if he kept going as he was.

Daemon rubs at your shoulders, soothingly. You understand you need to relax, and force your body to do so. He kisses you in reward, slow and sweet, coaxing you to him.

You nod again. Daemon moves back, settling himself by your side. He takes your shift away, pressing soft little kisses to each new inch of skin revealed.

The sudden removal of your last layer makes you shiver a little. Your skin is wet from his previous ministrations and rapidly cooling. You plaster yourself to him, seeking warmth.

He chuckles, grabbing your arse to move you slightly out of the way. You scowl, not sure why Daemon is doing so, until you realize he is taking off his breeches.

“Daemon.” You whisper, softly. There is a part of you that is already cringing at the promise of pain the loss of your maidenhead will bring.

“Daor?” He asks you, one of his hands petting your cunt. It makes you shiver.

“Bodmagho.” You grasp at his shoulders, steadying yourself. Daemon lines the two of you. You feel his member at your entrance, holding you open and threatening to spear you apart. It feels scorching against your skin.

He helps you impale yourself on his member. It's not pleasant at first. Property dictates that you should not let him see your discomfort. You should just bear it like a good wife and allow him to chase his pleasure unbothered.

But you know Daemon enjoys causing pain. He thrives on it. So you let your eyes fill with tears, and your face goes slack and overwhelmed.

He smiles. He licks your tears away, and mumbles something. You squeal, and it only excites him more.

“Bodamagho.” Daemon pinches the flesh on your hip, clearly calling you to focus. His hands move your pelvis back and forth, back and forth, until you are hissing in pleasure, your hands on his chest, doing the movement yourself.

“Vūjigon.” You demand, moving your hips just like he taught you. Daemon is too focused on aiding you bounce by thrusting upwards to pay attention to you. When he doesn't obey, you give a tug to his hair.

He snarls at you. You snarl back. So he grabs your wrists and pushes sideways, and suddenly, you are under him and Daemon is still thrusting into you.

You are desperate for closeness. You scrunch up your face and wrap your legs around his back. Daemon looks down at you, and bites your shoulder. He is not pleased with your perceived attempt to take control.

Realizing your mistake, you shake your head.

“Daor.” You rub at his back with your foot, gently. You hold him close, and nuzzle his neck, delighting in his scent. Never you had thought before you would enjoy the smell of sweat and some sort of aromatic oil, yet here you are. “Vūjigon.”

Daemon's expressions softens. He leans in and gives you a kiss. You make pleased, chirping noises, trying to show him that was precisely what you wanted.

He complies, releasing your hands. You enthusiastically hug him. It helps you anchor yourself against the unrelenting waves of pleasure.

His hands, now freed from yours, are everywhere. Twisting your buds, rubbing at your pearl, squeezing your waist. Daemon whispers nonsense in your ears, takes the lobe between his teeth. He aids you, tilting your hips with his hands, reaching deeper.

You heard a story once, about Westeros. A white hart was said to come to the greatest Kings alive. A magnificent beast, tall as a man, with skin made of the purest snow and antlers as long and imposing as the branches of an ancient tree. If a King encountered it, it was a good omen for his rule. It would be just and prosperous, blessed by the Gods.

What did they do with the hart? Keep it in Kingswood, perhaps? You had made the mistake of asking, once. You had been told that they used the best spear they had. That men held the hart down, and they gutted it from head to belly.

The perfect, regal beast, fur as pale as snow. The pristine white sheets under you. Blood tainting the white. What a way to go.

You understood then why they called it a small death. You were sweating, squealing like a beast being gutted, thighs trembling under Daemon's hands. It was too much and too little, and you felt yourself reaching it, yearning for it.

You did not care if you burned, moth to a flame, maiden to a dragon. Daemon seemed to realize it because his hand went to rub at your pearl, and he leaned in.

“….” He was talking, but it was in that strange language of his, and your ears were ringing, you felt about to explode. Your body responded to his tone, though. Gentle, loving, coaxing you over the edge with a scream so fierce you might as well have been one of those weeping women that appeared far north.

Daemon grinned at you. A fierce, proud expression, eyes crinkling in the corners. You pulled him into a kiss, and raked your nails down his back, feeling the skin yield like butter under your fingers. It spurred him on, and with a gasp and a bite to your shoulder, Daemon was shattering inside you.

He collapsed on top of you with a laugh. You smiled. Daemon pulled you to rest, back flush against his chest, and you understood each other better than those who spoke the same, common tongue, did.

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lailoken · 1 month ago

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Shortly before Darkening Day—the holy day in my tradition that celebrates the Winter Solstice—I discovered what may be the most beautiful stone I've ever found during a river offering.

I was initially drawn to it purely for its size and smoothness, thinking it must be a basalt stone, which are very common in local waterways. However, looking at it later, I was floored to realize that it's not actually a solid black rock, but a darkly translucent crystal filled with patterns. From what I can tell, it's a specimen of agate.

One of the central tools I use in my practice is the Stroking Stone, which I utilize for physical healing. Traditionally, a Stroking Stone should be quartz-bearing and naturally smoothed by water, and as agate is a polymorph of quartz, and this stone was found directly in moving water, those parameters line up perfectly. What's more, though, the way to consecrate a Stroking Stone involves blessing it during the Sabbatical Ceremony of Darkening Day, which is strongly associated with both water and healing. Finding this just days before the one day of the year during which I can consecrate such a tool felt very auspicious to me.

I am excited to get to know this amazing stone and build magical rapport with it over time.

#stroking stone #healing #healing magic #folk magic #Darkening Day #wending way #agate #ritual tools

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lokisgoodgirl · 2 years ago

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Heirs [Asgard!Loki x Fem.Reader]

A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Loki starts your marriage by breaking tradition. Naturally. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Fluff & Smut. Oral. Asgardian HC Lore. Language. Loki POV. (w/c 1.9k)

Loki’s eyes followed the ripples your palms made over the water. Over the curve of your back. The delicate line of your spine. Steam rose in a mist, braiding upwards in the amber glow of sunset through the arched windows.

Sodden rose petals clung delicately to your waist, peppered sporadically on your skin like clean wounds. Beautiful, he thought, letting his robe fall with a rustle around his ankles to the ancient stone of the palace baths.

He smirked as you turned with a splash, instinctually covering your breasts before breaking into a smile. “Husband,” you giggled in greeting. It was the first time you had said it.

The word made him shiver, despite the heat thumping between his legs.

Loki enjoyed the slow crawl of your eyes up his body. You took in every inch of his long legs with the unrestrained hunger of a horny stable-hand, thumbs beginning to subconsciously massage your nipples. There was a flicker of pink as your tongue flashed over your lips, gaze lingering on his cock heavy set between tensed thighs. All yours, my love.

The water was perfectly warm. Hot – but not overly so. Carefully controlled thermal springs which ran into the palace saw to that. With each step into the stilling pool he took, you took a step back.

Even now wed, still ever the tease. Loki’s lips stretched in a mischievous smile, matching your own.

Heat kissed his knees, then his thighs, then his hips– dipping backwards to wet his hair in the perfumed baths. He could feel the weight sink into the tight weaves of his ceremonial braids, wound from his temples, the ends sinking down between floating strands of black. He rose up, rivulets running from his temples down to the nook of his collarbone. The Prince let out a small groan as you reclined on the steps by the side of the pool, only the curve of your mounds visible above gently lapping water. Beautiful.

You bit your lip, resting your elbows on the side. Waiting.

“I might even apologise for interrupting but I believe that would not be the most auspicious start to our marriage,” he coyed, before stopping directly in front of you.

He could feel the cool of your breath against his skin, wafting in teasing waves over the fat tip of his cock protruding from the water. “There will be plenty of time for lies, I'm sure,” you replied with a knowing smile, neck craning up.

Loki shivered again as your lips melded against his stomach, thumbs pressing into his obliques while your fingers curled around his trunk. He could feel droplets roll between his shoulder-blades as his neck tilted back. The feeling of your fingers wrapping around his base of his cock, the gentle suck of your mouth on the thick, swollen head threatening to make his knees buckle. How long he had waited for this. How long you had both waited for this.

“Stop,” he gasped, just as you primed to swallow him whole. Loki would never forget the way your eyes shone with innocent confusion. He looked forward to seeing that moment reflected in your beautiful gaze many times in the coming years. The god bent down, capturing your lips with a messy kiss while he slid beside you on the stone seat concealed beneath the surface.

“Do you know," he began, pausing to brush a thumb over your lips, "that the royal men of Asgard are forbidden from pleasuring their wives with their mouths?” His eyes searching yours, nerves fluttering in his belly. “I have heard it said,” you hummed, curling a thick ebony strand of Loki’s wet hair around your finger. “But it never made sense to me.”

Loki chuckled, leaning forwards to suck gently against your neck.

His tongue would never sate from the taste of your skin. Never. He let out a rasping moan in your ear, one of his hands sliding between your open thighs beneath the water.

The tips of his fingers grazed the plump folds he found, the arch of your back against the terracotta making his shaft twitch against his stomach. “You see, if my tongue is buried between your thighs, wife, it is not my cock.”

“Heirs?” you asked, feigning innocence.

“Heirs.” Loki smirked. You rolled your eyes playfully as his finger trailed lazily down your inner thigh, dragging softly over your knee.

“The most beautiful sounds a woman can make are thus,” he postured casually, leaning one elbow on the side with a fist beneath his temple. Your palms slid teasingly over his stomach, inching further with each time-wasting word. “Firstly, the primal grunt as her blade pierces the flesh of her enemy. And second...”

Loki paused to follow the descent of a particularly fliratatious droplet down the curve of your neck with one long finger, “the shameless groan in her throat as she cums into the mouth of her lover.”

“Is that so?” you said, sliding your hands up over his shoulders. Oil swirling within the heat of the baths made them soft and slick, the lady’s delicate grip against ropes of ferocious muscle making him weaken. Loki felt his brows slant. “You do not believe me?” he murmured incredulously.

The laugh that chimed from your throat made his heart swell.

“My Lord, I am innocent of such things as you well know,” you said, a sarcastic smirk tugging your lips. Loki tutted, playing the game. “I have fought beside you many times, wife. I know that you keep the highest count of men slain by a woman’s hand.”

You nodded thoughtfully, before your head tilted to the side. “I meant the other thing,” you whispered, pressing your lips together. Loki cupped your cheeks as your stare focused on the narrow valley of lapping water between your bodies. He frowned. "Truly?" You nodded. He could feel your cheeks warm beneath his touch. How can it be that a man has never pleasured her so, he thought.

“Then let me show you how black of a steed I truly am in this family of mine,” he heard himself mutter, seeing your chest begin to heave with quickening breaths. “Of all our inane traditions, that is by far the most loathsome.”

The nervous laugh that escaped you bounced to every vault in the high ceilings, sinking through the cross-breeze from the open arches.

“More so than the Ceremony of the Sacred Seed?” you giggled, biting your lip again. Loki nodded, a smile curling one side of his mouth. “The Ceremony is a farce, but this…?” his hands found the curve of your waist beneath the water, lifting you effortlessly to the final step before the bath’s edge. “The waste of my wife’s pleasure from my talents would be unforgivable.”

Water lapped gently at your hipbones while Loki carefully placed your calves over his shoulders. He turned his cheek, placing three kisses gently on wet skin. “Besides, was it not the Ceremony which set our path in motion?” he murmured, before grazing his teeth over your ankle. Your hips bucked upwards, a splash. “At least we may be thankful for that.”

Loki watched in awe as your body leant back against the smooth terracotta ledge, the clear bathwater making rivers and brooks through the creases of your hips. The way your curves stretched and moulded to the stone, fat streaks of water languishing down your supple, oiled skin.

He spread his knees against the bottom step, sinking down. His stomach flipped as your breath hitched, desire roaring behind a demure moan. Your glistening pussy was being lapped by the sway of water, swollen lips revealed and hidden with the graceful tide. Loki hoisted your thighs, positioning you perfectly.

“You know, technically, this is treason against the crown,” he purred teasingly, working sucking kisses up the soft flesh of your inner thigh. He felt them tremble around his neck.

“Husband, please,” you gasped, letting your head drop back. The wet of your hair slopped against the warm stone floor. Loki smirked against your skin, feeling a long breath leave your lungs as his palms lightly gripped your waist. “Very well, Princess-” he smiled.

Loki let his eyes drink in the sight for as long as physics would allow before his lips formed a soft latch to your centre. He stilled, letting you buck into his mouth with a shudder. The warmth of the bathwater lapped at his jaw, liquid silk mingling his tongue with your sex. And like a tame beast, he began a flat ascent up your slit.

The subsequent rattling, gasping cry from your body would never leave him. Surprise, relief, pleasure, freedom – it was all contained in that wordless pitch wavering amongst the bathhouse steam.

He let his tongue curve the softness of your womanhood, hands roaming further up your waist. The curvaceous weight of your breasts cupped in his hands made his cock ache. A vision of sinking himself inside you flashed through his mind, rolling and wrapping in once-pristine matrimonial bedsheets. With every rock of your hips, that delicate pussy crept further from the surface before retreating; never fully submerged but always caressed by the touch of water.

Loki felt your hands slide over his temples, fingers that did not know what to do with themselves playing at his intricate ceremonial braids.

It was tradition for the bride to undo the braiding on the wedding night while her husband rested, utterly spent of course. Of course, Loki thought; as the flat of his tongue pressed against your clit. Your back arched from his palms, an ambrosial moan of his name ringing around the cloisters. But there is time enough for that.

He was vaguely aware of the rumbles of wet enthusiasm bubbling from deep in his throat, the taste of jasmine mingling with the sweet nectar leaking from your entrance. All of it. He wanted all of it. All of her.

Your fingers had knitted into the thick of his braids, pulling his face gently between your thighs. Deeper. Loki smiled against your cunt. He rocked you back, sitting up further on his knees. The god took a breath, pausing to observe the once-forbidden glory of your pussy displayed beneath his loving command.

“How are you mine?” he hummed over your pleasure-drunk form, water dripping from his chin. You melted into his open mouth as he delved down again. His worship was rhythmic, each wax and wane of his talented tongue ringing new wells of praise from your lips. Your hands slid down his glistening biceps, feeling every solid curve and vein on their descent.

He could feel the growing frequency of twitching in your calves, the tense of your thighs as you clung on to the wave of pleasure building in your gut. Gasping, you patted his forearm; but Loki shook his head against your sticky heat.

His eyes rose, seeing your brow furrowed in panicked anticipation. The Prince ran his palms up your thighs from where he knelt, never ceasing his gentle laps against your slit. Relax, my love, it said. I have you.

And with a choked cry of his name, Loki felt a warm well of sweetness against his tongue.

Water splashed against his cheeks as your hips shuddered, your tightened thighs pressing him closer. He slurped, kissing your sex as he would your mouth; massaging the sparks of ecstasy sizzling on every nerve for as long as they could last.

You had dug your fingertips deep into his triceps, riding out your pleasure. As she should, he thought; moaning against your cum-soaked sex. He hoped your enthusiasm would leave bruises. However fleeting.

“My Lord…” he heard you gasp through broken breaths. Loki took a moment to hover before lowering your legs, sinking your hips below the comforting glaze of water. Tendrils of his onyx hair spread on the ripples as you slid down the step to meet his lips with yours.

“My Lady,” he heard himself slur; drunk on the taste of your cum and the tone of your voice, “shall we to bed?”

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, drawing him close. Fingertips played over the wet knotting of his braids, a loving smile tugging at your mouth. “Heirs?” you said, biting your lip.

“Heirs,” he smouldered.

Keep the wedding night journey going with Husband (follow up)

Tags (cont in comments)

@meowmeow-motherfucker @muddyorbsblr @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @sebstanwhore @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @peaches1958 @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @sidepartskinnyjeans @ladyofthestayingpower @wolfmoonmusic @brittbax @smolvenger @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @loopsisloops @glitchquake @joyful-enchantress @nyxlaufeyson @arch-venus25

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thaifanfests · 19 days ago

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🏳️‍🌈Thai Wedding Ceremonies🏳️‍🌈

One of the prompts for Thai the Knot is “ceremony,” and this post will break down the several ceremonies that can take place during a Thai wedding. The order, duration, and even priority of certain ceremonies are up to the couple, and some traditions can be kept or excluded at the couples’ discretion. Many of these ceremonies can take place in a single day, while other couples may choose to spread these ceremonies out over several days.

Technically, same-sex weddings are not traditional weddings, so it would be up to the couple to adjust it to suit their own circumstances. Some would pick a role and stick with it for the ceremony (for example, in a sapphic wedding, one person may assign themselves as the “groom” and the other as the “bride.” A traditional wedding is not a rigid rule to follow but more like a template that you may customize to suit you if need be (if your parents are not too unreasonable). (recentadultburnout)

Additionally, there are traditions that are inspired by Western or Chinese influence, which we will discuss later in the post.

🏳️‍🌈Buddhist Ceremony (พิธีสงฆ์) (phithi song)

If the couple chooses to do a one-day Thai wedding, the first ceremony that happens on that day will be Phiti Song (monk ceremony-พิธีสงฆ์) (recentadultburnout). Buddhist monks are invited to bless the couple’s relationship; doing so is believed to ensure the relationship’s longevity and to encourage a long and healthy marriage. The couple will make merit by offering food to the monks; when holding the rice ladle, it is said that the person who places their hand above the other’s will have the upper hand in the relationship (Thailand Foundation). After, “when the groom receives forehead anointing to bless the marriage from the monk first and gives one to the bride himself, with the hands of the monk holding and guiding his. In some cases, forehead anointing will be done by an elder the married couple respects instead of the monk” (recentadultburnout). However, forehead anointing can happen in other parts of the wedding day or be incorporated into other ceremonies (as we see in this video where forehead anointing happens separately from the Buddhist ceremony).

🏳️‍🌈Khan Mak Procession (แห่ขันหมาก) (hae khanmak)

The Khan Mak Procession (or parade) is when the groom and the groom’s friends and family will walk to the bride’s house while carrying khan mak (ขันหมาก) or engagement trays. The Khan Mak procession can be two parts; the first is Khan Mak Ek (ขันหมากเอก), or the primary procession. The Khan Mak Ek tray includes betel leaves, silver bag, gold bag, auspicious grains, mung beans, black sesame, unhusked rice, puffed rice, and money envelopes (recentadultburnout). Other trays that counts as primary but has another name are the dowry for the bride (which both families agree upon prior to the ceremonies), rings for the bride and groom for the proposal ceremony, and candles and incense for accepting wai. The second part is Khan Mak Tho (ขันหมากโท) or the secondary procession, and those trays hold desserts, such as thong ek (flower egg yolk dumplings) and foi thong (shredded egg yolk threads), and other auspicious items that symbolize love, longevity, and fertility (WeddingList; recentadultburnout). The processions also require banana trees and sugar cane, which will be planted at the newlyweds’ home later.

When the groom and his family make it to the bride’s home, the groom is barred from entering until he can prove his love and stability to the bridal party and family. The bridal party will create three gates (or more) with string, and in order for the groom to pass, he must answer questions about the bride, declare his love, and/or simply pay for entrance. In this video, a groom must prove his physical capabilities in order to see his bride. In another, he’s negotiating with the bride’s family.

🏳️‍🌈Marriage Proposal Ceremony (สู่ขอ) (sòo kŏr) & Dowry (สินสอด) (sinsod thongman) Counting Ceremony

At the marriage proposal ceremony, the groom will ask for permission from the bride’s family to marry the bride. This is known as sòo kŏr (sookor); in the past, sòo kŏr happens prior to the wedding day. Nowadays this step is simply a play act for good fortune and to play up the happy occasion. The families act out these roles pretending to negotiate the terms of the dowry. Later, after the parents express their consent for the marriage to happen, the groom will bring the bride out into everyone's eyes, and then the Sinsod counting will begin (recentadultburnout).

Sinsod, or dowry, is usually agreed upon prior to these ceremonies, so the bride’s parents will pretend to count it, mostly to show the guests the groom’s generosity. Sinsod (สินสอด) refers to a way the money used to be packed and presented to the bride's parents (recentadultburnout). Both parents then sprinkle popped rice and flowers from the other Khan Mak trays onto the sinsod/dowry, and sometimes, the bride’s mother will “struggle” to carry or lift the dowry to imply that it’s too heavy because of the amount (again, to show the generosity of the groom) (Thailand Foundation; recentadultburnout).

🏳️‍🌈Engagement Ceremony

Traditionally, engagement ceremonies were done separately long before the wedding day. Firstly, the groom expresses his intention to marry the bride by bringing his parents to approach the bride’s parents (ทาบทาม-approach), privately and outside of any celebratory ceremony. Once the groom's side gets an approval, the groom's side will proceed to go sòo kŏr the bride and, during the process, establish details for the dowry, pick an engagement date, etc. The couple then does an engagement ceremony on a later date, and then the preparations for a wedding can happen after that. How short or long the period between engagement and marriage is entirely up to the party involved.

More recently though, engagement ceremonies are now done on the same wedding date for ease and to adhere to the auspiciousness of their wedding day. Hence, the sòo kŏr or counting of the dowry is more performative (as described above) when the ceremonies take place on the same day. If done on the same day as the other ceremonies, the rings will be carried to the bride’s home in the Khan Mak procession. “In the process of giving the engagement ring, the groom first puts the ring on the bride, and then the bride bows down to the groom. After that, it's the bride who will put the ring on the groom” (recentadultburnout). Here is a video that shows what a ceremony could look like. With more awareness of gender equality, the groom putting the ring on his bride’s finger first is now a “symbolic act;” additionally, some couples “adjust the tradition by both performing the wai gesture to show respect towards each other” (Thailand Foundation).

After this, the couple will pay their respects to their parents and older relatives. “The meaning of this is to ask the parents and relatives of both the bride and groom to acknowledge and look after them as a new member of their partner family.”

“This step is done by bowing down without holding your hands open. 3 times for the parents and once for others. After bowing down, the couple will hand a raft of incense sticks to the elders. They will take it and then tie the bride and groom's wrists with holy thread for good fortune and as a symbol of being a member of the family, along with giving blessings and money envelopes as gifts for the newlyweds. Other valuables will also be given as a blessing and as funding for them to build a family together.” (recentadultburnout)

🏳️‍🌈Sai Monkhon (Joining by Thread) & Water Pouring Ceremony (รดน้ำสังข์) (rod nam sang)

“The bride and groom must sit or kneel next to each other. Their arms will rest on a small padded table and their hands must be held together in prayer position. An elder member of the family – who is considered to have a successful marriage – will place the traditional headpiece called Mong Kol on the head of both the bride and groom. This string headpiece, previously blessed by monks, must be made out of one piece of cotton. This will join the couple in ceremony, and symbolically for the rest of their lives.” (Thailand Foundation)

Following this is the water pouring ceremony (sometimes referred to the shell ceremony in other sources). “The ceremony begins with incense and candles being lit to honor the Three Jewels. The newlyweds sit on a bench, preparing to receive holy water, which is thought to be a life blessing. The honor guest (prathan: chairman, president, honor guest) will put the nuptial good luck thread on the newlyweds' heads and anoint their foreheads, and then the holy water pouring will start in the order of seniority, one by one. Most of the time, the people who get to do it are the ones who are already married, not children or teenagers. When it's over, the honor guest will remove the nuptial good luck thread, which must be taken off from both the groom and the bride at the same time, and roll it all together to put it on the groom's hand or the bride's hand, along with congratulating the pair.” (recentadultburnout)

🏳️‍🌈Preparing the Marital Bed & Nuptial Chamber

Unlike the previous ceremonies and receptions, preparing the marital bed and sending the bride and groom to their bedroom is considered a private tradition. When it's an auspicious time, their family will prepare rice, flowers, and other things according to the beliefs to sprinkle on the bed where the newlyweds will sleep. The bed sheet they use in the ceremony must be the newly bought one (recentadultburnout). Preparing the bed also consists of with various auspicious items that are the symbols of prosperity and fertility: “a mortar to represent solid love, an unripe squash to bring a happy marriage, the figure of a sleeping cat to show comfort at home, a symbol of a rooster to promote waking up early, and finally a cane as a symbol of long life” (TheThailandLife).

“In the ceremony, the elders, whom both sides respect, will make a bed and arrange the pillows. This is done privately by the couples’ parents and couples who were rightfully married according to tradition and have a good, long married life and also be accepted in society as ethical and good people. The purpose of this ceremony is for auspiciousness and to give a good example of a good marriage for the newlyweds.” (recentadultburnout)

🏳️‍🌈Western Influences/Additions

After all the ceremonies, a Thai couple can choose to have an after party or reception to further celebrate the marriage with friends and family. Guests play games, take photos with the bride and groom, give speeches, etc.

In a modern Thai wedding reception, you may find more Western influence, such as a Western wedding cake and cake cutting ceremony, a bridal bouquet toss, etc. Exchanging rings is also now part of Thai wedding ceremonies, whereas they previously were not. Style of dress and attire can also have Western influence. Some couples opt for wearing traditional Thai wedding attire (which can be quite varied depending on what region of Thailand one is in), but others may prefer a white wedding dress! Some would do both. Thai style for the morning ceremony and western style for the evening. Usually, traditional Thai weddings do not have events such as bachelor or bachelorette parties or honeymoons, but a couple can include them if they want.

🏳️‍🌈Chinese Influences/Additions

A common addition to a Thai wedding is a tea ceremony. “It is a Chinese tradition to pay respect to the elderly. The bride will prepare a teapot and a teacup, and the elderly relatives who are attending the ceremony will sit in order of seniority. The groom's relatives will sit on the left. The newlyweds must sit together at the start of the ceremony. They will kneel down and pour tea into a cup, place it on a tray, and lift the tray with both hands at the same time. and send it to the attendee to drink until the cup is empty. Then elder relatives will bless them and give gifts, and the newlyweds will give something in return. They can be general items like cushions, towels, or glassware. At the end of the tea ceremony The newlyweds will eat Khanom Ei and Khanom Bua Loi together to symbolize sweet love.

The tea ceremony might happen after the wedding day, like how it happens according to Chinese tradition, or it might be combined with the accept wai step as they have the same purpose.” Here is an example of a tea ceremony incorporated into a traditional Thai wedding. (recentadultburnout)

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novaursa · 23 days ago

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The Second Daughter (eyes of the realm)

- Summary: You were born as a second daughter under the watchful eye of a full moon. And just like the moon you were beautiful—and cursed to exist only in the dark.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the flight

- Next part: the future

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @l3thal-l0lita @ninihrtss @barnes70stark

The gates of King’s Landing groaned open, and the city stirred with excitement as the procession of House Lannister entered. Gold and crimson banners fluttered in the breeze, their lion sigil gleaming in the sunlight. Trumpets blared, their triumphant sound echoing off the walls of the capital as Jason Lannister led his house through the cobbled streets, mounted on a resplendent chestnut destrier. His polished armor glinted like fire, and his green eyes sparkled with satisfaction as the crowd gathered to watch the spectacle.

Behind him, a column of knights, bannermen, and servants followed, all adorned in the finest Westerlands regalia. Carts filled with wedding gifts—gold, jewels, and rare wines—rumbled through the streets, further emphasizing the wealth and power of House Lannister. The people of King’s Landing murmured among themselves, some in awe, others whispering about the audacity of such an ostentatious display.

At the gates of the Red Keep, a welcoming party awaited, led by Tyland Lannister and Lord Otto Hightower, Hand of the King. Tyland’s stern features softened into a wry smile as he watched his brother approach, though his eyes gleamed with faint amusement. Lord Otto, however, stood with his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his expression stoic but his annoyance evident in the slight tightening of his jaw.

As Jason dismounted with practiced ease, Tyland stepped forward, his tone light but teasing. “Well, brother, you certainly know how to make an entrance.”

Jason smirked, handing the reins of his horse to a waiting squire. “Would you expect anything less? This is a day worthy of celebration.”

Tyland raised an eyebrow, glancing at the lavish gifts being unloaded. “You’ve brought enough gold to ransom a kingdom. Or perhaps to buy one.”

Jason laughed, clapping a hand on Tyland’s shoulder. “Nothing less for a Targaryen princess, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lord Otto cleared his throat, stepping forward with a measured pace. “Lord Jason,” he greeted, his tone polite but cool. “The Hand of the King welcomes you to the capital. It is good to see House Lannister show its support for the crown on such an auspicious occasion.”

Jason turned to Otto, his smile widening just enough to border on smug. “Lord Hightower,” he said, inclining his head with deliberate grace. “It is always a pleasure to serve the crown. And what better way to show our devotion than with a display befitting our station?”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Indeed,” he replied, his tone neutral. “Though I’m sure the King and the Princess would appreciate sincerity over spectacle.”

Jason’s smirk deepened. “Oh, I assure you, my intentions are entirely sincere. A marriage to a Targaryen is no small honor, and I am determined to do justice to the occasion.”

Tyland coughed lightly into his hand, clearly suppressing a laugh. Otto’s gaze flicked to him briefly before returning to Jason. “The King is eager to welcome you,” Otto said, his voice clipped. “The ceremony will take place in the Great Sept, as you know. The Princess is already preparing.”

Jason’s expression softened slightly at the mention of you, though the glint in his eyes remained. “Then I will not keep her waiting,” he said. “After all, this day is as much hers as it is mine.”

Otto gave a curt nod, stepping aside as Jason strode toward the gates of the Red Keep. Tyland fell into step beside him, his tone amused as he murmured, “You do enjoy poking the beast, don’t you?”

Jason chuckled, his voice low enough to keep their words private. “The beast? No, Tyland, I enjoy poking the hand that feeds it.”

Tyland shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Just don’t provoke him too much. Otto Hightower is not a man to cross lightly.”

Jason waved a hand dismissively, his confidence unshaken. “Let him scowl and mutter. Today is about alliances, and I have the King’s favor. Nothing Otto says or does can change that.”

As the brothers entered the Red Keep, the grandeur of their arrival left a lasting impression on all who witnessed it. Jason’s heart, however, was focused elsewhere—on the thought of seeing you again, and on the promise of the life they were about to begin together.

Jason adjusted the cloak on his shoulder as he strode through the halls of the Red Keep, his boots echoing against the stone. Tyland walked beside him, his expression a mixture of amusement and exasperation. Behind them, Jason’s mother, Lady Leonella Lannister, followed closely, flanked by a few of their retainers.

“You do love making an entrance, Jason,” Tyland said dryly, glancing at the flurry of servants scurrying to prepare the final touches for the day’s festivities. “Your timing, as usual, is impeccable—or dreadful, depending on who you ask.”

Jason smirked, running a hand through his golden hair. “A Lannister always arrives precisely when he means to, brother. Besides, I wouldn’t dare miss this for the world.”

Lady Leonella clicked her tongue, stepping between her sons. “He wouldn’t dare miss this because I’d have dragged him here myself,” she said, her tone stern but affectionate. “This is not just a union of houses; it’s a union of futures. You’ve managed something extraordinary, Jason. I only hope you don’t squander it.”

Jason cast his mother a sidelong glance, his smile softening. “You wound me, Mother. When have I ever squandered anything?”

“Where should I begin?” Tyland interjected with a smirk.

Jason waved him off as they turned a corner, where a pair of servants opened the doors to the chambers prepared for him. Inside, the room was alive with activity. Attendants darted back and forth, arranging garments, polishing boots, and laying out jewelry befitting the Lord of Casterly Rock on a day such as this.

“Just in time,” Tyland remarked, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “House Velaryon arrived earlier this morning, their procession as grand as one might expect. Laenor himself looked every bit the prince consort, as does his family.”

Jason arched a brow, his expression unbothered. “Let them have their moment. The Princess Rhaenyra’s match may hold the political weight of Driftmark, but mine holds something far greater.”

“And what is that, exactly?” Tyland asked, crossing his arms.

Jason turned to face his brother fully, his green eyes gleaming. “A genuine connection. Ambition tempered by respect. And a woman who is more remarkable than any alliance we could forge.”

Lady Leonella smiled faintly, her sharp gaze softening. “If only your father could see you now,” she murmured. “He’d be proud.”

Jason nodded at the sentiment but said nothing as he allowed the servants to guide him toward the dressing area. He stood still as they worked with precision, fastening the golden embroidery of his cloak, ensuring every detail of his attire was flawless.

“You’re taking this unusually seriously,” Tyland remarked, watching from a nearby chair. “No complaints about the tightness of the collar? No sarcastic quips about pomp and ceremony?”

Jason glanced at him, a rare hint of earnestness in his gaze. “This isn’t just about me, Tyland. Today, I represent more than myself or even our house. I’ve made a promise, and I intend to keep it.”

Lady Leonella stepped forward, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his shoulder. “You’ll do well, Jason,” she said firmly. “Just remember, this is the beginning. The real test lies ahead.”

Jason smiled, inclining his head. “I never forget, Mother.”

As the servants finished their work and stepped back, Jason stood tall, a figure of confidence and strength. The golden lion of House Lannister was ready to claim his place beside a dragon.

Tyland rose from his seat, gesturing toward the door. “Come, brother. The hour is upon us. And let’s not keep the realm waiting any longer for this spectacle.”

Jason chuckled, following his brother toward the door, his mother trailing close behind. The murmurs of the servants and retainers faded into the background as he focused on the path ahead. Today was not just a day for pomp and ceremony—it was the beginning of a legacy.

The bells of the Great Sept tolled across King’s Landing, their solemn chime reverberating through the city as Jason Lannister rode through the gates of the holy site. The procession of House Lannister was every bit as grand as one might expect: crimson and gold banners fluttered in the breeze, and knights in gilded armor rode in perfect formation. Behind Jason, his bannermen and family members followed, their expressions a mixture of pride and anticipation.

Jason dismounted with practiced ease, handing his reins to a waiting squire. His green eyes scanned the gathered crowd before landing on the figure of King Viserys Targaryen, who stood at the steps of the Sept alongside Queen Alicent. The King was resplendent in his robes of black and gold, his crown shone in the sunlight. Alicent stood beside him, her expression composed but her eyes sharp, taking in every detail of the arriving party.

To one side, the silver-haired Laenor Velaryon stood with his family, their sea-horse sigils a striking contrast to the lion banners of Casterly Rock. Jason noted the young man’s calm demeanor, though the subtle tension in his posture did not escape him. Jason’s arrival had drawn attention, as it always did, and the air seemed charged with the weight of the occasion.

As Jason approached the King, he inclined his head in a deep bow, his voice steady as he spoke. “Your Grace, it is an honor to stand before you on this most auspicious day.”

Viserys smiled warmly, though there was a flicker of weariness in his eyes. “Lord Jason, the honor is ours. Your presence, and that of your house, adds greatly to this celebration.”

Jason straightened, his gaze meeting the King’s with quiet confidence. “I hope to do justice to the faith you have placed in me, Your Grace.”

Viserys chuckled, clapping a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “You have proven yourself already, Lord Jason. I have seen the care you’ve shown my daughter, and that speaks louder than any words. But let me remind you—Y/N is not just a princess of this realm. She is my daughter, and her happiness is paramount.”

Jason nodded, his expression serious. “I understand, Your Grace. I will honor her, always.”

The King’s gaze softened slightly, and he nodded. “Good. That is all I ask.” He gestured toward the grand doors of the Sept, where the faint strains of music could already be heard. “The Princesses are waiting inside, along with the court. The realm has gathered to witness this day, and I trust you will not disappoint them.”

Jason allowed a faint smile to grace his lips. “I intend to meet every expectation, Your Grace.”

Viserys’s smile widened, and he stepped aside, gesturing for Jason to proceed. Jason glanced briefly at Queen Alicent, who gave him a measured nod, her expression unreadable. He returned the gesture before turning toward the grand steps.

As he ascended, flanked by the regal presence of his bannermen and the royal guards, Jason felt the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders. The Great Sept loomed before him, its towering spires a testament to the faith of the realm. Inside, you awaited him—his bride, his dragon, his destiny.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself as he reached the doors. This was no longer just a union of houses; it was a turning point in the history of Westeros. And Jason Lannister, with all the confidence of a lion, intended to seize it.

The grand doors of the Great Sept creaked open, their sound echoing through the cavernous chamber. The space was alive with light—rays of sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting hues of amber, blood red, and deep blue onto the polished marble floor. The air was thick with incense, its heady aroma mingling with the faint murmur of the gathered crowd. Lords and ladies from across the realm filled the pews, their jewels catching the light as they turned to watch the entrance of the two men who would forever alter the balance of power in Westeros.

Jason Lannister stepped inside, his head held high, his green eyes scanning the crowd with practiced ease. Beside him, Laenor Velaryon walked with measured grace, his silver hair catching the light like strands of moonlight. The two men made a striking pair, their presence commanding the attention of all who had gathered. As they moved forward, the murmur of voices hushed, leaving only the soft strains of the septon’s choir and the distant toll of bells.

Ahead of them, at the altar, stood the two princesses. Rhaenyra was resplendent in a gown of deep red and black, the colors of House Targaryen blazing against the pale perfection of her skin. Her silver-gold hair had been intricately braided and adorned with rubies that sparkled like embers. Her expression was serene, though her violet eyes held a glimmer of determination as they swept over the approaching men.

But it was you who captured Jason’s attention, and for a moment, he felt the world narrow to just the two of you.

You stood beside your sister, dressed in a gown of shimmering silver and pale blue, the fabric rippling like water with every subtle movement. The intricate embroidery along the bodice depicted dragons in flight, their wings traced in delicate thread that seemed to glimmer with every step you took. Your hair, pale as starlight, had been braided into a crown, pearls and small gems woven into the plaits to catch the light. Though your lilac eyes saw nothing of the splendor around you, your face was serene, your smile soft but radiant.

Jason’s heart skipped a beat as he took in the sight of you. You looked ethereal, otherworldly—a vision of grace and beauty that made him momentarily forget the grand hall and the countless eyes watching him. He felt a lump rise in his throat, his usual composure faltering as he realized just how much he had longed for this moment.

Laenor nudged him gently, breaking his trance. Jason blinked, regaining his focus as they reached the steps leading to the altar. The two men bowed respectfully, their movements perfectly timed, before ascending to join their brides.

As Jason stood before you, his voice, steady as ever, softened. “Princess,” he murmured, his words meant for you alone. “You are... breathtaking.”

You tilted your head slightly at the sound of his voice, your smile widening just enough to reveal your pleasure. “Jason,” you replied softly, your tone gentle but laced with warmth. “You’ve come.”

“Always,” he said, the single word carrying a wealth of meaning. His green eyes lingered on you, memorizing every detail, every nuance of your expression.

The septon’s voice rose then, his deep, resonant tones calling the assembly to order. Jason and Laenor stepped into position beside their respective brides, the ceremony poised to begin. Yet, as the words of the septon echoed through the chamber, Jason found himself unable to look away from you. Your presence, your quiet strength, and your unerring grace filled him with a sense of purpose unlike anything he had ever known.

For Jason Lannister, the Great Sept was not just a place of worship or ceremony. In that moment, it was the setting for the most significant turning point in his life—a moment where a lion met his dragon, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

The Great Sept of Baelor fell silent, the gathered lords and ladies watching with bated breath as the ceremony began. The septon, dressed in robes of pure white, stood tall before the altar, his voice rising above the stillness.

“In the sight of the Seven, who stand as witnesses, we gather here to join these souls in holy matrimony. A bond forged not only by love but by duty, honor, and the will of the realm.”

Jason Lannister stood straight, his cloak draped over his broad shoulders, catching the light like molten fire. His green eyes, clear and unwavering, were fixed on you, the princess who had captured his heart. You stood beside him, your hands folded neatly in front of you, your unseeing lilac eyes softly gazing forward. Your gown shimmered like moonlight on the sea, and the faintest smile graced your lips—a serene and powerful presence.

Beside you, Rhaenyra stood with all the regal defiance of a queen in waiting, her deep red and black gown a sharp contrast to the silver and blue you wore. Laenor Velaryon stood beside her, his expression composed and proud. Together, the four of you formed a tableau that seemed almost mythic, a union of fire, gold, and sea.

The septon stepped forward, his hands raised in blessing. “The Father, who judges. The Mother, who nurtures. The Warrior, who protects. The Maiden, who inspires. The Smith, who labors. The Crone, who guides. The Stranger, who waits for us all. May the Seven bless these unions, and may they prosper.”

Jason reached for your hand, his touch firm yet gentle. The softness of his palm against yours steadied you, grounding you in the moment. The weight of the realm’s gaze could be felt even without sight, but Jason’s presence beside you offered a reassurance unlike any other.

The septon continued, “Lord Jason of House Lannister, do you swear to honor and protect your bride, to cherish her in strength and in weakness, to walk beside her as her partner and her equal, as decreed by the Seven?”

Jason’s voice, steady and resolute, carried across the sept. “I swear it.”

“And you, Princess Y/N of House Targaryen, do you swear to honor and trust your lord, to cherish him in strength and in weakness, to walk beside him as his partner and his equal, as decreed by the Seven?”

Your voice was soft but firm, carrying with it an unshakable grace. “I swear it.”

The septon nodded, turning to a waiting attendant who held two golden cloaks, the sigils of each house embroidered upon them. He took the first, bearing the lion of House Lannister, and handed it to Jason.

“With this cloak, you take her into your house and name her one of your own.”

Jason stepped behind you, the heavy fabric of the cloak brushing against your shoulders. He draped it carefully over you, fastening it at the front. The weight of it was significant, a symbolic tether binding you to him, yet it felt secure—comforting, even. Jason’s hands lingered for a moment before he stepped back to face you once more.

The septon raised his hands again. “Under the eyes of gods and men, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Jason’s green eyes softened as he leaned toward you, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was tender yet full of promise. The sept erupted into cheers and applause, the sound reverberating through the grand chamber. The weight of the moment settled over you both, a mixture of relief, joy, and anticipation for what lay ahead.

As you turned together to face the gathered crowd, Jason’s hand remained firmly clasped around yours, his strength anchoring you. The lords and ladies rose to their feet, their cheers growing louder as the royal family looked on with a mix of approval and satisfaction.

The bells of the Sept tolled once more, announcing to all of King’s Landing—and the realm beyond—that a dragon and a lion had been bound together, a union that promised to reshape the future of Westeros.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was ablaze with light and life, the grandest celebration Westeros had seen in years. The high ceilings seemed to echo the sound of merriment, while the long tables were laden with roasted boar, honeyed fruits, spiced wine, and every delicacy one could imagine. Musicians played lively tunes, their melodies weaving through the conversations and laughter that filled the room. It was a night of triumph, where alliances were sealed and futures were forged.

At the royal table, Jason Lannister sat beside you, his expression one of quiet satisfaction. Dressed in the finest crimson and gold, the lion of Casterly Rock was every bit the lord he had always aspired to be, but tonight his focus remained on you. His green eyes softened whenever they glanced your way, his demeanor uncharacteristically gentle.

You, dressed in a gown of shimmering silver and pale blue, were radiant. The golden lion’s cloak rested proudly on your shoulders, a visible symbol of the union celebrated this day. Though your lilac eyes gazed forward, unseeing, your serene smile and soft words captivated everyone around you. Jason leaned toward you often, whispering something that brought a quiet laugh or a small nod in return.

At a nearby table designated for House Lannister, Tyland observed the scene with a wry smile. He leaned back in his chair, a goblet of wine in hand, his keen gaze taking in every detail. It was rare to see his brother so at ease, so thoroughly content. Jason had always been ambitious, bold, and occasionally brash, but tonight, seated beside you, he seemed almost… humbled.

Across from Tyland, their mother, Lady Leonella Lannister, dabbed at her eyes with a silk handkerchief, her tears flowing freely as she watched her eldest son with pride. “Look at him,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “My boy, married to a princess of the realm. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Beside her, one of Jason and Tyland’s aunts, a formidable matron named Lady Tanda, sniffled loudly into her own handkerchief. “Oh, Leonella, you’ll set me off again,” she said, her voice quivering as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. “To think—our Jason! A Targaryen bride and a seat beside the King himself. It’s more than any of us could have dreamed.”

Tyland chuckled, taking a sip of his wine. “I’ve never known a lion’s roar to turn into sniffles,” he teased, earning a watery glare from his mother.

“Don’t mock us, Tyland,” Leonella scolded, though her voice was fond. “One day, you’ll understand what it means to see your family rise.”

“I understand plenty, Mother,” Tyland replied, his gaze shifting back to Jason. “He’s worked for this, I’ll grant him that. But it’s strange to see him so… soft. It’s unsettling, really.”

Lady Tanda swatted Tyland’s arm with her handkerchief. “Don’t be unkind. He’s in love, the poor boy. Let him have his moment.”

Tyland smirked, raising his goblet in a mock toast. “To love, then. May it keep him sharp, for the court will not.”

At the royal table, Jason turned toward you as a servant filled your goblet with wine. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked, his voice low and warm.

You nodded, your smile gentle. “It’s a beautiful feast. Your family has been most gracious.”

Jason’s lips quirked into a small grin. “They’re overwhelmed, I think. You’ve made quite the impression.”

You tilted your head slightly, your voice soft. “And you, Lord Lannister? How do you feel, now that the day has come?”

Jason leaned closer, his hand brushing lightly against yours beneath the table. “Grateful,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And very lucky.”

The faintest blush graced your cheeks, and Jason’s smile widened at the sight. Across the hall, Tyland rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress his grin.

As the night deepened, the revelry continued. Lady Leonella, still dabbing at her eyes, raised her goblet high, her voice ringing out. “To House Lannister and House Targaryen! May this union bring prosperity and strength to the realm!”

The hall erupted into cheers, goblets raised high in celebration. Jason and you shared a quiet glance, his hand now resting over yours on the table. The moment felt like the calm within the storm of laughter and applause—a private connection amidst the grandeur of the feast.

Tyland, watching his brother from afar, couldn’t help but smile. For all his teasing, he knew this was a night to remember. The lion had found his dragon, and together, they were poised to reshape the future of Westeros.

Jason leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes flicking toward the Lannister table again. His mother, Lady Leonella, was still dabbing at her eyes, her pride evident even from across the hall. Beside her, Lady Tanda gestured animatedly, no doubt regaling the others with some anecdote of Jason’s youth. Tyland, ever composed, sat with his chin resting on his hand, his smirk revealing a mixture of amusement and exasperation at the spectacle.

Jason’s lips quirked into a faint grin before his attention returned to you. You were seated beside him, your hands lightly resting on the edge of the table as you listened to the music and the laughter around you. The golden lion cloak on your shoulders caught the candlelight, and the soft smile on your lips spoke of a quiet joy. Jason reached out beneath the table, his hand finding yours. His fingers brushed against your palm before settling, his touch warm and reassuring.

“You’re quiet,” he said softly, leaning closer to you. “Is everything to your liking?”

You turned your head slightly toward him, your expression calm but thoughtful. “It’s perfect, Jason. More than I could have imagined.”

Jason’s grin widened, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll make sure it stays that way.”

Across the table, Princess Rhaenyra sat with her new husband, Laenor Velaryon. Both were poised and regal, their movements measured and their smiles reserved. The image of decorum, they accepted the congratulations and pleasantries of the lords and ladies who approached them with practiced grace. Yet you, who knew them better than most, could sense the subtle distance between them, the formality that spoke of a bond built on necessity rather than affection.

You leaned toward Jason slightly, your voice low enough for only him to hear. “Rhaenyra and Laenor, do they look the part?”

Jason glanced at the couple, his gaze lingering on their polished smiles. “They do,” he agreed, his tone neutral. “But you know otherwise.”

You nodded, your fingers brushing against his beneath the table. “It’s not my story to tell, but… yes, I do.”

Jason studied you for a moment, his green eyes softening. “I’m glad ours will be different.”

At the head of the table, King Viserys raised his goblet high, his booming laughter filling the hall as he toasted to the unions of his daughters. His cheeks were flushed from wine, his joy infectious as he spoke of the prosperity and strength these marriages would bring to the realm. The gathered lords and ladies echoed his cheer, their voices rising in a chorus of celebration.

Queen Alicent, seated beside him, remained composed, her watchful gaze sweeping over the hall. Though her smile was faint, her eyes betrayed a careful attentiveness as she kept an eye on her children. Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond sat further down the table, their youthful energy kept in check by Alicent’s firm presence. Aegon, his expression bored, picked at his food while stealing glances at the dancers. Helaena hummed softly to herself, seemingly lost in her own world, while Aemond sat quietly, his small hands folded neatly on the table.

Jason’s hand tightened slightly around yours, drawing your attention back to him. “I hope you’re not regretting anything,” he said, his tone half-teasing but laced with sincerity.

You shook your head, your smile widening. “No regrets, Jason. Not today, and not ever.”

His gaze lingered on you, his expression softening further. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I don’t plan on letting you regret a thing.”

You sensed Rhaenyra watching the two of you, her violet eyes narrowed slightly. Whether it was out of protectiveness or something else, you couldn’t say, but you felt her gaze linger before she returned her attention to Laenor. Jason seemed to notice as well, his grip on your hand tightening momentarily before he relaxed.

“Your sister is watching,” he remarked, his tone light but knowing.

“She always does,” you replied with a small laugh. “It’s her way.”

#house of the dragon #hotd #fire and blood #hotd x reader #hotd x you #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #game of thrones #hotd x y/n #house targaryen #the second daughter #house lannister #hotd jason #jason lannister #jason x reader #jason x you #jason x y/n

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hallowpen · 3 months ago

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One of the most important aspects to consider in The Loyal Pin, in this episode especially, is perspective. I have been really trying to establish that Anil's perspective and choices come from a place of royal privilege combined with western influence; Patt's come from a place of honoring status and tradition; and Pin, being influenced by her aunt / adoptive mother, knows the affordance of having title vs. not.

Anil is willing to sacrifice her title in order to be with Pin, but it's not as simple as it might seem. Renouncing one's title is a very formal process, where it is required that the King be officially informed of her decision and the reason behind that decision. Anil would have to relinquish any property or assets that were afforded to her because of her title; and would, therefore, be unable to stay at the Savettavarit Palace. She would lose any monetary benefits and be required by law to change her royal surname. Most importantly, she would have to sever all ties with her family... a commoner cannot visit or casually interact with royalty, especially when that commoner previously held title that once afforded them the privilege to do so (it is considered to be socially inappropriate).

Pin is unwilling to have Anil sacrifice her entire life for her. Instead, she is willing to make the less extreme sacrifice so that Anil does not have to suffer the loss of her family or live within the uncertainty of her future. As Prince Anan points out, Pin loves Anil more than she loves herself.

"Where else could I go? I could only go as far as the wall of this palace would allow me to."

Anil wants nothing more than to love Pin, but her title does not 'allow' her to. It can be said that both Anil and Pin value each other more than themselves, but their choices and decisions are bound to their status within society and its imbalance within their own relationship. And which character within the narrative could truly understand that? Ironically... Princess Patt.

And though Anil was prevented from renouncing her title, she can still twist her privilege to suit her future resolutions... something that Pin, given her position, is unable to do.

"I will give up on this love, only when you can find someone I truly love, who is also of the same or higher rank. Only then will I allow myself to completely erase her from my heart. Otherwise, never expect me to waste my time and marry anyone for the rest of my life."

Kuea's entitlement continues to rear its ugly head.

"How embarrassing it is that my ring seems to be of very little value and elegance when compared to her own ring."

For someone who claims to love and cherish Khun Pin, he rarely considers her happiness. Because, as Anil rightfully pointed out, Pin is nothing but an earned possession- a trophy to him... though he is hardly worthy of her. KNOW. YOUR. PLACE.

The series highlights a traditional Thai engagement ceremony known as ของรับไหว้ (pronounced 'kwang rap wai'). The 'exchanging of blessings' is a practice where the engaged couple pays respects to their family through order of seniority / rank. The couple presents the พานธูปเทียนแพ (pronounced 'phan thuup thian phae') in exchange for blessings and gifts from their elders. The offering consists of an arrangement of items used in blessing ceremonies (like candles and incense) combined with flowers and decor that signify auspicious values.

#the loyal pin #thai culture #anilpin #koda watches gl #talk thai to me #koda's royal records

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anotherhumaninthisworld · 4 months ago

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Historians having takes on frev women that make me go 😐 compilation

Sexually frustrated in her marriage to a pompous civil servant much older than herself, [Madame Roland] may have found Danton’s celebrated masculinity rather uncomfortable. Danton (1978) by Norman Hampson, page 77.

The Robespierres sent their sister to Arras because that was their hometown, the family home, where they had relatives, uncles, aunts and friends, like Buissart who they didn’t cease to remain in correspondence with, even in the middle of the Terror. There, among them, Charlotte would not be alone; she would find advice, rest, the peace necessary to heal her nervousness and animosity. Away from Mme Ricard, who she hated, away from Mme Duplay, who she detested, she would enjoy auspicious calmness. It is Le Bon that the Robespierres will charge with escorting their sister to this neccessary and soothing exile. […] If there is a damning piece in Charlotte Robespierre's case, it is this one (her interrogation, held July 31 1794). She seems to be caught in the act of accusing this Maximilien whom she rehabilitates in her Memoirs. She is therefore indeed a hypocrite, unworthy of the great name she bears, and which she dishonors the very day after the holocaust of 10 Thermidor. Charlotte Robespierre et Guffroy (1910) in Annales Révolutionnaires, volume 3 (1910) page 322, and Charlotte Robespierre et ses mémoires (1909) page 93-94, both by Hector Fleishmann.

Elisabeth, as she was popularly called, was barely past her twelfth birthday, younger even by three years than Barere’s own mother when she was given in marriage. On the following day the guests assembled again in the little church of Saint-Martin at midnight to attend the wedding ceremony of the handsome charmer and the bewildered child. Dressed in white, clasping in her arms a yellow, satin-clad doll that Bertrand had given her — so runs the tradition — she marched timidly to the altar, looking more like a maiden making her first communion than a woman celebrating a binding sacrament. Perhaps the doll, if doll there was, filled her eye, but certainly she could not fail to note how handsome her husband was. Bertrand Barere; a reluctant terrorist (1962) by Leo Gershoy, page 32.

The young nun who bore the name of Hébert did not hide her fate. She did not wish to prolong a life stifled from her childhood in the cloister, branded in the world by the name she bore, fighting between horror and love for the memory of her husband, unhappy everywhere. Histoire des Girondins (1848) by Alphonse de Lamartine, volume 8, page 60.

Lucile in prison showed more calmness than Camille. Before the tribunal, she seemed to possess neither fear nor hope, she denied having taken an active role in the prison conspiracy. What did it matter to her the answer they were trying to extract from her? They said they wanted her guilty? Very well! She would be condemned and join Camille. This was what she said again when she was told that she would suffer the same fate as her husband: ”Oh, what joy, in a few hours I’m going to see Camille again!” Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un couple dans la tourmente (1986) by Jean Paul Bertaud, page 293.

What did it matter to Lucile whether she was accused or defended? She had no longer any pretext for living in this world. She was one of those heroines of conjugal love who are more wife than mother. Besides, Horace lived, and Camille was dead. It was of the absent only that she thought. As for the child, would not Madame Duplessis act a mother's part to him? The grandmother would watch over the orphan. If Lucile had lived, she could have done nothing but weep over the cradle, thinking of Camille. Camille Desmoulins and his wife; passages from the history of the Dantonists founded upon new and hitherto unpublished documents (1876) by Jules Claretie.

Having been widowed at the age of 23 [sic] years, Élisabeth Duplay remarried a few years later to the adjutant general Le Bas, brother of her first husband, and kept the name which was her glory. She lived with dignity, and all those who have known her, still beautiful under her crown of white hair, have testified to the greatness of her sentiments and austerity of her character. She died at an old age, always loyal to the memory of the great dead she had loved and whose memory she, all the way to her final day, didn’t cease to honor and cherish. As for the lady of Thermidor, Thérézia Cabarrus, ex-marquise of Fontenay, citoyenne Tallien, then princess of Chimay, one knows the story of her three marriages, without counting the interludes. She had, as one knows, three husbands living at the same time. Now compare these two existances, these two women, and tell me which one merits more the respect and the sympathy of good men. Histoire de Robespierre et du coup d’état du 9 thermidor (1865) by Louis Ernest Hamel, volume 3, page 402.

Fel free to comment which one was your favorite! 😀

#frev #french revolution #frev compilation #hampson: if women were uncomfortable around danton it’s because they were sexually frustrated!#fleishmann: two men in their 30s can ultimately decide what’s best for their sister who’s also in her 30s #also it’s totally unreasonable for charlotte to disown her brothers after their death when her life was possibly in danger #(and even though they pretty much disowned her while they were still alive)#lamartine claretie bertaud: françoise and lucile wanted to die since there was no longer any point to their lives after the husbands died #hamel: a good way of finding out which side was bad and which side was good is to look over how slutty the women on each side were #wow are you seriously surprised the view of women held by 19th century authors isn’t exactly top modern?#…no comment #claretie should technically get a pass since he thought the journal of sanson was an authentic source #But it was so spectacular i couldn’t contain myself #also a shame i couldn’t remember where i read the interpretation that the reason simond évrard was wary of charlotte corday #was bc she might seduce marat when alone with him

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