#golden ring marriage hall

[goldenringbanquet]

the stunning stage of the Goldenring Banquet Hall, complete with elegant drapery, sparkling chandeliers, and a grand piano. The luxurious setting is perfect for hosting special events and creating unforgettable memories.

[bluebells-and-dragonflies]

Ascended Astarion who refuses to take your virginity until you're officially declared his consort. He'll kiss you until you can't breathe, leaves bite marks all over your inner thighs, cups your breasts with his hands and rolls your nipples gently with his thumbs. He'll hold your legs apart at the ankles and grind into you, letting you feel how hard he is. No matter how you beg him to fuck you (even with just the tip, anything at all), no matter how you plead and pout and maybe, once or twice, cry for it, he always pulls away.

You deserve something more special than this for your first time, he says. You deserve the wedding, the feast (the food you can't eat and the wine you can't taste). The softest of marriage beds, the sweetest possible claiming. Oh, he wants you, but he wants to give you that luxury more.

And so you wait. You accept the proposal when it comes and show off the ring (golden, diamond-studded, jewels so large you can't begin to fathom the price) to anyone in the palace who crosses your path. Astarion's dressmaker comes to your rooms and fits you for a wedding gown that, when it's delivered, turns out to be less of a gown and more of a negligee, gauzy and light and so sheer that it's see through. When you ask Astarion about it, he only smiles.

The wedding comes sooner than you know and you process almost none of it. At the altar, Astarion looks at you as though he wants to eat you alive. When he kisses you, his tongue slides filthily into your mouth and you nearly bruise him with your grip at the shock of it. It takes nearly half an hour for the heat in your belly to die down. The reception is worse. As you sit at your table at the head of the hall, receiving well-wish after well-wish from a very long line of people you don't seem to recognize, Astarion subtly reaches under the table and places a hand on your thigh. When you stumble on a 'thank you' to the latest guest, he trails his fingers further up your leg, igniting a path of fire on your skin. You are wearing underwear, thank the gods, but you can feel the fabric growing wet between your thighs.

He strokes his thumb over your clit once, then pulls away. When you have the courage to look over at him, he presses the digit to his lower lip and licks it.

By the time he pulls you into the bedroom, you're more than ready to give yourself to him, your husband, your lord. He kisses you hard, clutches your face in his hands, bites your mouth so the blood flows freely between you, coppery and slick, just how he likes. He slams the door behind you and rips the sheer expensive tulle that drapes you to shreds. You look fucking gorgeous, he growls in your ear, all decorated for him, his wife. Oh, he'll give you what you want.

You expect him to slow down at least a little once he has you on your back on the bed, hands clutching nervously at the sheets. You want this, yes, but he had said it would be soft. He had said it would be sweet. And it's only your first time, you with no real idea what to do. You can't keep up with him like this.

Astarion crawls over you and kisses you deep, and it seems like he's good for his word. It's everything he promised, a flick of the switch performed so fast it's like he's reading your thoughts. You help him shed his suit and start to lay back down, but then he tells you to turn onto your stomach. It's easier this way for the first time, he says, and you have no reason not to believe him, so you turn.

When he positions himself between your outstretched legs and cups your cunt, you shudder. He laughs at you, lightly, calls you beautiful, lets his hands roam all over your body. So sweet and soft for him, everything he wanted in a bride. All his, forever. And you saved yourself for him like you knew all along he was waiting. He fits his hips to your ass, lets his cock, hard and smooth on your skin, drag. He's already gotten to claim your life. Your mind. It's a gift to take your body, too.

He thrusts into you without warning, without stretching you, without checking to see if you're wet. The choked sound you make is just as much from surprise from pain. He promised, you think. He promised.

Something tears inside you as he pulls back out, slowly, and you cry out, the pain forcing your body to at least try to fight back. He shushes you, grabs your wrists from behind and pins them on your lower back. He's sorry it hurts, he is, but you do look so very pretty like this, spread out beneath him, his to do what he likes with. Innocent. Fresh.

Just relax, and it'll feel better- he's very, very good at this. Calm down. It'll feel good soon.

His pounding continues, relentless, his cock sawing in and out of you like a blade, and as the tears start to spill down your temples onto the sheets you are truly afraid of him for the first time.

Forever, he whispers into your ear. The word reverberates in your mind, his voice louder and louder until it's all you can hear. The only voice you'll ever hear again. Forever mine.

[honeeybee3]

Of Lions and Dragons

Aemond Targaryen x Lannister! reader Summary: Aemond Targaryen, known for his stoic nature and unwavering focus on the realm, is softened by his Lannister wife’s pregnancy. He finds himself drawn to her like a moth to flame, discovering a love that transcends duty and politics. Tonight, he comes home to her, needing her more than he ever thought possible. __________________ The halls of the Red Keep were quiet at this hour, the cold stone walls illuminated by the flickering glow of torchlight. Aemond Targaryen moved silently through the castle, his long strides purposeful as he made his way to his chambers. He’d spent most of his day dealing with Council matters, overseeing reports on the growing tensions in the Riverlands, and managing the ever-increasing burden of his family’s legacy. It was exhausting work, and it left little time for anything else. But tonight, his thoughts were solely on her.

He slowed his pace as he approached their chambers, his chest tightening with anticipation. He always felt this way when he came home to her—the only place in the entire world where he could let his guard down. The only person who saw him as more than just the stern, one-eyed prince of House Targaryen.

His Lannister lioness. His wife. The mother of his child.

He pushed open the heavy door quietly, stepping inside. The sight that greeted him made his heart stutter. She was seated by the fire, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders, her delicate hands resting protectively over the gentle swell of her belly. She looked up as he entered, her amber eyes softening with warmth and affection.

“Aemond,” she murmured, a smile curving her lips. “You’re home.”

He let out a slow breath, as if he’d been holding it in all day. “I am.”

Moving closer, he took her hand in his, lifting it to his lips and pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. The simple touch, the feel of her skin against his, brought him a sense of calm he could never find anywhere else.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly, his gaze dropping to her belly. “And how is our little one?”

She chuckled, a sound like bells ringing on a summer’s morning. “We’re both fine, Aemond. A little tired, but that’s to be expected.”

He frowned slightly, his brows drawing together in concern. “You’ve been resting, haven’t you? You know what the Maester said—”

“Aemond,” she interrupted gently, squeezing his hand. “I’ve been resting. I promise. I’ve spent most of the day embroidering the new blankets for the baby and catching up on some reading.”

His frown eased, though he still looked at her with that intense, almost overprotective gaze. He knew he could be overbearing at times, but he couldn’t help it. Not when it came to her. Not when it came to their unborn child.

“You know I worry,” he muttered, lowering himself to sit beside her. He reached out, his hand coming to rest on her belly. His palm was warm and steady, a stark contrast to the fluttering movements beneath her skin.

She covered his hand with hers, intertwining their fingers over the place where their child rested. “I know. But you don’t need to. I’m strong, Aemond. Our child will be strong, too. A lion and a dragon.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Yes, a lion and a dragon. A formidable combination.”

They stayed like that for a while, sitting in comfortable silence. Aemond’s gaze was focused entirely on her, taking in every detail—the soft curve of her cheek, the way her eyelashes brushed against her skin, the subtle swell of her belly that held their future.

“How is your family?” he asked after a moment, his voice low and careful. He always tread cautiously when speaking of House Lannister. The alliance between the lions and the dragons was still delicate, despite their marriage.

Her smile faltered just slightly, but she kept her voice even. “They are… as they always are. My brother wrote to me today. He sends his regards and wishes us well.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, a familiar flicker of tension passing through him. He’d never gotten along with her brothers—the proud lions of Casterly Rock. They’d made no secret of their skepticism when she’d been betrothed to him, questioning if a match with a second-born Targaryen prince was worthy of their sister. It was a slight Aemond hadn’t forgotten, and likely never would.

But he’d proven them wrong, hadn’t he? He was no mere second son. He was a warrior, a rider of the largest living dragon, and a key figure in the politics of Westeros. And more importantly, he was her husband. The father of her child.

“They will see, in time, what I already know,” she murmured softly, sensing the shift in his mood. “That you are the best man I could have ever chosen.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her. She spoke with such quiet conviction, her gaze unwavering. It still astonished him sometimes—how she could make him feel so understood, so accepted. So loved.

“I never deserved you,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper.

She shook her head, reaching up to cup his cheek. “Don’t say that, Aemond. You are everything I could have hoped for. And more.”

He closed his eye, leaning into her touch. Her hand was soft and cool against his skin, grounding him in a way nothing else could. He turned his head slightly, brushing his lips against her palm.

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” he admitted, the words slipping out before he could stop them. They were raw, unguarded, but he didn’t regret saying them. Not to her.

“You’ll never have to find out,” she whispered, shifting closer so she could rest her head against his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere, my love.”

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other. The fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the room. Aemond could feel the steady rise and fall of her breath, the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat against his arm.

After a while, she shifted slightly, glancing up at him with a mischievous smile. “I have something for you.”

His brow arched in curiosity. “Oh?”

She nodded, reaching over to the small table beside her chair. From a delicate wooden box, she pulled out a small, embroidered blanket. The fabric was soft and fine, the stitching intricate and beautiful. A lion and a dragon were woven together in a dance of gold and red thread.

“It’s for the baby,” she explained, her smile widening as she watched his reaction. “I wanted something that would remind them of both their houses. Something that symbolizes both parts of their heritage.”

Aemond stared at the blanket, his throat tightening. The design was perfect—a blend of Targaryen and Lannister sigils, unified in a way that felt both powerful and meaningful. He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly over the embroidery.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “You did this yourself?”

She nodded, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “It took me a while, but I wanted it to be just right.”

“It’s more than just right,” he said softly, turning to look at her. There was a fierce, almost reverent look in his eye. “It’s perfect. Just like you.”

Her blush deepened, but she held his gaze, her eyes shining with love. “I wanted our child to know that they are loved and cherished by both of us. That they are a part of something bigger.”

Aemond swallowed hard, struggling to find the right words. “Thank you,” he finally whispered. “Thank you for… everything. For loving me. For giving me this family.”

She leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat, Aemond. For you. Always for you.”

His hand came up to cup the back of her head, holding her close as he deepened the kiss. It was a slow, tender meeting of lips—a silent promise that spoke of all the things he couldn’t put into words.

When they finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, his breath mingling with hers. “I love you,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “More than I’ve ever loved anything in my life.”

“And I love you,” she whispered back, her fingers threading through his hair. “Forever and always.”

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other’s warmth. Outside, the world was filled with turmoil and uncertainty, but here, in this small, quiet moment, they were at peace. It was a fleeting reprieve, a rare glimpse of happiness amidst the chaos of their lives.

But it was enough. Because no matter what happened, no matter what challenges they faced, they had each other. And together, they were stronger than any storm.

The lion and the dragon. Bound by love. Bound by fire.

And soon, they would welcome the next chapter of their story—a new life that would carry on their legacy. A child born of two great houses. A child who would be loved, cherished, and protected.

Aemond glanced down at her belly once more, his heart swelling with a fierce, protective love. He would do anything for her. For their child. For their family.

He bent down, pressing a gentle kiss to her belly. “I can’t wait to meet you, little one,” he whispered softly. “And I promise—I will always be there for you. Just as I am for your mother.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes as she looked down at him, her heart overflowing with love. “I know you will, Aemond. I know you will.”

And in that moment, with his wife’s hand in his and the future cradled between them, Aemond Targaryen felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

And it was beautiful.

[surielstea]

Move Me, Baby

Eris Week, Day Seven: Free day

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Fem!Reader (arranged marriage)

Summary: Reader and Eris slowly fall in love with both the music and each others movements, on the dance floor and off.

Warnings: Smut | minors dni | Beron being Beron | p in v | 18+ | creampie | begging | praise | suggestive | teasing/taunting

A. Note: Last Eris Week day, and it would not be a Surielstea Eris fic without a ballroom scene, so enjoy… ;)

3.9k words.

Eris has never felt this way before. This eagerness and anticipation. But this female, his betrothed, she was changing things, stirring up feelings that he had long since thought dead. Hope, being one of them.

He stood outside my door anxiously, silently pacing back and forth as he waited for the clock to strike seven, when he was supposed to be here. He hadn't meant to come so early, but his impatience got the better of him and suddenly he was dressed and ready and meandering towards my chambers.

I was unaware of the males presence just outside my room, too busy admiring myself in the mirror. The dress Eris had gifted me this morning was exquisite. Made of the smoothest silk, the deep green shimmering fabric catching the light as it moved like water— and when I put it on I looked as beautiful as an emerald.

The cut of the dress was beyond flattering, with a low neckline and form fitting bodice that hugged me in all the right places. The skirt of the dress was long and flowing into a train that blended from emerald to a glimmering gold.

I decorated myself in golden jewelry, adorning a few rings that paired well with my engagement ring.

I looked to the clock on the wall to see it a minute past seven, when a knock sounded at the door.

I smiled slightly and strides over to the door, I took a moment— making sure my hair was still neat and my painted lips weren't smudged for the umpteenth time. Then I swung open the door and was greeted with the Heir of Autumn.

Eris froze as soon as he saw me, his eyes drinking in every inch of me. His mind went quiet and his throat dried, he had always thought I was gorgeous but tonight I was downright devastating.

I noticed how he stared particularly long at my chest, his eyes roaming over my ample cleavage on display.

Finally, he looked to my eyes and sucked in a sharp breath, understanding that he had been caught.

"You're late, Vanserra," I say and he gives me one of his signature smirks that had my knees buckling. "What's your poor excuse?"

"I know, I know," He rolled his eyes at my chiding tone. "By all of one minute." He adds and I smile up at him. He reaches forward and brushes a strand of my hair behind my ear. "You look absolutely sinful," He said as I linked my arm with his.

I smile broadly. "I know," I sent him a wink and his smirk only widened.

We walked in silence towards the ballroom, but every now and then Eris would steal glances down at me and how perfectly the dress he chose for me hugged my dips and curves. He had never seen something so worthy of worship.

He wanted to be closer, linking arms wasn't enough, he needed more than friendly contact— but he had promised a night of dancing and sparkling wine, not a night in his bed, no matter how much he fantasized about the latter.

"Act like you're in love with me," I say through a tight lipped smile as two royal guards open the large wooden doors leading into the ballroom.

He momentarily wagers how brutal my glare would be if he rolled his eyes, but decided it best to place a hand on the small of my back, bare due to the low cut of my dress.

We strode into the ballroom as one, his protective grip on me claiming me off limits to any male who thought they were good enough for me. I ease into a graceful saunter, nodding my head at bowing guests and curtsying court members. My fae ears perked up at the sound of soft music playing from the live orchestra in the center of the ballroom, filling the large hall with notes and tunes of beauty. I would've lost myself in the sound of it if Eris hadn't guided me over to the dais, where his father and mother sat in their thrones— or rather throne, the Lady of Autumn was sat in a simple, cushioned chair instead.

Eris's mask of cold calculation slipped in place as his arm left my waist in favor of bowing to his parents formally. I do the same, curtsying with a feminine grace that took years of practice.

"Father," Eris rose from his position and I did so I few moments afterwards. "Mother," He nodded his head.

The High Lord gazed at me with a sickeningly honeyed expression, as he always did, and Eris's hand slipped back into mine protectively. The movement doesn't go past either of their notices, but while Beron narrowed his eyes, his wife smiled softly.

"Our newly weds," The Highlord purrs, his eyes taking me in with feline enthusiasm. "You look absolutely delectable tonight, my dear," He hums and I nod with a soft smile.

"Thank you, my lord," I will myself to sound polite and pray it doesn't come off as sarcasm. Eris's hand squeezes mine, relaxing me slightly.

"You are quite proper compared to the last lovers my son has taken into his bed," The high lord says and Eris stiffens.

"Father, I would appreciate it if we didn't discuss past partners while in the presence of my wife." Eris said with a terse voice.

'My wife.' He had said, the words still echoing off the walls of my mind as Beron replied, "Oh c'mon, boy. I'm only teasing, surely she isn't too bothered by it. Right my girl?" His cold gaze slides back to me and my back straightens under the weight of his gaze. I try not to cringe at the nickname and the possessiveness that came with it, but Eris made his distaste clear.

"I don't mind in the slightest, My Lord," I say with a soft voice, leaning into Eris's side, telling him it was all a ruse and I was fine, that even if I was upset I didn't need his protection. But I could still feel the heat rolling off of him, he was ready to pounce and shred into him like one of his smokehounds might.

"See? Shes a perfect little obedient wife, isn't she?" Beron arched a brow, directing all his attention at his son. I wanted to reassure Eris, to tell him his father was only saying all this because he knew that when he spoke of me it got under his skin the most, but that comment, it made my stomach knot and bile threaten at the back of my throat.

Beron smirks, satisfied at the level of discomfort he had breached in both of you. "She is perfect, yes. I would have no complaints." Eris said with a cool grace that I marveled at.

Berons smile widened with amusement, to my dismay. "You've got quite the grip on my son, girl," He hums. "Wrapped around his finger." Beron leans lazily back into his throne. Neither of us supply a retort, which seemed to invoke enough boredom for him to excuse us. "Well, off you go then. The guests have come to see that happy couple dance."

We bow in a synchronized motion once more before Eris whisks me away towards the dancing aristocrats, planting his hands on my hips and holding my back to his chest as he guided me through the grand hall, as far as he could get from his father.

"You didn't have to answer that, you know," He mutters beside my ear, his lowered voice sending a shiver down my exposed spine.

"Answer what?"

"What my father said. About me being with other lovers, you didn't have to agree with him." He clarifies and I frown, my brows bunching.

"I simply didn't see the point in starting an argument with the High Lord at a ball thrown in our honor," I supply, whirling around to face him, he was much closer than I was anticipating and I had to crane my neck to look up into his gold flecked amber eyes.

"I only meant that you didn't have to go along with his teasing, I can't imagine it's very amusing to think about your husband's past partners." Eris expressed.

"Why?" I tilt my head. "I don't have an issue with you being with women prior to me, we live long lives, I don't have any right to be upset about what's happened in the past." I say while mindlessly straightening his dark green suit jacket. He let out a strained sigh and I glanced up at him, a smirk pulling at my lips.

"Don't tell me you're jealous, Vanserra," I taunt and he scoffs, looking anywhere but my eyes.

"Please. I am not, that's laughable." He shakes his head.

"Really? So my past relationships don't affect you in the slightest?" I suggest with an arched brow.

He looks down at me, it was humiliating the way he towered above me. "No, I suppose you're right that it is jealousy. My perfect little obedient wife having a history of other males certainly does not please me." He retorted and I sneered at the recall of his father's description of me.

"You're almost too easy to rile up these days, My Lord," I grin devilishly up at him.

"Oh, you're pushing it Princess," his hands return to my hips. "If it's anything, it's the dress you're wearing that is riling me up." He stated amusedly and I smirk, not falling into the flustered haze he wanted me to.

"It's only a dress," I reply innocently. "One that may end up on the floor of our bedroom tonight if you play your cards right."

"Keep talking like that and I doubt this dress will even make it to the bedroom." He remarks and I curse myself for blushing, losing the little game we had been playing as a rush of heat washes down me.

"Is that a threat, or a promise?"

"Could be both, but I'd mark it as a warning."

"Careful now or we might find ourselves skipping this ball entirely." I grin at him mischievously.

"Is that such a bad thing? I'd much rather have you to myself than watch all these people gawk at you," He smugly says.

"We must dance at least once, first." I say with a knowing certainty, pulling him closer to the dance floor, towards the rising music that I could feel thrumming through my bones.

He lets out a low grumble but obliged anyways, and took my hand in his, his other on my waist. "Alright, one dance and then I will carry you back to our rooms if I have to." He said with a defeated sigh, his eyes roving over me as I pulled him onto the tiled floor, in the center, closest to the music.

"So impatient," I tease while placing a hand on the nape of his neck.

The music flows into a new song, and like clockwork Eris and I easily slip into a graceful waltz. It came like second nature, spinning and twirling beneath the warm lighting, the gold of my dress fanning out, the other dancers giving us a wide berth at the flowing fabric.

I was far too aware of the eyes that were on us, some stealing glances between turns, others outright staring. But my husband didn't seem affected, he was too caught up in my movements to comprehend the idea of anyone else. I flash him a wide smile as he twirls me, then pulls me into his chest with enough force to invoke my crashing into him.

The music ceases and we're met with our heavy breathing, his hands tightly on my hips. "We have danced," He stated with a puff of breath. "And now I am free to be as much of a selfish ass as I wish," He hummed, slipping his hand into mine and pulling me off the dance floor before the next song could start.

I let out a soft laugh as he steers me through the throng of court ladies attempting to get our attention that he ignored, and continued to lead me towards the door. "Calm down, your highness." I purr, squeezing his hand slightly. The use of the nickname made him pause, and he turned back to look at me. "We can't just ditch halfway through a ball that was set in motion for us," I explain.

"There's nothing left for us to do here, aside from me standing here, watching as the others stare at how ravishing you look tonight." He intoned and I flashed him a lovely, innocent smile.

"And that's such a bad thing?" I bat my lashes up at him and he smirks, taking a step towards me and closing the distance between us.

He leans in closer, his voice a rolling purr as he says, "You have no idea how incredibly torturous it is to watch every one here foam at the mouth over the sights of you in that dress"

"You're being dramatic." I scoff, looking at the crowd surrounding us who quickly averted their gazes. "The looks everyone was casting our way had little to do with me." I shrug and look back to the Heir.

"My fawn, do not go shy on me now. You look like an angel tonight." He shakes his head and turns away from me again, his hand still interlaced with mine as he pulls me through the large doors which the guards closed behind us, shutting the peering eyes of the crowd out.

"An angel, hm? Careful Vanserra you're starting to sound like you have some real feelings for me." I say, bumping into him playfully.

"My 'Real Feelings' for you would be on display the moment we walked into that ballroom if I wasn't worried about ruffling our people." He makes clear and I grin. Our people. I might have been from the winter court but he was fully prepared to share his lordship with me, as his high lady.

"Oh?" I glance up at him. "And what exactly do these 'Real Feelings' consist of?" I say while continuing the journey back to our chambers.

"Would you like a demonstration?" He suggests as we reach the doors of our suite.

"I've always been a visual learner." I retort, the flirtatious hum in my voice enough to send any male wild.

"You know exactly which buttons to push to drive me mad, don't you?" He asks while throwing open the door and following in after me.

"I don't hear you complaining." I shrug, my snarky attitude sending him into a spiral. He tightened his hold on my hand and pulled me back, pressing me into the door and pushing it shut with my weight.

"No, I'm certainly not complaining." His hand comes to my waist, and the click of the lock makes my ears perk up. "Quite the opposite actually," He confesses, leaning forward and pressing a claiming kiss just below my jawline, licking, sucking, and biting at my neck. I let out a soft sigh at the feeling of his lips on my skin.

"Eris," I murmur through a hushed moan.

"Yes, love?" He voices, the sound vibrating against my neck.

"You're moving too slow, I think you've been patient enough with me." I grumble, my hand slinking into his deep red hair and tugging on it slightly as he tortures a particularity sensitive spot just below my pulse point.

"You're going to be the end of me." He grumbles, his restraint slowly slipping from his grasp. "Do you have any idea what I want to do to you?"

"Enlighten me." I smirk with lustful eyes, a challenge.

"The list of things would take us days to get through, my dear." He admits and my core heats at the idea, a wicked grin on my lips.

"Good thing we've got nothing but time." I suggest.

"You're not making it easy for me to maintain my control." He grouses against my skin.

"Who says I want that?"

"You're toeing a dangerous line, pretty girl." He narrows his eyes on me, a cold smirk playing at his lips.

"There's no line, it's just a statement." I retort, my hand tugging at his hair while the other undoes the buttons of his shirt. "Right now there is nothing I want more than for you to lose control." I admit and his teeth brush over my neck as he grins wildly.

"Have it your way love." He grabs my hips and pulls me over to the bed, practically carrying me and settling me down onto the bed.

"Please." I press my thighs together, my hands fumbling to get his shirt off.

"What do you need?" He hummed, coming to hover over me, his muscled arm mmm flexing with the movement.

"You, I need you." I murmur as he dips down, his lips sealing over that same sensitive place on my neck, biting and kissing around it, forming a group of purple marks around the area.

"Oh yeah?" He purrs, his knee coming down to press in between my legs. I gasp, gripping the sheets beneath me as he allowed me to grind down on it, friction sparking up my spine.

"Yes, oh gods, yes I need you." I sigh, my head tilting back, giving him further access to my throat.

"And what do you need me to do to you, my pretty wife?" He asks and my mind reels with possibilities. A list, he said he had. I wanted every item on that list crossed off by the end of tonight.

"Eris I can't take it anymore, please," I writhe beneath him, biting into my lower lip to stop myself from pleading with him any further.

"Keep begging and I'll consider it." He drawls, his voice low and flooded with lust.

My breath hitched as I let out a soft, "Please." My head is heavy with need and my core thrummed. "Please take me right here, right now. Do whatever you want to me Eris just, please, I need you inside of me." I whimper, pathetic, that's what I was, and I'll be full of shame in the morning when I remember how needy I am, but right now the only thing I cared about was his touch.

A resounding tear sounded through the room and I gasped, looking down to see my dress falling from my frame. "I warned you what would happen to this dress if you kept your teasing up." He growled and I grinned, showing off all my teeth.

"I've never been too mindful of warnings." I utter, hands moving to the buckle of his pants as he kisses across my collar bone.

"I'm painfully aware." He grits through his teeth, holding back his groan as I palmed him through his pants.

He pulled back to look down at me, taking in every dip and curve of my body, his hands caressing over my waist and it felt like flames licking up my side. "Gods you're beautiful." He murmured, mostly to himself.

I revel in his touch, left only in my underwear before him. He helps me with the task of his pants, thrashing them off and discarding them onto the floor to join my ruined dress.

His hard length met my clothed cunt and I gasped, my hands forming into fists at the sudden stimulation.

"Eris, please," I whine, my brows furrowing with need. He smirks and in one fluid movement he's moving my panties down my thighs, revealing how wet I was, all for him. He grunts at the sight, his eyes losing any emotion except desire, lust.

His eyes trace the outline of my body as he leans down, his lips pressing to mine and I moan as his cock pressed into my aching folds. He takes the opportunity of my open mouth to slip his tongue in, exploring with it eagerly, flicking and curling it so skillfully that it made me wonder what it could do in other places.

"You sure about this, baby?" He panted into my mouth, his words ghosting across my raw lips.

I nod, fervent to please him, to feel him.

"Words beautiful, use your words," He whispered over my lips.

"Yes, Eris, please— I'm sure," I whimper and he grins, my words all he needed to hear before aligning his head with my entrance and pushing in.

I gasp at the stretch, my hips lifting and back arching in adjustment as he continues filling me, inch after inch, seeking new unfound levels of pleasure. I move my hands to his back, muscles shifting as he leans down.

His hips meet mine, fully sheathed inside of me. I look down at where we connect, my pulse picked up as he begins to move, and I watch, stare as he pulls out only to thrust back in, stretching me wide.

He continues his brutally slow pace, groaning and panting filling the room as I grow more and more used to the pain, slowly morphing into pleasure.

“Yes, Eris, yes,” I chant, shoving my head back into the pillows, eyes rolling back as he molds my elastic walls to his cock.

“You’re doing so well, such a good girl,” He praised, leaning over me and pressing a kiss to my cheek, his touch all too innocent as one of his hands comes up to grope my breast. His touch was smoldering and burning, but I delighted in it, for it was purely him and no one else could replicate the marks he left on my skin.

“Eris,” I whimper, his name the only thing my mouth could form, everything else was an incoherent moan. “Eris,” I repeat and I realize I was praying to a god willing to answer my every request.

“I know, I know,” He said over my skin, his warm voice like embers still crackling. “You going to come, my love?” He taunts, but I was too caught up in reaching my high to pick up on his teasing tone.

I nod frantically, scratching my nails down his back.

“Go ahead, come for me.” He implored and I let out a cry of pleasure as his thumb presses to my clit, the bundle of nerves sending shockwaves up my spine.

A wave of white hot ecstasy washed down my spine, staining my cheeks, warming me down to my very bone.

His climax was quick to follow, my clamping down on him beckoned him to barrel towards his peak, his release seeping into my most untouched places.

He co tinted to guide me through my high, slowly coming down. He leaned forward and placed a supple kiss to my sweat slick forehead. “You did so good, my dear,” He murmured into my skin as he slowly pulled out, grunting softly as I milked him for all he was worth.

“Come now, let’s get you cleaned up,” He gathered me into his arms and I smiled softly at the warmth and familiarity of his embrace. And I knew then, as I found comfort as he cradled me, that it was no longer just sex, but rather what I had been craving for years and hadn’t been able to name it. This intangible thing that I had always yearned for without realizing it, love, I loved him. I knew there was no return from this point on.

Eris Week Tag List: @adharanotfound @mp-littlebit @its-me-meg @olive-main @bookwormysblog @inurus @iwishiwasaprincess @randomgurl2326 @tigerlily00 @i-know-i-can @bubybubsters @booklover0318 @lalaluch @hallabongy @paintedbyshadows @ninthcircleofprythian @chasing-autumns-chill @deepestmentalitypersona @myromanempiree @rosewood-cafe @witchmoon10 @andreperez11

[fanaticsnail]

Chapter 3

Masterlist here, Moodboard here

Sapsorrow Masterlist

Word Count: 8,054

Themes: enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, forced proximity, lord and subordinate, one bed trope, apprehension, mutual pining, obligation, slow burn, eventual love, protective, "where is my wife" trope. Slow-slow-slow burn. Series Inspiration link: The Storyteller Episode 8

Song Suggestions: The Green Light - Je Suis Parte

(Image Source: Here)

Your sleep that night was restless; your body awakening much before the first dawn of sunlight cracked through the dark of the night to awaken the many unique birds within the lands of Kuraigana. Their voices were yet to cry out and alert the castle and surrounding keep of the morn, yet you continue to lay sleepless amongst your plush bedsheets.

Huffing out a breath of frustration, you shook your head and rose from your reclined position against your pillows and thrust the duvet from your body. One foot falling over the mattress first, followed by the other, you slid your feet into your sleep shoes tucked beneath your large bed and hoisted yourself to your feet. Reaching over to your armchair, your fingers found your lengthy silk negligée and wrapped it around your body and tied it firmly around your front. The lengthy pale sleeves draped around your wrists, you found your hairbrush and began angrily detangling your sleep-deprived hair from their matts.

Why did he look at you like that? Why was he so intimately holding you? Why did your breath hitch as your eyes met? His eyes, the amber hue bearing such intensity and longing- was that what it was? Surely you were mistaken. Those were the thoughts keeping you from a blissful slumber, clawing like a beast at the walls of their cage, the thoughts rendered you paralyzed and incapable of rest.

You angrily thrust your hairbrush down within your firm grip, a loud clack of the metal base echoing against your vanity benchtop. You clenched your eyes firmly shut, pursing your lips and biting back a frustrated scream.

It had been years since any action was outside the realms of your control, this one being the first to draw a physical outburst to occur since you were a teenager. You sucked in a deep breath while closing your eyes, rotating your neck to rid it of its sleep-deprived, rigor-mortis akin stiffness. Reopening your eyes, your pupils narrowed in as you focussed on your puffed eye-bags below your irises.

“You came here to do a job. You are a governess,” you reassured yourself, affirming yourself sternly in the mirror, “You are strong. You are safe. It is just a job.” Your looped affirmations continued as you attempted to repress memories from arising, but to no avail. You knit your brows together, shaking your head to rid the memories from coming to light before your eyes before the sun was yet to create the dawn. 

“You are in control here,” you again spoke aloud, rising from your seated position against your vanity. You claimed a small unlit lantern hanging limply from the door, unhooking it from the wall and drawing out a small box of matches to ignite the flame atop the wick. Shaking the flame away from the matchstick, you discarded the small piece of twig into the basket below your desk and fled from the room causing you sleeplessness. 

The halls became ignited by the small flame in your lantern, illuminating the portraiture littering the gloomy halls. Several generations of the lord you unwittingly bound yourself to with the Sapsorrow ring lay staring vacantly at you as your slippers peppered the ground with your featherfall footsteps. 

You were unsure as to where your feet were carrying you until you found yourself amongst the large wooden shelves in the large library. Each book was meticulously cataloged and alphabetised, the colors on the leatherbound spines ranging from the deepest of emeralds to dark magenta with golden twine. As each of the spines of the books drew you in by their pigments and binds, your left hand unconsciously flew to the shelves and danced among the pages. Tracing upon the many spines as you wandered aimlessly amongst the shelves, your fingers met with a vacant space in the nook; your fingertips falling through the space housing a book that no longer resides within its crease. 

Looking at the space for any semblance of literature navigation, you noticed you were in the section marked “S”, somewhere tucked between knowledge of Sangiovese vines and winemaking, and Sailing the uncharted waters of the grand line. 

“Sapsorrow,” you spoke aloud in a small whisper, gasping as your fingers collected the moved dust, “that was what he said,” you pressed your sleep-deprived memory for a semblance of thought: “Ten rings of the Sapsorrow queen, all riddled with charm, none can break from its challenger’s gleam, or cause the commissioner harm.”

“What does that mean?” you gasped once more, drawing up your fingertips to look at the dust collected, rolling the powder and webs within your hand, “there’s ten of them. What is a Sapsorrow? Ten of them?” you looked down onto the moss-coloured stone sitting innocently atop its golden circlet of destiny, “Like ten fingers?” 

Turning again to the bookshelf and looking at the vacant space against the shelves, you huffed out another breath of exasperation and grumbled; “It would have been useful to have a book on the matter. Perhaps that is what my betrothed-,” you rolled your eyes at the taste of the title over your palate, "-is doing with the book. If there even is one.”

You growled beneath your breath, another attempt at ridding yourself of the memories of the night prior. It was dancing behind your closed eyes slower than it occurred in reality. Each small brush of his fingertips over your body as he took your measurements, the small rasp in his voice as he spoke to you, his humility in joining his forehead against your own, and the way he held you against himself. You were going mad, reading into something that was truly not there. 

Shaking your head and breathing in deeply, you attempted to calm yourself down and reached for the nearest book at the end of the row. Your brows furrowed as you looked at the title, a small curious smile prickling at the corners of your cheeks. 

“Waltzing: A Pirate’s Guide to Entangling with the Upper Classes,” you spoke, your eyes lightening as your smile deepened. You examined the books cover for any other information, finding no further explanation, “there’s no author? Curiouser and curiouser.” 

You took the book to the corner of the room, sitting atop a plush crimson armchair and placing your lantern on the side table to illuminate the corner of the room. You huddled against the suede arm of the chair, bringing the pages closer to the light as you turned the first chapter: “Swords and Steps.” Your face became more bright as diagrams of pirate gentleman holding his sword upright and extended, followed by the placement of an ornately dressed woman spinning within his arms; the imagery of the evening’s prior events falling away from you the further you dove into the pages. 

The lantern’s wick began to flicker, the candle warning you it was in its final moments as the hours in the library began to fall away from you. You were barely aware of the dawn beginning to filter through the curtains, the first light a warm pink dusting the marble floor with its presence. The only sense able to bring you from your hypnosis within the pages was the scent of the extinguished wick as the stale smoke danced over the benchtop. 

Shaking your head, you attempted to again return to the present as you closed the pages of the book together and rose to your feet; hastily sauntering over to the aisles to return it to its rightful position within the shelves. You didn’t even know where to begin navigating the halls, unsure how you managed to draw yourself from your wing into the library to begin with. The patter of your heart began thumping heavily against your ribcage, anxiety raising at the thought of being caught within your bed clothes by a member of staff, or worse: Zoro and Perona. 

As the light of the sun began awakening the walls you wandered earlier, a strange mud-covered silhouette of a person holding a bouquet of flowers at eye level remained in the sunlight cascading over the front marble steps. They were picking at the thorns, clipping the stems and arranging the florals and vines in a fashionable style with pliers and ribbons of twine wrapping around the amassment of petals. 

The figure almost didn’t look human; bipedal humanoid, surely, but not human. The amount of dirt, muck, fur and feathers eclipsing their body under their cluster made them look beastly. You heard a deep rumbly hum, the creature before you appearing to be singing softly to themselves a tune you could not recognise. This was the only clue that allowed you to presume their gender, the smoothness of their deep voice almost serenading you with its comfort. Rolling slightly on your heels to rid yourself of your nerves, you cautiously approached the figure while holding your arms laced over your chest to shield his view from your sleep-clothes. 

“Excuse me, sir?” you called to them, their body’s stiffening in response and raising the flowers up further to cover their face, “No need for alarm, I am the Governess here.” He seemed to remain statuesque, rigid in his stance and not making a sound. You grew more curious, stepping forward again to get a better look at the arrangement, noticing it was similar to the ones placed atop your table and decorating your room. 

“I know who you are, my lady,” he spoke slowly. His cadence seemed familiar to you, albeit his face was hidden, “You should not be up at this hour. Is there something troubling you?” You were taken aback by his direct approach, but it was a welcome surprise. 

“I was unable to sleep, sir. My thoughts are my own, although I have been having trouble ruling over them of late,” you replied honestly. He nodded behind the flowers, your eyes trailing over him and studying his attire. He was clad in hessian pants, his boots trekking mud into the cobblestone galley. His torso was clad in a pale linen with mud, sticks and leaves masking the pigment of his skin from your eyes with how heavily caked he was beneath the thick sludge. 

“If I may be so bold as to ask for your help,” you asked him, stepping further into his proximity. The scent falling off him in waves was the earthiness of the mud mixed with the petals clutched over his face. As you drew in closer, you noticed he was wearing a broad straw hat, his face shielded by the wide brim, while his nose and lips were covered by a piece of woven cloth. He held his sight fixed to his hands, electing not to make eye contact with you. 

“You may ask anything of me, my lady,” he responded, his eyes remaining holding to the floor beneath him. You allowed a soft smile to rise against your lips, a small sigh electing to release itself from your chest at his candor. 

“I am unaware of my surroundings. I have been here a fortnight now, this being the first night I have opted to explore the grounds rather than remaining sleepless in my bedchambers,” you confessed to him, nodding as you spoke, “I have no idea where my wing is from here, and I assume you are a member of staff here.”

“I am something of the like, my lady,” he admitted to you, nodding while actively listening to your words as they fled from your lips, “I admit I was on my way to your chambers presently.” Your eyes widened, looking at the bouquet clutched firmly within his hands then back to his face.

“So, I’ve finally caught the culprit,” you laughed at him, “just as you have caught me in naught but my nightdress. Those are meant for me, are they not?” His rigidity did not halt, nor the tingle in his fingertips dancing amongst the vines. 

“You’re the one who brings the ever changing arrangements to my bedchambers, am I correct in my assumption?” you asked him while fixing your gaze on the white puffs of roses clutched within his muddy fingertips. 

“That you are, my lady,” he again admitted, bowing in a low stoop as a performer would to receive their applause. You smiled warmly, reaching for his forearm and lacing your right arm within his. 

“Chaperone me,sir. Please lead me to return to my wing,” you asked him with a small laugh, uncaring for the dirt falling from his sleeve onto your own. 

“I will make a mess of the halls, my lady. I should not be above the cellars while dressed like this,” he spoke in a warning tone, “I don’t enjoy cleaning up the boot prints I trek in at this hour.”

“Tush,” you dismissed his warning, tugging at his forearm, “I cannot wait for you to strip yourself of your tarnished clothes, bathe and escort me to my wing. I am in my nightdress, sir,” His eyes widened at your comment, his eyes almost holding a honey color displayed from its angle to you. 

“I would not desire tarnishing your own clothes with my mess, my lady,” he sighed as you both witnessed some mud falling from his shirt onto your sheer chemise. You smiled at his halt while bringing your other hand to fall atop his dirt-caked forearm. “Please, sir. I cannot have the lord of the house seeing me like this. Nor our shared wards.”

“Is not the lord of your house your betrothed?” he asked you, his brows furrowing as he spoke his warning.

“That he is, sir,” you nodded your confirmation while laughing once more, “all the more reason for the both of us to scurry on to my wing so we can both be rid of this predicament.” He hummed in response, shaking his head slightly with a small chuckle. You sighed in relief as he began to shepherd you towards your room, your body physically relaxing aside his as he guided you through the halls. You made idle conversation, the morning rising alongside the chirps of local birds warning you the day has been broken and to be thrust into your day. 

“How long have you been working the land here in Kuraigana? Your arrangements speak wonders to your skill, sir,” you praised him, watching as his smile began to upturn in the creases of his eyes. His nose and lips remained hidden beneath a woven cloth, his eyes being the only human part you could gauge the emotions of.

“I have been working with agriculture since I first laid eyes on the keep. There’s something about the soil here that is particularly riveting. The grapes thrive here,” he expressed with such unbridled passion, you could feel his joy at working the soil of the gloomy land, “they grow large, their skin dense and firm. Perfect for a variety of vines and vintages.”

“A viticulturist also? My, you have an array of talents. What do you grow here?” you ushered him to continue expressing his passion, your interest in the land growing by the interaction with the creature guiding you to your wing.

“I do enjoy watching the vines grow, yes. I also have had a hand in crafting the varieties into wine,” he admitted, nodding beneath his wide, straw hat. 

“A wild ferment, perhaps? A malolactic for chardonnay and sangiovese?” you asked him, prodding him and probing with your pointed questions. He chuckled at your comments, shaking his head at your comments.

“You are well versed in the art of conversation, my lady,” he commented accusingly, with a small whisper of humor beneath his words, “you need not humor me with your polite words.”

“Sir,” you furrowed your brows at the creature, halting your steps, “if I was not interested in your craft, I would not be asking so many questions,” your confession rendered him almost speechless. You chuckled at his surprise, once again allowing your feet to fall in pace towards your chambers.

“To further spur how truly interested I am in what you have to say, I would simply hum and nod to showcase my active listening while not asking questions,” you continued, your warm smile continuing to power your words, “my favorite phrase to use in that particular situation is: ‘that certainly sounds interesting’.”

He chuckled at your comment as he continued leading you to your chambers, the door within your sight as he unlaced his arm from within yours and opened your front door for you.

“A gentleman amongst the staff of Kuraigana?” you praised him with your words, prompting him to hand his head with a small huffed chuckle at your words. 

“I aim to be, my lady,” he uttered, walking within your bedchambers and beginning to remove the prior arrangement of flowers atop your desk and replace it with another arrangement. Unbothered by his presence in your chamber, you began tending to yourself by finding an appropriate uniform for the day and hooking it over your changing screen beside your bed. You continued to hear his footfalls against the room adjacent to yours, yourself feeling secure behind the screen enough to begin changing into your uniform to begin your day.

You threw off your chamise, followed by your night dress, slippers and socks before weaving yourself into your chosen attire for the day. A simple long dress, practical in nature with a cinched waist and a modest neckline: exactly how a governess should be seen by members of the household staff, not scantily clad in your bed attire. 

“I am heading out, my lady,” the strange chaperone informed you, prompting you to hasten your pace of lacing your boots. 

“Wait, sir. Allow me to thank you for escorting me back to my wing,” you called to him, hastily making your way towards the table setting in front of you. The flowers were breathtaking, this one filled with difficult to collect flowers with sweet scents and crystal-like dew drops. You carefully selected one from the bunch, a simple bushel of baby’s breath clutched between your fingertips as you carefully pried it from its place amongst the bouquet. 

“This one is for you, sir. Thank you for aiding me in my time of need,” you presented the small bushel of flowers to him; his muddy hand coming out to collect it within his discolored fingertips. 

“Thank you for your kindness, my lady,” he nodded in a small bow, your fingers brushing together slightly at his withdrawal. 

“What may I call you, sir? Surely you have a name, and I would like to know I have a friend here in Kuraigana while I work,” you asked him, your trail of intellect deducing the flurry of thoughts, “or would you prefer to be known simply as ‘Farm-hand’?” 

“Farm-hand,” he repeated back to you, his voice almost laughing, “Farm-hand is fine to me, my lady.”

“If you are to go by this name, please bestow one of a similar likeness to me, Farm-Hand,” you laughed at his candor, as you reached for the metal hairbrush you were using earlier and began hastily smoothing over your tangled locks.

“If I am to be Farm-Hand,” he thought hard, a small hum exiting from his chest, “you ought to be ‘Lost-Lady’. Considering it is too much of a mouthful to address you as ‘woman clad in naught but her nightdress’.”

You laughed again at his comment, before guiding his muddied form outside of your bedchambers. 

“Until tomorrow's flowers, Farm-Hand,” you stooped in your low courtesy and offered him your left hand. He accepted it, bringing down his forehead to brush against the back of your hand atop your knuckles.

“Until the morrow, Lost-Lady,” he raised his forehead from his bowed position and watched as you turned back into your chambers to continue readying yourself for the day, the door shutting with a small click behind you. 

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Mihawk was frozen, his dirtied hands rolling over the small white flowers within his fingertips. He hooked his hand against his mask, drawing back the material to taste the air once more without the filter of material or mud. His beard was no longer scratching behind the mask, the flavor of the air feeling all the more sweet. As he twirled the flowers within his fingers, he sighed at the innocent object dancing in his hand. 

His left hand shook, feeling the warm tingles of the memories of your flesh joining briefly with his as he clutched yours within his fingers. The ghost of radiant heat against his forehead remained alongside the memory of such a warmth you presented to him, a presumed low-ranking member of his staff. 

He looked down at his attire, the mud covering his body causing him to physically hiss out a verbal reprimand at himself.

“So stupid to lose footing beneath the vines,” he chastised his appearance, “especially to collect the insignificant little baby’s breath-.” His words halted as he drew up the pale flowers you had gifted him in return once more, a soft smile rising to his lips. 

“What have I ever done in this life to deserve such sweetness?” he whispered to himself, a sighed laugh falling from his lips as he shook his head. 

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Sitting with the young pink haired debutante in the courtyard, you noticed her eyes were glazed; her far off expression alerting you to her being not overly present for this afternoon’s private lesson. 

“Perona, dear?” you called to her, placing your cup back on the saucer. She hummed in response, slowly blinking her eyes but remaining away with the ghosts that haunt her. You sighed deeply, rising to your feet and moving behind your chair. You slowly wedged the chair beneath the circular dining table and walked over to crouch in front of her. 

“Perona,” you softly spoke, reaching to claim her hands laced within her lap beneath your palm. She squeaked, looking down into your eyes and uttered a hasty, “yes, my lady?” 

“There you are, you’re back,” you smiled at her, prompting a blush to rise and litter her pale cheeks with its hue. You smoothed your thumb over her knuckles to reassure her she wasn’t keeping you waiting. 

“I’m sorry my lady, they-,” she began, rapidly blinking as she attempted to articulate her thoughts to place them within the air verbally, “-they have been saying some unusual things to me. It’s been a bit tricky to ignore them.” You quirked your head to the side, not completely processing what she was admitting to you. 

“Oh?” You prodded her, rising to your feet and tugging lightly on her hand to usher her to her feet, “and what do they have to say today? Only good things, I hope.” Her teeth drew outwards in a straight line, cringing out a small apprehensive wince of a smile. 

“Not exactly,” she admitted while rising to her feet in front of you. Her smile only drew more apprehension from you, curiosity now being eclipsed by concern at her words. You nodded to her to continue relaying her thoughts to you, her nodding while adding; “they say he’s found a way. Something about the moon being first, I think. Help? He’s getting help- no-... asking for help? They’re not making much sense.”

You knit your brows further in the center of your forehead, her words not drawing any conclusion to your already troubled mind from sleeplessness earlier. 

“A beast? No... A Crocodile has the moon?” she nodded with her eyes shut tightly, focusing on the voices as they presented themselves to her. She continued shaking her head, the many voices falling over her mind and corrupting her thoughts with their nonsensical visions. 

“Perona,” you called to her, her aura beginning to turn a different hue to indicate her beginning to be overwhelmed by other worldly voices. You took both of her hands in yours and gave them a firm squeeze, “Perona, sweetheart.” She opened her eyes, glossy and a different hue than her usual vibrancy.

“The moon,” she uttered, “the moon has commenced.”

“Perona!” your voice held an elevated firmness to your tone, immediately snapping her from her daze and coming back to the world she views as reality. 

“I’m sorry, Governess,” she uttered quickly, bowing her head to you and beginning to tremble a little, “they’ve just been enthusiastic lately. They are very interested in that.” She nodded to your left hand, your ring shining its smoked, green gemstone within the sunlight. 

“They say,” she teeters off her voice, shaking her head as the voices begin to eclipse her form and shroud her mind with their nonsensical visions. She allowed herself to snap out of it, taken aback by their final informational relay, “there’s a party? Oh! And there’s a dress for you.”

The blood in your face physically leapt from your head and paled. He’d done it. He’d made the first dress, the doom of your wedding day approaching with more haste than you would have desired. You were to be a bride, donned in dresses of the finest make and forced down the aisle with the knife of destiny thrust against your back to usher you onwards-.

“-Not one of those, my lady,” Perona broke you from your thoughts, her eyes wide and serious as they met with your widened gaze. She gently squeezed your hands within her own, reassuring you with her kind expression, “they say the party is to announce your engagement, and Mihawk has had a dress made especially for you to wear to it.”

“O-Oh,” you stuttered, the color once again returning to your cheeks. Perona giggled at your apprehension, lacing her arms within your own and beginning to draw you closer to the sage-colored hedge-ends to look over the impressive grounds of Kuraigana. 

“You want to go and see it? They say he has it ready for you, if you like,” she shrugged, her enthusiasm sparking at the corners of her cheeks as she physically began to shake with anticipation. You allowed a softness to fall over your body, your young debutante beginning to break down your walls and squeeze herself into the realms of personal friendship. 

“I think I will wait until he sends for me,” you smiled at her, “for now, we need to continue with your lessons.”

“Why, my lady?” she whined, a small semblance of childish anger falling from her pouted lips, “I don’t want a husband, I don’t want to be a lady.”

“Do you desire to wear beautiful gowns, dance with handsome men and woo them with your radiant beauty?” you sighed, your eyes rolling with a soft smirk arising against your lips. She immediately snapped out of her childish tantrum.

“Yes, my lady,” she softly spoke while nodding, her pink-hair bouncing with the gentle bob of her head. 

“Then lessons in being a lady are to continue until I’m satisfied you are able to showcase my reputation alongside your own,” you chastised her with your smirk rising into a pleasant smile. 

“Yes, my lady,” Perona sighed, beginning to lead you throughout the beautifully maintained hedge-ends. The map of the maze lay unpolished, dust and dirt falling over the sign and making the object unable to be read.

“I shall talk to the Farm-Hand about that tomorrow,” you spoke under your breath. Perona looked to the side, conversing with an astral projection beside her, “We have a farm-hand? I thought that was-... oh…”

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

“WHAAAAAAAA-?” the den-den-mushi split the lord of Kuraigana’s eardrum with the verbal cry form the other end of the transmission. 

“Silence your incessant screaming, Clown,” Mihawk growled into the receiver. 

“You called Me, Hawk-Eyes,” the voice called on the other end, Mihawk’s migraine beginning to worsen its throb against his temples. He should never have done this, requested aid like this. From them. 

“That I did, Clown,” he admitted in a defeated sigh, bringing his index and middle fingers up to rotate around his temple. 

“Stop calling me ‘Clown’. I have a name,” the voice spat back at the gloomy warlord as he sat neatly dressed against his desk, “and if you’re calling in a favor, I require to have my full title spoken to me.” Mihawk sighed again, his defeated eyes closing as his humility began to overcome his body. 

“Captain Buggy D Clown,” Mihawk uttered darkly into the microphone at the end of the den-den-mushi, “I need you to make something for me. I know you can do it, I’ve seen something similar at your big-top. It needs to be starlight. A gown for a bride as radiant as the stars that litter the night sky. A dress so spectacularly clustered with diamonds of glittery stars, people would be amazed that something so beautiful could be found within the realms of mortality.”

A brief pause occurred, static from the other end of the receiver before the clown once again spoke up.

“Mihawk, baby,” the voice taunted him, “you had me at ‘I need you’.”

At that, the other end of the receiver clicked to indicate the end of the conversation, the clown striking a bargain with the darkened lord of Kuraigana, who’s very core was wrecked with absolute hopelessness. 

“Two calls down,” he sighed, rotating his neck to rid it of the tension arising within it, “the drunken red-head is next.”

Lord Dracule Mihawk understood this undertaking was seemingly impossible, the three gowns he was to present to his governess- …no, his betrothed, was no easy feat. He did not initially intend on asking for aid, but his resources and contacts were depleted with such haste, there was no way he would be able to commence such an undertaking on his own. 

The Crocodile managed to sense there was a difference in his usually stoic and disinterested demeanor, which prompted Mihawk to relay his troubles onto the larger gentleman. A cigar clenched within his pearled teeth, his eyes held amusement rather than their usual boredom at Mihawk’s predicament. 

“I have some material you may enjoy, former warlord,” he spoke with such confidence, his eyes almost twinkling with delight at the notion he had something to hold over the golden-eyed swordsman, “a shipment delivered balls of silk and satins to my keep. Pale as the coldest chill of the first drops of winter,” his taunts continued as he blew a puff of cigar smoke into Mihawk’s face, “it almost looked as radiant as the moon.”

“Almost,” Mihawk spat, his eyes narrowed and anger growing more tangible, “almost will not do. It needs to be exact, precise, executed to the highest quality for my bride-.”

“-Your Bride? Mihawk,” Sir Crocodile’s sinister grin split his reptilian face upwards, “You never took me as the type to marry. Concubines? Of course. They have their uses. But Bride?” He removed his cigar from his teeth and pressed the butt-end with his thumb into the ashtray, “A Bride to the lord of Kuraigana. She must be some woman.”

“Indeed, that she is,” he admitted, his anger only remaining within its elevation at the taunts from the larger man. Sir Crocodile hummed, stooping lower to Mihawk’s stature, and smiled further upwards to crinkle his cheeks.

“I will have it made for you, Hawk-Eyes,” he hissed into his face, his shadow from his larger stature doing nothing to intimidate the confident swordsman, “and I expect a favor in return for it. Send her measurements to me, and I will have a hundred hands stitching it for you.”

“Mihawk, you gloomy old prick, that you? What are you calling me for at this hour?” the lazy voice of the overly confident red-headed captain asked at the other end of the receiver. Mihawk sighed, his anxiety at requesting the final object from his oldest rival getting the better of him the longer he remained in silence. 

“Mihawk, if you don’t speak soon, I’m going to hang up the call and go back to my drinking-” Shank’s voice was halted by Mihawk uttering a single word.

“Lingerie.” Silence. Naught a word was spoken for several seconds; the anxiety elevating higher in Mihawk’s chest the longer the silence remained stagnant. An uproar of laughter was thrust into the receiver, several members of the red-hair pirates thrusting their jovial laughter into the air at a single word. As the laughter stifled back, Shanks spoke up once more.

“Lingerie, Mihawk? You want some lingerie? Is it for you, or is it for you?” the red-head captain jested, taunting the dark-haired warlord with his words. Mihawk shook his head, notably too far deep now to pull away from his request now. 

“Red-Haired Shanks,” Mihawk began, the verbal shushing from the redhead on the other end to hush his crew to silence as he heard the request of the former warlord. 

“Yes, old Hawkie? Go on, relay your request for intimate items onto me. See what I can do with your raunchy thoughts, you sick bastard-.” Shanks’ words were halted as he heard the tone of voice depicted by the usually stoic gentleman.

“Sapsorrow, Shanks,” Mihawk gasped in desperation. The audible sound of the thud of footsteps and the voices of the crew fell away from the speaker, indicating the redhead was actively moving away from the campground.

“You still have that thing? Mihawk, you should’ve cast the cursed thing into the seas. Mine was at least swallowed by the sea-beast while I protected the boy,” Shanks hushed an elevated whisper into the receiver. 

“I know,” Mihawk uttered, his brows knitting further into his face as he cursed himself of such stupidity. After another moment of silence, Shanks spoke again.

“And your betrothed requested Lingerie to be a condition of her intention to wed. My, Hawk-Eyes, you’ve at least got a good one,” he chuckled into the receiver, “go on, lay it on me. What conditions needs to be met with this one?”

“Gold,” Mihawk confessed into the mouthpiece of the receiver, “Gold as heated and radiant as the sun, beams of dawn and cracks of dusk. Admittedly, I am unsure where to begin with this request.” More silence followed on the other end of the receiver, Mihawk feeling the anxiety once again claw at his throat with anticipation.

“Do you have her-... I’m assuming it’s a her, yes?” Shanks asked, his voice giddy and boyish; elevated with a twinkle of mischief and excitement.

“Yes,” Mihawk hummed his gruff confession into the receiver.

“Hah!” Shanks laughed triumphantly, “Wonderful. Do you have her measurements?” Mihawk relayed his governess’ measurements to the one-armed Captain, hearing the thump of sandals footsteps falling against the sandy shores of Shank’s island’s shores, crunching beneath his heels.

“Beckmann,” Shanks called his voice away from the receiver, “Beckmann, you’re not going to believe this-... Mihawk, give me a moment, would you? Beckmann!” Mihawk’s expression was not amused, his eyes narrowing beneath his lengthy dark eyelashes. 

“Beckmann, bring me my anvil, pliers and soldering pick! All the gold we’ve got on us and then some-... Mihawk,” Shanks laughed into the receiver, his voice brimming with absolute glee, “Oh, Mihawk. You’ve made my day.”

“I’m glad one of us is getting a semblance of joy from this request,” Mihawk sarcastically spat into the receiver.

“Oh, lighten up. You’ll be getting some joy out of this once I’m done with it, Hawkie,” Shanks laughed again into the mouthpiece, several clangs and elevated voices being spoken into the mouthpiece.

“All the gold on us, Captain? That seems a bit rich comin’ from him. Isn’t he a lord or somethin’?” Beckmann’s raspy voice held a distant quietness away from the mouthpiece. 

“Yeah, but I’m gonna make something out of it, Becks. Lingerie for the sword-wielding lord’s future misses. Gotta get out the good stuff for this one-... Hawk-Eyes, are you still there?” Shanks called back into the receiver, Mihawk feeling his anxiety beginning to calm at the notion that Shanks was willing to participate in the task. 

“I’m here, one-arm,” Mihawk lazily drawled into the microphone, exasperation relayed on every syllable. Shanks chuckled at his title, disregarding it with glee. 

“I’m gonna make your future misses something you will both never forget,” He laughed into the transponder, his boyish charm prompting the swordsman to almost crack a small and apprehensive smile.

As the call of the den-den-mushi went quiet, Mihawk sighed and lulled his head back on his arched backrest. He felt relieved to have the weight of his predicament shared with his allies, but also apprehensive at the requests they would omit from him in return. And the teasing. He loathed being on the receiving end of taunts and jabs from the three of them, particularly the idiot clown.

He propped his neck back upright and glanced his amber eyes over to the desktop, honing in on the small bushel of baby’s breath you had offered him earlier. He reached his fingertips forward, his index finger and thumb grasping the twig holding the cluster of white flowers.

“Lost-Lady,” he smiled at the innocent balls of petals clinging against the sprigs. He chuckled at your earlier interaction, how open you were with him about your feelings of late. He was already thinking of another arrangement to create to decorate your halls with his flowers and vines: sweet jasmine, honeysuckle, bluebells and daisies were amongst his choices for your following tabletop. Much less of a risk of becoming covered head to toe in mud again.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

“M’Lady, Hawk’s lookin’ for ya,” Zoro huffed a small grunt, extending his left forearm to you as you and Perona entered the galley. You shook your head at Zoro, your eyes glaring at him to wordlessly reprimand his pronunciation of your title. He furrowed his brows at first, before his eyes widened in clarity as it dawned on him. He shook his head slowly, rolling his eyes within his skull and bowing sloppily and lowly to you.

“Forgive me, my lady,” His voice, absolutely dripping with the sticky molasses of sarcasm, “I extend my most sincere apologies, my lady. Would my lady prefer me to kneel on the ground to receive a verbal reprimand, or dost my lady prefer me bent over her lap? Perhaps at such an insult to my lady, I should be drawn and quartered. A cat and nine tails whipping their iron slashes into my chest for insulting you in such a way, my lady-.” 

“-That’s quite enough, Zoro,” you reprimanded him, unlacing your hand from within Perona’s arched elbow. Your brow descended into the middle of your face, your chin extended into the air as you circled him, “and here I thought you were making waves as a gentleman, but you are remaining evermore a petulant brat.”

“I aim to please, my lady,” the corner of his lip curled upwards into a small smirk. Perona refused to react to the situation for fear attention from her governess would be drawn to her rather than the display offered by Zoro. 

“You are doing a poor job it today, Trainee,” you snarled at him, causing his smirk to widen as his eyes narrowed at your challenge. 

“Bein’ a gentleman?” Zoro scoffed at you, his lip darting out to dampen his bottom lip as he tested you further.

“Pleasing me,” you quipped back, your challenging eyes and candor immediately bringing a warm blush up the swordsman’s neck and teasing the lobes of his ears. He remained speechless, Perona allowing a silent giggle to threaten to pour over her lips. As the silence began to build with tense air, you clicked your neck and approached the young swordsman.You were now within a foot of the tall gentleman in training, continuing to warn him with your expression.

The three of you were so caught up in this moment of challenge, you remained blissfully ignorant yet again to the silent approach of the lord of the house watching from the shadows. He was on the edge of his hypothetical seat as he witnessed Zoro challenge you, but now watching on with amusement at how you were effortlessly managing him. 

“Try again,” you ordered him. There was not a sound that dared break your challenge of the green-haired swordsman within the galley. He sighed deeply, bowing his head formally to you and closing his eyes. 

“My lady,” he uttered slowly and cautiously, “the lord of Kuraigana has requested your presence in the parlor. Perona and I are to escort you to meet with the formal dressmakers for a fitting.” He almost made it through the sentence before allowing his distaste for the whole situation known. 

“We’re all to have a fitting?” Perona squeaked in joy, “We all get a pretty outfit for it?”

“Yeah,” Zoro huffed, his brows falling against the arch of his nose to indicate his displeasure, “we’re all meant to get one.for it. He’s invited everyone already. They’ll be here by the weekend.” You allowed a shocked breath to escape your chest, not understanding such haste in such a ceremony. 

You inhaled deeply through your nose, closing your eyes in deep thought before speaking again. 

“Zoro,” you began, calming your body and attempting to regain control of your uncontrollable circumstances, “escort Perona to the parlor for her fitting. I will be going to my chambers for a small moment,” you cringed a small smile, attempting to stifle the anxiety by gritting through the pain, “unless the lord of the house is here to escort me himself, I will need a moment or two to myself-.”

At that small apprehension, Mihawk made his entrance to where the three of you had met within the galley. Perona withheld her small smile behind her palms, her upturned eyes doing nothing to satisfy her amusement and joy at the swordsman approaching them. Zoro followed Perona’s eyes to lord Mihawk, which in turn alerted you to his presence approaching behind you. You felt the waves of his confident aura falling from him before you turned to meet his gaze. He cleared his throat briefly, honing his gaze on the green-haired swordsman and addressing him.

“You heard your Governess,” he commanded him, turning to Perona and nodding to her, “Off you go to the parlor. Ensure the spatchcock is properly feathered, Perona.”

“Yes, my lord,” she chuckled, taking Zoro’s arm and immediately springing in her steps towards the parlor without a word from Zoro regarding his new bird-related nickname. You remained stationary and rigid in the galley, your chin extended outwards and tongue pressed to the roof of your mouth. Eyes narrowed, you felt him circle your body like a hawk looking over their next catch. 

“I have come to inform you,” he began, remaining behind your back and away from your sight, “I have announced our intentions to wed. There is to be a ball this weekend, held here at the keep,” he paused his words, the tap of his feet indicating his approach in front of you. You closed your eyes, feeling waves of anxiety again rising over your body and filling your head with the thoughts that swirled well into the night. You remained with your eyes tightly closed, clenching your jaw behind your closed lips.

“Betrothed?” He addressed you, halting his prowling in front of you. He extended his hands above your own, hovering over where you had them hanging together in front of you but refusing to bring them down to touch yours. You opened your eyes, your brows furrowing as you looked down at his hand slowly descending and hovering above your own before snapping your gaze back against his amber-colored eyes. 

“Yes, Betrothed?” You asked him, eyes dancing between his irises and searching within them for an indication as to how he was feeling. He sighed, finally bringing his hands down to collect yours and smooth his thumbs over your knuckles softly. You were again taken aback by his softness, unsure as to which place this was coming from. 

“Is there someone I could invite for you to make this transition easier for you?” he whispered in a low rumbly tone, “it is quite the conundrum: coming here to complete a job, only to find yourself bound to your employer in matrimony. What can I do? You may ask anything of me, my lady-... Betrothed.”

Your heart began to race your mind with how frantic and sudden this expression of care for you had been brought on. You took your time to study his face, looking from his brows to his cheekbones, bearded jaw down to his smooth lips beneath his manicured mustache. You drew your gaze back up to his amber-hued orbs and danced your gaze between them.

“I have no one, Betrothed,” you admitted with a small nod, placing one of your palms atop his hand, “you knew this of me from back when I first tutored that arrogant blond boy in shells-town with his iron-jawed father. We discussed this at the gala.” Mihawk arched his brow upwards, deep in thought. 

“Remind me, Betrothed, the mention has fled from me presently,” he asked, bringing his other hand to rest atop the one you just placed atop his. You inhaled deeply, exhaling out your tension at the memory.

“No father, no mother,” you smiled at him, “no sisters, nor brothers. Although, you may be interested in my dowry,” scoffing at the comment, Mihawk rolled his eyes and nodded his chin for you to continue on. “My mother died birthing me, my father died of illness on the road as he ventured over the estate.”

“No friends, nor extended relations?” He inquired, drawing up your hand to lace within his elbow, leading you on towards the parlor at a leisurely pace. 

“None that are alive, nor that you would not already know, I’m sure,” you commented with a polite nod, “you did attend many of the functions I presented my students at.” He hummed in response to your comment, continuing to fall in step with you through the hallways onwards. 

“No former lover to come knocking on my door, betrothed?” Mihawk’s curiosity pulled at the corner of his lip with his brow arched upwards. You halted your step with him, pulling him to a halt and shooting him a warning look. As his eyes met with yours, he understood the tangible emotion clawing at your chest.

“If you are asking what I think you are asking, sir,” you snarled at him, your lip curling upwards at his question, “I am a lady.” His eyes widened at your comment, searching your face for any further emotion to depict your unspoken confession.

“I did not mean to pry into your personal-,” he was halted by your words as you spoke over him, your eyes softening and a small smile rising to your lips at his attempt to flee from an uncomfortable situation he created for himself.

“This title we have been using to address each other,” you commented, again keeping in step with the tall swordsman at your side, “I am no longer comfortable with our mutual use of the phrase. Shall we dream up something else more appropriate together?” 

Mihawk’s breath caught in his throat, hoping you did not catch such a quiver of anticipation falling from him. Why did you have such a hold over him? Why was the way you were speaking to him affecting him like this? Your voice, that sweetness you held in your cadence. It was intoxicating.

“I am sure we will think of something,” he held tight his jaw and remained outwardly stoic. Internally; he was delighting in your willingness to allow him to think of you. You gently squeezed his forearm in support, walking in comfortable silence towards the parlor together. 

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Zoro’s arms were horizontally outstretched, perpendicular to the floor as the tailors began to pin and prod the material he was trying on. Perona beamed at her reflection, her eyes reflecting her joy at the trim and frill of her fine gown. Zoro smirked, closing his eyes and addressing his peer. 

“Mihawk’s infatuation is starting to spill out, isn’t it. He’s not even hiding it anymore,” He chuckled, Perona immediately laughing at the comment before retorting her own comments on the matter.

“Speak for yourself, Moss,” Perona continued to giggle, “your little crush isn’t as hidden as you think it is, either.”

Tag List: @sordidmusings@writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @since-im-already-here @feral-artistry @be-good-please @little-bunnybabe @sukilovesyou @buggyenjoyer @thesailus @under-kitty @acehyacinth @andriannag @one17 @canthebest1 @khaleesihavilliard @quirkyrascal @hungrhay @sentieence @lebanese-afg-ya @captaincupio @szired

[lindseymcdonaldseyelashes]

Can't believe I'm not seeing more about the Leverage: Redemption Season 3 opening scene they showed at Electric Con (details—to the best of my recollection—under a cut because SPOILERS):

It starts with Hardison and Parker dressed to the nines, walking down the hallway of a big manor. They're on a date in Paris. Kind of. Parker wishes they could be out stealing things, but Hardison reminds her that they're trying to stay on the right side of the law, at least for the time being, because Sophie has been working on mending her relationship with Astrid in London. Parker's still not sold on the concept, given the conflict of interests between their work and Interpol.

We hear a woman speaking German from across the hall. The camera swings over to Sophie, on the arm of a mark as she aggressively butters him up. As Hardison and Parker pass, Sophie hands Parker the man's wallet. Parker takes what she needs before returning it to the mark before the couple strolls away.

Eliot pops in and knocks out the mark (I think) with a good punch. They walk along, and Sophie mentions she's hunting for the perfect gift for Astrid, but doesn't know what to get her—struggling particularly because it'd ideally be a non-stolen object. Eliot says it's also been a bit of a learning curve to reestablish his relationship with his dad. They also mention that Breanna's been looking at colleges along with Harry and his daughter (implying this is going to be an original crew-only episode).

Hardison reenters the scene, now dressed in coveralls and clearly stressed, muttering something to himself about a special ring. Eliot punches out another goon before asking Hardison if "Parker knows."

A door swings open, with Parker hanging upside down in her coveralls on the other side. She asks Hardison what Eliot was talking about, but Hardison manages to dodge her question, walking her across the hall and boosting her into a vent. Parker makes a comment about how the vent has a smell—event the vents in France smell like cheese.

Before long, she's back with a small golden trinket, stolen from a nearby vault from some rich jerk. Problem is, said rich jerk comes around the corner, trying to impress the lady he's with, and they beeline for the vault. He sees it missing and sounds the alarm. Parker, Hardison, Sophie, and Eliot are trapped, and they're going to have to think up an exit strategy, fast.

Not to mention all of this happens in one continuous shot (faked with movie magic, but impressive nonetheless).

They also showed a quick cut of bits from later in the season. We got a very fast shot of Alexandra Bligh—implying a possible return of RIZ—and some scenes with some of the costumes from the exhibit—including Harry with a beard and a disguise with some wild sideburns.

Super curious about whether this is going to be a straightforward proposal arc or something more interesting, given that Hardison and Parker's relationship is anything but ordinary and they don't necessarily seem the traditional marriage types. Can't tell you how excited I am for this season to air.

[danibee33]

The Queen’s Guard

*COD medieval au - Simon Riley x reader

cw: arranged marriage, dark themes, attempted sa & non-graphic sa but pls *read at your own discretion*, gore/violence, sexual themes, etc.

word count: 1.1k

“Again.”

You can’t help but to flinch at the sound of swords being drawn; it rings in your ears, echos in the recesses of your brain. The piercing, metallic clangs resound throughout the room-

How long had you been here, anyway? Judging from the sunlight that peers through the high transom windows, its golden rays giving the great hall an ethereal sort of glow, it must be nearing time for dinner-

“I’ve seen enough, thank you.”

With a dismissive wave, you rise from the bronze throne and turn on your heel, eyes focused straight ahead, fixated on the intricate carvings in the doors, your escape just within reach-

“Your Grace..”

General Leon’s voice is laced with exasperation and warning, and your long history with him is the only reason you halt, your handmaid nearly bumping into you as you turn again- the young woman struggling to rearrange the ridiculous train on your gown as the man speaks,

“You cannot continue on without a Queen’s Guard- His Grace demands the position be filled.”

Oh, of course. How thoughtful of your kind husband. The husband who only sees you when the physicians deem you fertile enough to produce an heir. The husband who you’re not even sure could pick your face in a crowd because he only ever fucks you from behind, your face pushed down into the animal furs beneath you.

The husband who killed your last guard, gods rest his soul.

Yes, I’m sure he’s very concerned for my safety..

You give a heavy sigh, fighting the urge to roll your eyes as you feel the placating smile tug at your lips; the one you’re so, so good at. The practiced smile that puts everyone in the room at ease, the one you’ve perfected in your relatively short existence of being groomed for this very life.

The life everyone dreams of, a life of royalty, of the highest privilege and power- how little they truly know.

“Of course, please, let us meet the next one then.”

Taking your place upon the throne once again, you sit properly, prim and demure, just like you were taught. The very picture of perfection in your emerald colored silks, not a single hair out of place-

Yet, inside, you were wasting away, your thoughts boiling and raging, your anger smoldering just under the surface, like a vein of coal in the earth that’s been lit aflame- the embers never dying, but never able to turn into the inferno they so wishe to be.

You don’t bother to spare your gaze when the doors open with a low groan, the quiet footfalls that enter the space only really given away by the shifting of chainmail and armor.

They’re confident strides, you notice- long and steady, and without even seeing him yet, you can feel the energy shift around you, his presence seeming to fill every available void,

“Ser Simon Riley, Your Grace.”

With one look, you’re utterly struck by the imposing man walking towards you- shoulders and hips swaying with each deliberate step, left hand resting lazily on the hilt of his long-sword.

His armor plates are dark, obsidian in hue, so different from the usual flashy silver you see everywhere you look. He is a looming shadow in front of you, somehow as wide as he is tall, if that were possible- and his eyes. The skin around them have been smudged with kohl, making the mottled amber of his irises look preternatural, his unmoving gaze entirely focused on you, even when he bows,

“Your Majesty.”

Your mind screams danger, much like it would if a fully grown wolf had just sauntered through the doors, looking for its next meal- and yet, for as much fear as he inspires, there’s something that draws you in- like a siren singing to sailors lost at sea.

Returning his gesture, you gently nod, holding his eyes until the General calls him back to assume a fighting stance; and even then, you swear you see his head tilt just so, just enough to flash you an arrogant look as the guard takes his place across from him. Ser Simon must easily stand a head and a half taller than the other man, you think, his figure even more impressive than it was before.

The men exchange nods before drawing swords, their dance beginning the same as all the others, assessing and calculating each other until the guard makes the first move-

The heavy whoosh of his blade is dodged with little effort, the giant wraith of a man moving far faster than any of you expected. He gracefully ducks under the other’s still outstretched arm, placing himself in the perfect position to swing his own sword towards his opponent's exposed neck- a maneuver surely meant to behead if this were anything other than a mock duel.

“Reset-”

“No.” You stand abruptly, stepping down from the throne much to your own surprise, “Ser Simon, what experience do you have as a Royal Guard?”

“Your Grace, this is-”

With a raised hand, you quiet the General, watching the mysterious knight sheath his sword once more, bowing again as he faces you,

“None, Your Majesty.”

Well, at least he’s honest.

“What experience do you have then?”

His head tilts to the side, and you watch the other guards tense when he takes a single step closer, those damned eyes gleaming down at you with a hunger you’ve never quite seen before,

“Battle, Your Grace. I’ve seen far more than most.”

This time, it’s you moving towards him, and when you step closer, the Kingsguard follows suit, though it seems nothing goes unnoticed by the towering specter.

“Well, Ser, I do not go into battle.. You might be better suited for my husband’s army, no?”

You watch the very corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, his gaze narrowing in amusement, and you’re positive you would see a devilish smile on his lips if he removed the helmet,

“I might.” He says flippantly, broad shoulders shrugging as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, “But, I came here to serve you, My Queen.”

A deep and burning chill blooms in your core at his words and the resolute way he says them; it lights every nerve on fire, every cell and molecule, every atom in your being vibrating at a frequency you’ve never felt as the title rolls off his gilded tongue.

No, you’ve never met a man quite like this, and part of you questions if he truly is just a man at all- because no man has ever felt like this, no man has ever been able to pick you apart so quickly, make you feel bare with just his gaze alone.

He terrifies you as much as he excites you, and oh, how you’ve longed to feel something other than loathing, and boredom.

There is nothing practiced or placating about the smirk on your lips now as you nod toward your General, your handmaid once again adjusting the cumbersome fabric of your gown as you move forward-

“Well, you’ve gotten your wish, Ser Simon.” You coo as you breeze past him without a parting glance, “General Leon, make sure my guard is taken to his new quarters, will you?”

They fall into a sweeping bow as you exit, a quiet acknowledgement being the last thing you hear before the deep pulsing of your own heartbeat fills your ears.

What in the seven hells have I done..

[chapter 2 >>>]

[eternalsams]

I'm in the mood for some Jake Hangman Seresin like marriage fluff

fem!reader

like that?

or maybe like that?

Jake knocks at the door and waits until your best friend appears, holding closely the door so he can't see what's inside. Who's inside. "The photographer is ready, if she's still up for it." He says and he can hear your giggle from inside. "I'm still up for it, cowboy." He smiles, nods and takes a step back. "I'll be in the hall." He says before turning back and joining the photographer. The timing was perfect, the sun was giving a golden light to the hallway where Jake was waiting for you. His back was turned to the photographer who started taking some clichés of the groom. He looked radiant, the sun rays creating an angelic aura all around him. Jake almost turned around when he heard your heels clicking on the wooden floor. But as he was about to ruin the surprise, you stopped in your tracks and he remembered what exactly he was standing there for. The first looks.

The clicking started once more and he couldn't help the grin stretching his lips. He could hear the photographer taking pictures and he never felt more jealous than at this moment. When you were just a few feet away from him, he started shaking from excitement. This was definitely the best day of his life, there was no doubt about it. "Honey?" You call for him and he knows it's his signal to turn around. When his eyes finally land on you, he cannot suppress stretching his lips. "Oh, baby..." He scoffs, not believing his eyes. You were just perfect, the long white dress fits perfectly your body. "Do you like it?" You grab the skirt of your dress and move it a little bit. Jake softly groans and rubs his face with his left hand, the one where you'd find a ring at the end of the day. "If I like it? You- Can you give me a twirl, baby?" You happily comply with a giggle and he almost tries to reach out for you. "Tut tut tut! No touching, Mr Seresin." You take a step back and he sighs, trying to charm you with puppy eyes. You chuckle and take another step back, knowing it's almost time for you to walk down the aisle.

"I'll see you at the altar?" You smile at him and his lips stretch in a smirk. "I'll be the handsome guy trying not to cry." He says and you laugh once more. "I'll be the pretty lady in white, definitely crying." He sends you another smile and blows a kiss in your direction. "I love you." He says as you open the door to leave him alone in the hallway. "I love you more." You answer without hesitation. "That's not possible." He only says before you disappear from his sight. He keeps staring at the door you just closed behind you with a silly smile before turning to the photographer. "Was that good for you?" He asks him as the man checks his clichés. "Perfect. You're gonna love them." The man smiles. "I'm sure we will." Jake nods and joins Javy in the lobby to hear his best man instructions.

[feyhunter78]

Chapter Thirteen - It is the night to celebrate your dear friend, but the tensions with Jon only grow greater.

Note: This is the same day as the previous chapter

Ch 14

You have never seen a nameday so beautiful, the ones within King’s Landing are grand, opulent, but here in Highgarden, they are beautiful. The Great Hall is decorated with flowers, a feast the likes you have never seen set along the walls. The musicians are far more skilled than those in King’s Landing, and you find yourself enraptured by the fragrant blossoms surrounding you.

Margaery enters the hall on the arms of Tommen and Loras, Robb’s necklace in place, his ring on her finger, her gown is a thing of beauty, silk, and gossamer fabrics, delicate but vivid embroidery. Her hair is twisted up in an intricate style, her crown set between two strands of hair left down to frame her face, she shines in the dying sunlight, the sky behind her ablaze with pinks, red, oranges, and golds.

She and Tommen start the first dance, with those around them cheering to her health and the health of their marriage.

You have not yet seen Jon, and you are unsure whether you want to or not. He has been distant, holding you at length, avoiding you when he can. In the last few moons, you feel you have spent less time with him than you have the entire time you have known each other, and it is…strange. The distance hurts, he is your closest companion, your friend, your soon-to-be betrothed, your sworn shield, he has been by your side since you were five and ten. But now, now he is virtually a stranger to you. Not fully one, as there are still moments, times, when his eyes soften as he looks at you. When he carries you to your chambers because you drank too much with Margaery, when you learned he slept outside the door to your room when your travel party stopped at inns along the Roseroad.

It is those moments of warmth that worsen your pain. It would be preferable if he were to close himself off completely, act as the Kingsguard does, instead of this back and forth. Then in time, you would be able to bury your feelings deep enough that they would no longer be a sharp, piercing pain but a dull throbbing ache that could be ignored. That would be swept over like the ocean waves sweep over the sand.

Jon claimed his distance was because he was busy. That he was devoting himself further to his swordsmanship, that he needed to act with greater care and propriety in order to not draw suspicion upon you both. Yes, his reasons could be seen as understandable, but no one has ever truly cared. Since you were both young you have acted in a companiable and familiar manner, but now with the way he is acting, people are far more suspicious than they were before. How he does not see this you cannot understand. You know he is not an idiot but, it seems there are still ways of the court he has not learned.

You wrap your arms around yourself, feeling exposed without Jon at your side, perhaps he has grown tired of you? Your silk gown is a petal pink with silver embroidery, that cinches at your waist and dips low to display your décolletage. It is beautiful, but far more revealing, than you would normally choose to wear. Would Jon like it? He most likely would not even notice it, given how he avoids looking at you. 

Your hair is loose and styled in waves, and your customary golden bangles have been swapped for ones of silver, a diamond necklace is draped around your neck. Small rubies gleam from their places below the diamonds hanging from strands of silver. It was a gift from your Uncle Robert, given to you on your first Maiden’s Day. The irony is not lost on you that your aunt would choose it for the day on which she is attempting to sell you out like a broodmare. Though you will not deny, it is one of your favorite pieces.

Finally, you spot Jon, and it feels as if someone has draped a warm blanket over you, no longer feeling so alone among the crowd of strangers. He is with your father, which is both strange and not so strange, but what is strange is that Jon wears no armor. Instead, he is dressed in his house colors, in finery you did not know he owned, his hair pulled back, his sword nowhere to be found, and he is wearing rings, well one ring, a signet ring.

“Father, Ser Jon, this is quite a surprise. Have I been tricked, and it is truly my nameday?” You try to jest, taking a step towards Jon, a force of habit you cannot break, reaching to run your fingers down the arm of Jon’s doublet. “You look so very handsome, my champion, is this new?”

He takes a step back, avoiding your touch, and it is a dagger though your heart. He has never rejected your touch before, truly he must have lost feelings for you, but when, and why? Has another slipped beneath your nose and taken him from you? How would it even be possible?

Your Aunt Cersei was right, there is no point to loving men, they will always disappoint you and when you love them it will only hurt you more.

The hurt must have shown on your face, your father reaches for you, but you shrug him off, avoiding both their eyes.

Fine, if Jon wishes to be distant, then so shall you. “The Dowager Queen has a list of suitors she would like me to dance with tonight, I am afraid I will not be able to spare a dance for either of you.”

“A pity, but I understand, do have fun, little lion.” Your father says, giving your hand a pat before heading off towards the nearest feast table.

Jon remains in place, unable to meet your gaze. His boots are shiny, his strong shoulders, muscled arms, and broad chest displayed by the gray cloth that encompasses them. He is so very handsome, a marble statue, a god, an ancient warrior, a conqueror who takes what he desires.

Y/N now is not the time, you are angry with him, and he does not care for you. You internally chastise yourself, donning a mask of indifference.

“Well, are you going to return the compliment, or are you too busy to even speak to me?” You fully fail to sound unaffected by his actions.

“You look very nice, My Lady.” He says, in that same stilted tone that makes you want to scream.

You take a step closer, glaring up at him, unable to stop yourself. “Why are you speaking to me in this way, it is me, y/n, not some stranger.”

He sighs, and takes a step back from you, that same uninterested, stiff tone, drilling into your mind, past your walls of civility, hitting deep, triggering the tripwire of your insecurities and anxieties disguised as rage. “My Lady, it is not proper—”

“Shut up, shut up, I do not wish to hear from you until you stop acting like this.” You snap, anger boiling over in your chest. “Get out of my sight, Lord Snow.”

You turn away from him, blinking back angry tears, and search the hall for your aunt.

You have danced with an Algood, a Tarbeck, a Swyft, a Crakehall, a Blackmont, an Arryn, and Tommen to give yourself a break from the suitors. As well as a Hightower which your aunt quickly ushered you away from telling you he was a fourth son who had slid his way in, and not on her list. Now you dance with a Bracken.

Lord Hendry Bracken, who will be heir to House Bracken if his uncle does not have a son before he dies. He has light brown hair, ale-colored eyes, and a sweet smile. He is not necessarily charming, or overly handsome, but he seems kind and does not talk over you as the Blackmont man did.

“And then my cousin Bess chased me around the halls with a frog in her hand until her father caught us.” He says, laughing as he tells a story of his time growing up alongside his five female cousins.

You laugh as well, imagining a little Hendry running from a frog carried by his cousin, who was no more than a year older than him. “That is terrible, you poor thing.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, do not pity young me, after my uncle forced her to put the frog back outside, I ended up venturing into the gardens to ensure it had returned to its pond safe and sound.”

Your heart warms at his words. “That was quite sweet of you.”

He blushes and shrugs. “I have always felt compassion for those smaller and less able to defend themselves, especially when it comes to animals, they have no voices to speak with, so we must speak on their behalf.”

His sentiment makes you think of Ghost, of the way he and Jon communicate wordlessly.

“It is an admirable trait.” You say, giving him a radiant smile. You could not see yourself falling in love with Lord Hendry, but his kind words and humorous stories have lightened your heart, if only for tonight.

The song comes to an end, and you find yourself reluctant to leave him in favor of a new suitor.

“Perhaps we might exit the floor and refresh ourselves? Have you tried the wine in the golden glasses? The wine within is from a vineyard named for Queen Margaery, and it is perhaps the sweetest, most refreshing wine I have ever had the pleasure of tasting.” Hendry suggests, offering you his arm.

You take it with a grateful smile. “I have not, though the queen was telling me all about that very vineyard on our journey here.”

Hendry leads you over to the table and hands you a glass, you take a sip, about to speak when a flash of yellow and white catches your attention.

Jayne Westerling. You truly have no reason to dislike the girl; she is quiet, shy. Your Uncle Jaime described her as not a beauty worth losing a kingdom for, which you will admit you laughed at. But there is simply something about her that irks you. Something that sets you on edge, as if her sweetness is a farce covering a far more devious countenance.

You track her movements, your glass still at your lips, your grip on it tightening when you see her stop in front of Jon, your Jon, with two wine glasses in her hands. They have been talking, dancing, and spending time together. Is it her? Has she somehow stolen your champion?

“Lady Lannister, are you quite alright?” Hendry asks.

Jayne smiles, laughs, throws her hair over her shoulder flirtatiously, and you drain your glass then slam it down onto the table. “You must excuse me, My Lord, I have something I need to take care of.”

It is simple, find Margaery, have her direct you to her cousin who would anger Jon the most, and dance with him, as close to Jon and Jayne as possible.

The Tyrell man whose name you do not know, and do not care to learn, attempts to talk to you, but you are intent on listening to Jon and Jayne’s conversation.

There is more giggling, more flirting, and when you hear Jon compliment Jayne’s dress, telling her she looks like a flower maiden in summer, you turn to your dance partner.

“Do tell me about yourself, good sir, I am quite interested.” Your voice is not overly loud, but loud enough for Jon to hear, and it is dipped in honey, heated by the flames of desire, as near as you can fake them at least.

The Tyrell begins to blather on, and you laugh in all the right places, leaning in close, and letting him spin you in a way that nearly bumps you into Jayne.

When the song ends, you go up on your toes and whisper your thanks in his ear, letting your hands linger on his chest. You step back and giggle as you curtsy, agreeing to a second dance with him when Jon catches your wrist.

“My Lady, you are needed.” He says, his eyes steely as he leads you out of the Great Hall and down a side hallway.

The hallway is darker than the Great Hall, and it takes your eyes a moment to adjust. “Is it my father?” You ask, looking around, there is no one in sight.

“It is clear you cared not for the blathering on of that foul man, and yet you agreed to a second dance. Tell me, what game is it that you are playing, My Lady?” Jon demands, his eyes blazing, his hand still holding your wrist as he comes to a stop.

“How would you know if I cared or cared not for his words? Perhaps in the few moons you have been ignoring me, I have changed my interests.” You counter, fixing Jon with your own withering stare.

He laughs humorlessly. “You do not change interests, not so much that you find talks of hunting and tanning to suddenly be enrapturing.”

“I do find a good hunting tale to be interesti—did I not tell you to leave my sight?” You say, cutting yourself off before Jon can drag you off course.

He takes a step towards you, looming over you, his lips set in a hard line. “You did, but you did not say I could not return to it.”

“Semantics.” You wave your hand dismissively. “I do not want to see you, and I do not appreciate being pulled away on a lie.”

Another step. “It was not a lie.”

“Who needs me then? Surely it is not you, the honorable Lord Jon Snow.” You snark, crossing your arms over your chest.

He does not answer, simply watches you, drinks your torchlit form in.

“If you have nothing to say, then I shall return to Lord Tyrell, he had much to say to me.”

Suddenly your back is pressed against the wall, the stone cool against your heated skin, Jon’s strong arms encaging you, his head dipping low, his voice even lower, his dark hair still tied back and his eyes nearly black in the shadows of the hall. “You cannot keep on this way.”

You look up at him, still breathless from the dance and your argument. “What do you mean?”

His eyes flit down to your rising and falling breasts, soft skin exposed by the low-cut gowns your aunt had made for you, gowns meant to tempt your potential suitors, the ones you wished would tempt him. “You know what you are doing, y/n.”

“I do not, so unless you are going to tell me, I would ask you to release me.” You say imperiously, though you hope he does not release you. It feels as if it has been ages since you had his attention fully on you, since he dared to stand so close.

“The laughing, the flirting, the smiles and fluttering of eyelashes, the pouts? You are driving every man in the room mad with desire.” He says, his accent thickening, the rough brocade making your stomach flip, your heart nearly beating out of your chest.

“I am simply enjoying the party; I cannot control if men look at me, if they wish to dance with me. Would you have me say no? Answer every lord and knight who asks for a dance with an icy glare and utter contempt?”

“Yes. Yes, I would.” Jon growls, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, his hands curling into fists on the wall above you, his chest heaving with the act of self-restraint. “I would have you tell them to sod off, that your hand is spoken for.”

“But I cannot, there has been no formal betrothal, and it would be rude.” You tell him, lifting your chin in defiance. He has been hot and cold with you, and you are sick of it, you need to hear him say it, hear him admit he still wants you.

“Others take them and any sense of rudeness, you are mine.” He snarls, gripping the back of your neck, his fingers spreading out into your hair, his touch is not harsh, but firm, for Jon is never rough with you.

Goosebumps adorn your skin, liquid heat filling your veins. It feels good to hear him say it, to see him so possessive, see him feel the way you have felt watching that Westerling girl fall all over him. “Am I? Because it seemed that perhaps Lady Jayne had taken my place.”

Jon laughs, the sound harsh. “The Westerling? You have thrown a fit because of some girl I met only tonight?”

“I am not throwing a fit, I am acting as an unmarried lady must, to secure a match.” You argue, throwing the unmarried part in his face.

He shakes his head, before dipping it lower, trailing his lips along the curve of your neck nipping at the skin as he goes. “If you wish to be a married lady so badly, my lioness, I will take you to the Godswood right now and throw my cloak over you. Would that suit you? Would that cease these unneeded flirtations?”

You draw a quick intake of breath, eyes fluttering shut as Jon kisses the crook of your neck, using the hand in your hair to guide your head, exposing more sensitive skin to his touch.

“Would my starlight like that? To finally be Lady Dayne, the pretty lioness with her husband who trails after her, devoted, desperate, a lovesick wolf pup who wants only to make his lovely wife happy?”

This, this is what you have needed to hear.

“Yes, please, Jon, I want to be your wife.” You say, your hands pressed to his chest, desperate to feel his heart beating beneath his doublet.

“I want you to be my wife as well, more than you will ever know y/n, but we must wait.” Jon says softly, and your eyes fly open, the illusion shattered.

You shove at his chest angrily; he predictably does not move, but you do it again anyways. “Gods take me, I cannot wait any longer. I cannot stand pretending I am interested in others. I cannot stand their lewd words, their stares, and I cannot pretend that I am unfazed by the stares you get, the whispers I hear, the maids and ladies that do not shy away from lusting after you.”

“I know, I know, but—” The sound of footsteps makes him jerk away from you, and you turn away from the sound, arms folded across your chest.

“Oh Lady Lannister, Ser Jon, I had wondered where you two had run off too.” Jayne’s voice is cloyingly sweet, and it infuriates you.

You turn towards her with a placid smile. “Apologies, Lady Westerling, I seem to have eaten something that does not agree with me, and Ser Jon was helping me to my chambers.”

Jayne makes a sound of sympathy. “Was it the shellfish? I find they are often the culprit.”

“My Lady does not enjoy she—”

“Yes, it was.” You take a step away from Jon. “Ser Jon, will you escort Lady Westerling back to the party? I will return to my chambers on my own.”

Jon moves to argue, but your expression is unyielding, and you storm off in the direction of your chambers, wiping away angry tears as you go.

You know it is not fair to blame Jon, he is trapped as you are, but you are still angry. Gods, your father was right. It would be easier if he was a Targaryen, then he could steal you away on a dragon. No one would argue, no one would be able to cite him as not a good enough match for you, they would have to accept the marriage or face dragonflame.

The sound of hurried footsteps nearly makes you turn, but you have no desire to see who is coming down the hall, especially not as tears continue to slide down your face.

“Lady y/n, please, wait.” Jon calls.

“What, whatever could you want?” You snap, continuing to walk forward, vision slightly blurred, tears dripping onto your dress.

He catches up to you easily, pulling you into a shadowy alcove. “I simply wish to talk, to understand what has made you so angry.”

You fix him with a stunned look, blinking away your tears. “How can you not know? I have stated it quite clearly.”

“I understand you are upset that we cannot yet marry, but the plan y/n.”

A sob rips from your throat, and you shake your head. “It is more than that and you know it.”

Jon cups your face, his own a portrait of guilt-ridden agony. “Please, please, do not cry, my starlight, I cannot bear to see you cry.”

“Do not tell me what to do.” Your words sound much less sharp than you wished them to.

He wipes your tears away with his calloused thumbs catching them as quick as they fall. “I am sorry, y/n I am so, so sorry, I never should have danced with Lady Westerling.”

You pull away from him with an angry sob, continuing your blind storm down the hall. “I do not care about Lady Jayne.”

Jon beats you to your chambers, opening the door for you, giving you no choice but to enter or keep walking down the hall.

You enter, keeping your back to him as you throw open the balcony doors, lungs burning for fresh air. You are suffocating under the weight of this night, of this unknown plan, of the hurt you feel knowing you can not go a single day without speaking to Jon, without being near him. Yet, he seems to be able to survive moons without you.

“Then what do you care about, because I am lost, y/n.” He says, and you can feel his presence behind you, still in the doorway, close but not close enough, just as he has been since he spoke with your uncle.

“You! I care about you, Jon, as I always have.” You tell him, turning to face him, throwing your arms in the air helplessly, tears streaming down your face.

“Then why did you cast me from your sight?” He wears that hurt puppy dog look that never fails to melt you, but your anger keeps you frozen.

How can he not know? How can he not see the pain he has caused you? Jon is not a fool, he is not blind, and truly there is no one who can read you better than him and yet it is as if you have suddenly been written in another language.

“You have been so cold, so distant, these past few moons. Then you storm up to me tonight and act as if I am doing something wrong. As if I am hurting you, when it is you who has been hurting me.” You tell him, your hands balled into fists at your side to hide their shaking. “Even now you stand so far from me, and I know you say you are training, that you wish to protect our reputations, but I cannot go on like this.”

Jon says your name softly.

“No, Jon, I cannot hear another excuse. I know my uncle said something to you, but is he truly the man to take advice from? Seven knows I love him, but…” You wrap your arms around yourself, wiping your tears with your sleeves, uncaring if they are stained with cosmetics. “If there is someone else, if I have lost your affections, you must tell me because I cannot understand what else would cause you to hurt me in this way.”

“There is no one else.” He says fervently, desperately. “Y/N I swear it to you, there is no one else.”

You cannot look at him, casting your eyes towards the moon. “I love you Jon, but I cannot bear this distance any longer, you must make a choice.”

“A choice?” He rasps, the sound so quiet it is nearly drowned out by the wind.

The words taste bitter on your tongue, but they must be said. “To end this strange game, you are playing and return to being the man I have known for the last four years or continue to play it, and I will ask my father to release you from my service and allow you to return home to Winterfell.”

Your words linger in the night air, the space between you and him not even the length of two grown men, yet it feels like an ever-widening chasm.

“You would release me from your service?”

You wipe away a stray tear, throat tight with grief. “If it is what you desire.”

“You would send me away?” His voice is strained, and you chance a look at him.

He is beautiful in the moonlight, a tragic beauty, as to look upon him pains you. His dark eyes cannot settle on one part of your face, as if this is the last time they will ever see it. The thought tears at the flimsy hold you have on your composure, and you press your hand to your aching chest.

“I do not want to.” You sob, curling your fingers around your necklace, desperate for something to hold onto. “But I cannot play your game, I am drowning without you, and if you wish to leave, if it will make you happy—”

Jon crosses the balcony in two large strides, and pulls you into his embrace, crushing you to his chest. “I love you, gods, y/n I am so sorry, I love you, I love you, I love you. I do not wish to leave, do not send me from your side, it would not make me happy, you make me happy.”

“Then why, why have you kept your distance from me? There have been so many things I wished to tell you, so many times I wished to reach out, but you turned from me.”

Jon rests his forehead against your own. “Your uncle, he spoke of his grief, how he did not wish me to further entangle myself with you as it would only cause us both pain.”

“Why would you listen to him?”

“Because I was afraid, and I felt…guilty. If he had seen it, then others would. I thought that if I kept my distance until we were formally betrothed, I could spare you further harm.” He sighs and rubs his hands up and down your arms soothingly. “Clearly I was mistaken.”

“Clearly.”

He squeezes your arms playfully. “It harmed me too; do you think it was not torture? That I did not miss you? That I did not curse myself for turning from you, that I did not drive myself mad trying to stay away from you?”

“Seems well deserved.” You pout, wrinkling your nose, even though you know you are being slightly petulant.

“Aye, it was.”

You bask in his warmth, listening to the sound of his breathing, clinging to him like a drifter at sea. “Is that the only thing you have been keeping from me?”

“There is more, I cannot tell you until the morn, but I will give you something to tide you over.” Jon says, wiping away the remainder of your tears with his calloused thumbs.

“More waiting, how wonderful.” You deadpan.

His voice drops to a whisper, a smile tugging at his lips. “My father is alive.”

You jerk back, shocked then delighted, soon Jon will be claimed, you truly will be able to marry soon. “Truly? Oh, Jon, that is wonderful news.”

Jon pulls you back, tilting your head gently and ghosting his lips over yours. “It is. Though I would rather speak of him in the morn, for I found myself missing your touch greatly these past few moons and have not yet gotten my fill.”

With a giggle, you melt against him, looping your arms around his neck, letting him tilt your chin up so that your lips meet. It is like returning home, laying down in a familiar bed, the stress of the day falling away. He smells different, a hint of spice, and you taste no hint of wine on his tongue.

“Did you not drink tonight?” You ask against his lips, your heart pounding as it always does for him.

“I could not risk finding my way to your chambers, bolstered by wine again. Not when it had been so long since I have held you in my arms. I feared I would fall upon you like a savage beast.” He breathes, his hands gliding down your body, the silk so thin you can feel the warmth of his hands through it.

“I would not mind that.” You admit, running your fingernails lightly down the nape of his neck, relishing the shiver it brought forth, a soft groan slipping from his lips.

“Do not tease me, I beg of you.” He pleads even as he pulls you closer, his nose trailing down the curve of your face.

“I should, you paid me such a horrid compliment in the Great Hall, it would only be fair.” You say, an indigent whine slipping past your whispered tones.

“I do apologize. I wished to say how beautiful you looked, how you shined, how if you were a goddess I would fall to my knees and worship you endlessly.” He says, tracing the curves of your body with his fingertips.

You let out a shuttering breath, eyes closed, as you allow Jon’s words and touch to wash over you, to ease your emotions as they always did.

“Is that better, my starlight? Am I forgiven for such a grievous blunder?” He teases, nipping at your bottom lip.

“If you do that trick with your tongue, you shall be.” You say breathlessly, as the tip of his tongue darts out to soothe the sting.

“As you wish.” He says, recapturing your lips wholly, his tongue meeting your own in a familiar dance.

A wolf whistle followed by drunken cheering has you both dropping to the floor, chests heaving, and hands pressed over your mouths to keep from laughing.

“Perhaps we should move this inside?”

TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film

[itsabouttimex2]

Platonic yandere monkey family finding out y/n is dating redson

Monkiefam reacts to dating Red Son

(Alternate Scenario)

MK will no doubt be the calmest about this situation... depending on the season. In the start, he’ll be incredibly upset (even somewhat betrayed) about you dating his very dangerous rival. Let’s not forget that Red Son was once very willing to harm innocent people in his quest to take over the world/please his father.

Once Early!MK learns about your relationship with Red Son he’s genuinely worried for you, thinking you might have been coerced into the relationship in some way. This fear sets him on the war path, racing off to the Demon Bull King’s fortress. He’ll unhesitatingly smash through hordes of Bull Clones, ripping apart the metal of the drones like wet tissue paper. Each machine-shattering swing of the Ruyi Jingu Bang brings him a step closer to you, a step closer to the dining hall that serves as the center room of the armored fortress.

Where he finds you and Red Son sitting across from one another, happily sharing a meal together.

His heart is struck with anger and relief in unison, his diametric emotions spread between the both of you. He’s furious at Red Son, for daring to try and court his precious sibling, but also eased by the fact that you’re clearly unharmed and here by your own will and volition. By nature of being someone very precious to him, you garner far less anger from MK than his rival does, but he’s still upset. His voice takes on a gruff edge as he angrily scolds you, sounding much like Pigsy does when the chef flips his lid.

“You came here?! Without telling me?! To go on a date with my rival?!”

Any protests, excuse, or explanations from you are summarily dismissed as he grabs you by the wrist, swinging his golden staff against the ground. Bits of tech and clutter from around the house gather together, forming a small mech with the both of you in the cockpit. Red Son can only stare in shock as MK’s brand new mech stomps out of the fortress, each angry step shaking the ground.

The ride home is tempestuous, his emotions flaring as he pilots the gold and red mech, biting his tongue to keep himself from yelling at you. He’s angry, sure, but he still loves you. MK doesn’t want to drive you away or hurt your feelings, after all. He just wants to keep you safe.

Even if it means cutting you off from your ‘boyfriend’. He’s only doing it for your own good, of course.

Sun Wukong has seen people make a lot of bad decisions in his time. Even as knowledge and resources grow wider spread and more readily available, people stay foolish, small-minded, reckless. Sometimes by circumstance. Sometimes by choice. And one of the greatest motivators for foolish decisions, staying consistent through the centuries-

is love.

Love, whether fleeting and passionate or slow and drudging, changes people. It inspires them to perform grand gestures, to better themselves, to grow and learn. Love makes people into artists, writers, sculptors, all so that they can share with the world with the white-hot beat of their hearts.

And then, equal and opposite, it drives them to violence and bloodshed. Blood-red hands born of green-eyed envy driven to take up sharp knives and heavy cudgels. It breeds wicked plots and gruesome schemes, tricking people into throwing their lives away for a fleeting flame that’s destined to burn out.

Love is beautiful and dangerous in equal amounts, something to be both cherished and feared.

Sun Wukong has seen both outcomes. He’s personally dealt with tragedies born of love, many times over. Not every coupling ends with marriage and children, a ring and a promise.

His own sworn brother, Zhu Baije, was cast out of heaven for attempting to seduce Guanyin, being reborn as a pig demon. Then, he never returned to the maiden in Gao village that he fell for, instead spending his life as a cleanser of altar leftovers.

Kui Mulang was separated from his lover for his crimes, and forced to become a furnace keeper. Tang Sanzang refused to marry the queen of the Women’s Kingdom, and then rejected the scorpion demon that stole him away.

He doesn’t tell you all of that, of course. He nudges you with an elbow and gives you a cheeky grin, saying that: “It doesn’t always end well, bud. Trust me, I’ve seen more than a few things in my time that would have you running for a cloister.”

He doesn’t warn you off of love entirely, or threaten you to not start dating. In fact, he’s not entirely opposed to the idea of you having a significant other. He’s a pretty easy-going guy, even when he’s staring down his enemies or cracking skulls open.

In fact, depending on who you go after, he might be entirely supportive of you!

Red Son is not a decision he will abide by, unfortunately. There’s just too many flaws to count, in Wukong’s opinion. Short-tempered, egotistical, elitist, violent, power-hungry… nothing that qualifies him to be your partner, honestly.

So the Great Sage goes about trying to casually split the two of you up, whether it’s finding his way “by coincidence” into your dates, or crashing any meetings you and the demon have. What can he say? He gets around a lot more these days, doesn’t he? It’s not strange to meet up in popular places around Megapolis.

Even though he continues to show up wherever you and Red Son meet, no matter how “off the beaten path” or “hole in the wall” it may be. He’ll never justify himself or explain why he’s there. But he will grab a table and join the two of you.

He might not be outright sabotaging the relationship, but he sure makes it hard to maintain and grow. He won’t candidly ruin it, but he keeps pushing and pushing, slowly fraying your nerves. It’s a trap, where he’s trying to push you into snapping at him. And if you do fall for it?

It does get worse.

Try to lash out at him, or demand that he go away. Yell at him, or push him away. Try it, and he’ll throw you over his shoulder and hop onto his flying cloud, racing you back to Flower Fruit Mountain. From there, he’ll forbid you from being with Red Son again, grounding you for the outburst he intentionally provoked.

Watching you grow upset with his decree, Wukong will wipe away the tears gathering up in your eyes, and pull you into a hug to comfort you. He doesn’t want you upset. He just wants you to himself.

“It’s alright, bud. Don’t worry about that fire guy. He’s pretty awful, honestly. Let’s sit down and watch something fun to take your mind off him, alright?”

And; for now at least, he’s got you.

No. Absolutely not. Macaque refuses to allow it. He doesn’t want to see you with anybody, but least of all a “hot-headed demon with daddy issues,” as he puts it. Where Wukong will show restraint by never outright ruining your dates and outings together, Macaque crosses that line unhesitatingly. Once he learns that you’re openly and happily dating a dangerous demon, he sets out to find you and rectify this little issue.

He stalks out to the park that you and Red Son are walking through, quietly following along as his glare burns into the demon’s back. His fury reaches a boiling point when the two of you settle onto a bench, Red Son’s hand slowly reaching out to yours.

He furiously stomps through the park, coming up behind the both of you. The shadows writhe and roil with each step he takes, coming alive to lash at the ground around them with ice-cold tendrils.

He summons up his shadow staff and swings it down, smashing the middle of the bench you and your boyfriend are sitting on to announce his presence, cleaving the metal cleanly and easily. You and Red Son both scramble to your feet, shocked and more than a little scared.

You specifically.

If there’s anything that gives him reason to pause, anything that stops him in his tracks, it’s the look of outright fear in your eyes. He takes a moment to catch his breath, dispelling his staff and quieting the rioting shadows. He’s still angry, sure. But he doesn’t want you to be afraid of him. So, even though he’s seething with fury, he stops short of actually harming Red Son, instead settling for dragging you away by your ear as you argue and protest his rough hold on you.

Macaque pulls you over to a shadow portal, still gripping your quickly-reddening ear between his thumb and pointer finger, pushing you in before him. He whips around to shoot Red Som a death glare, then turns back and jumps in after you.

You both pop out inside your shared house, Macaque’s foot tapping impatiently as he folds his arms, staring at you disapprovingly. You rub at your sore ear, glaring right back.

“No dating. I already told you this. One, you’re too young. Two, anyone could be an opponent in disguise. Three, he’s dangerous. Seriously, bad call. I thought you were smarter than this, kid.”

He goes silent when he sees the tears beading up in the corners of your eyes, maybe from pain, maybe from his lecture. He did just technically call you stupid. Macaque sighs, and pats your head.

“Look, just… go lay down. See if you can’t get some shut-eye, alright? I’ll check up on you when it’s time to eat.”

He sends you off to your room, spinning you around and nudging you off, sighing as you go. His powerful ears make it impossible to ignore your quiet sniffles and the sound of tears hitting the hardwood floors.

He’s not the bad guy here, he reminds himself. The bad guy is whoever’s trying to corrupt you or steal you away from him. Them, not him.

Never him.

[nixiefics]

Fire and Runes - Chapter Three

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x OC (Reilla)

Tropes: Arranged Marriage

Warnings: Targaryen typical incest, smut, canon typical violence and death, swearing, drinking

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a marvel of opulence and grandeur, transformed into a feast hall worthy of the newly crowned King and Queen Consort. Torches flickered on the stone walls, casting a warm golden glow that danced across the tapestries depicting scenes of Targaryen triumphs. Long tables stretched the length of the hall, laden with an extravagant array of dishes that spoke to the richness of the realm.

At the high table, Aegon and Reilla sat in places of honour, their chairs adorned with intricate carvings of dragons and their house sigils. Reilla's white gown shimmered in the firelight, the wedding cloak draped over her shoulders adding a touch of bronze to her otherwise pristine ensemble. Aegon, in his dark green tunic that nearly appeared black, exuded a regal presence, his eyes bright with the excitement of the day.

The feast had begun with a flourish, the first course arriving to a chorus of applause from the assembled lords and ladies. Platters of roasted boar, glazed with honey and cloves, sat alongside capons stuffed with chestnuts and figs. Freshly baked trout, swimming in rich almond sauce, and a whole roasted stag garnished with rosemary and lemons showcased the culinary expertise of the Red Keep’s kitchens. Bowls of exotic fruits from the Reach, wheels of cheese from the Riverlands, and baskets of warm, crusty bread completed the spread.

Servants moved gracefully among the tables, filling goblets with Arbor gold and Dorne’s finest wines. The air was thick with the mingling aromas of roasted meats and sweet pastries, creating an atmosphere of indulgence and celebration.

Lords and ladies approached the high table to offer their congratulations. Lord Baratheon, his face alight with pride, toasted the health and prosperity of the newlyweds. "To King Aegon and Queen Reilla," he proclaimed, his voice ringing through the hall. "May your reign be long and prosperous, and may your union bring peace to the realm."

Reilla smiled graciously, raising her goblet in response. "Thank you, Lord Baratheon," she replied, her voice carrying across the hall. "We are honoured by your presence and your kind words."

Lady Reyne, her expression warm and familial, approached next. "My dear Queen Reilla," she said, embracing her gently. "You are such a credit to House Targaryen – beauty, grace and fire enough to survive this lot at court."

"Thank you, Lady Reyne," Reilla replied, her voice filled with genuine affection. "Your support means a great deal."

As the night progressed, Aemond made his way to Reilla’s side. His keen eyes took in the bustling hall, always observant and calculating. "Congratulations, my Queen," he said, his tone respectful. "A splendid feast and an even finer match."

"Thank you, Aemond," Reilla replied, meeting his gaze with equal respect. "I trust the feast is to your liking?"

"Indeed," Aemond nodded. He leaned in slightly, his voice lowered. "But feasts aside, there are matters of the realm to consider. I have heard whispers of unrest in the Riverlands."

Reilla's expression grew serious. "I have heard the same. What do you suggest?"

"Sending envoys to reassure the lesser lords would be wise," Aemond advised lowly, eyes flicking to his brother. "Remind them of the benefits of unity under the crown. And an envoy with Lord Larys to secure Harrenhal – Daemon would be setting his eyes on it as a seat of power…"

Reilla nodded, brows furrowing thoughtfully. "I will speak with Aegon about it. Thank you for your counsel, Aemond."

Their conversation was interrupted by the musicians striking up a lively tune. Aegon turned to Reilla with a warm smile, extending his hand. "Shall we dance, my queen?"

"It would be my honour, my king," Reilla replied, her heart fluttering with excitement as she placed her hand in his.

The guests parted, creating a space in the centre of the hall for the royal couple. As the music swelled, Aegon and Reilla began to dance, their movements graceful and perfectly in sync. The hall seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them, united in their shared joy and love.

Reilla felt a thrill of excitement as they twirled and swayed, her gown flowing around her like a silken cloud. Aegon’s touch was warm and reassuring, and his smile filled her with a sense of belonging and contentment. The guests watched with admiration and delight, raising their goblets in tribute to the couple’s happiness.

As the dance came to an end, Aegon leaned in to whisper in Reilla’s ear, his breath warm against her skin. "You are truly radiant tonight, my queen. I am the luckiest man in the realm to have you by my side."

Reilla’s heart swelled with affection and pride. "And I am the luckiest woman, to be loved by a king as noble and kind as you."

They returned to their seats, the hall resuming its festive atmosphere. The night continued with more music, laughter, and camaraderie. Lords and ladies approached the high table, offering their congratulations and well-wishes. Ser Criston Cole, with his stoic demeanour, gave a respectful nod. "Your Grace, Your Majesty," he said. "May your reign be strong and just."

"Thank you, Ser Criston," Aegon replied, his tone sincere. "Your loyalty and service are invaluable to us."

Lady Redwyne, known for her sharp wit and keen political mind, approached next. "A splendid match, Your Grace," she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "I hope you are ready for the challenges of marriage."

"Thank you, Lady Redwyne," Reilla replied with a smile. "I do believe we are."

Aegon leaned towards Reilla, his eyes filled with admiration. "You handle these interactions with such grace."

Reilla smiled warmly. "It helps to have a strong and supportive king by my side."

As the evening wore on, the feast continued in full swing. Plates were refilled, goblets never emptied, and the laughter of the nobility echoed through the hall. Aegon and Reilla found moments to themselves amidst the revelry, their connection growing stronger with each passing hour.

Aegon caught sight of Aemond speaking with a group of lords, his demeanour calm and authoritative. Reilla followed his gaze. "He is a formidable politician," she remarked.

"Indeed," Aegon agreed. "His counsel is invaluable. And I am glad you get along well."

Reilla nodded. "We understand the importance of unity in these times."

Later in the evening, as the musicians began a slower, more intimate tune, Aegon took Reilla’s hand once more. "Shall we dance again?"

Reilla’s eyes sparkled with delight. "I would love to."

They moved to the centre of the hall, the fellow dancers watching with admiration as they danced together. The music swirled around them, creating a bubble of intimacy amidst the grand celebration. Aegon’s hands were firm and sure, guiding Reilla through the steps, his eyes never leaving hers.

"This feels like a dream," Reilla whispered, her voice filled with wonder.

"It is real," Aegon replied softly. "And it is just the beginning."

As the dance came to an end, the guests erupted into applause, their cheers filling the hall. Aegon and Reilla returned to their seats, their hearts full and their bond stronger than ever.

The atmosphere in the Great Hall of the Red Keep was electric, buzzing with the excitement of the wedding feast. The lords and ladies of the realm had gathered to celebrate the union of Aegon and Reilla, filling the room with laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets. The air was rich with the aromas of the feast: roasted boar, spiced lamb, honeyed ham, and a cornucopia of fruits and sweetmeats that adorned the long tables.

As the night wore on, a particularly boisterous lord, well into his cups, called out, “To the bedding ceremony!” His declaration was met with a mix of cheers and laughter from the crowd, though a few raised eyebrows and disapproving glances were also cast.

Helaena, sensing the growing tension, stepped forward with a loud and deliberate clap of her hands. “Enough of that,” she said, her voice cutting through the din. “I wish to dance with my brother Aemond.”

Her interruption was perfectly timed, and the attention of the guests quickly shifted. The hall echoed with murmurs of approval as Helaena’s boldness provided the perfect distraction.

Taking advantage of the moment, Reilla leaned close to Aegon, her breath warm against his ear. “Now’s our chance,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Aegon grinned, catching onto her plan. “Then let’s make our escape,” he replied, his voice filled with playful excitement.

Hand in hand, they slipped from the dais and darted through the crowd, Reilla leading the way. The corridors of the Red Keep stretched out before them, dimly lit by torches flickering in their sconces. Aegon, unable to resist the moment, slowed his pace, letting Reilla pull ahead just enough for him to start chasing her playfully.

“Where do you think you’re going, my queen?” he called out, laughter in his voice. “You can’t escape me!”

Reilla glanced over her shoulder, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “Catch me if you dare!” she teased, her heart pounding with exhilaration.

They raced through the winding halls, their laughter echoing off the stone walls. Aegon’s longer strides closed the gap quickly, but he allowed Reilla to stay just out of reach, savouring the playful chase. She turned a corner, her gown flowing behind her like a whisper of moonlight, and Aegon followed, his own excitement growing with each step.

Finally, Reilla ducked into a narrow passageway, her breath coming in quick gasps as she reached the door to Aegon’s chambers. She fumbled with the latch for a moment, her hands trembling with anticipation, before managing to push it open.

Aegon was right behind her, his eyes alight with the thrill of the chase. As they stumbled into the room, he caught her around the waist, spinning her in a playful circle before setting her gently on her feet.

“Caught you,” he murmured, his voice husky with laughter and desire.

Reilla’s laughter mingled with his, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. “It seems you have,” she replied, breathless and exhilarated.

They paused for a moment, catching their breath and savouring the shared joy of their escape. Then Aegon’s expression grew more serious, though his eyes still sparkled with delight. “You know, I’m going to get criticism from the lords for not completing the bedding ceremony,” he said, though there was no real worry in his voice.

Reilla smiled, a soft, knowing smile. “I have just the thing to cheer you up,” she said, her voice filled with promise. “Wait for me on the bed.”

Aegon’s curiosity was piqued, and he nodded, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. As he waited, he watched Reilla disappear behind the changing screen. The anticipation was almost unbearable, his thoughts filled with wonder and excitement at what she had planned.

Reilla shed her wedding gown as quickly as she was able and slipped into the nightgown Helaena had commissioned for her. It was a masterpiece of Myrish lace, delicate and ethereal. The fabric was sheer, adorned with intricate patterns that accentuated her curves and left just enough to the imagination. The lace hugged her figure, the fine material flowing gracefully as she moved.

When she stepped out from behind the screen, the sight of her took Aegon’s breath away. He had seen many beautiful things in his life, but nothing compared to the vision before him now. His heart pounded as he took in every detail: the way the lace clung to her, the delicate patterns that danced across her skin, and the way her hair cascaded around her shoulders.

Aegon’s reaction was immediate and visceral. His breath caught, and his pulse quickened, a deep, almost primal desire flooding through him. He had never felt such a powerful combination of awe, wonder, and sexual hunger. His body reacted instinctively, heat pooling low in his belly as he drank in the sight of her.

Reilla, for her part, felt a surge of confidence under his intense gaze. She moved closer, each step measured and deliberate, her heart pounding with a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. When she reached him, she paused, her eyes meeting his, a silent question in their depths.

Aegon answered without words, reaching out to pull her gently into his arms. He could feel the heat of her body through the delicate fabric of the nightgown, and it drove him wild. His hands roamed over the lace, savouring the feel of it and the warmth of her skin beneath.

Their lips met in a kiss that was both tender and ravenous. The connection was electric, sending shivers up Reilla’s spine and making her toes curl with delight. Aegon’s kiss was hungry and passionate, a declaration of his desire. He kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring her mouth with a fervour that left her breathless.

Reilla responded with equal passion, her fingers threading through his hair as she pressed closer to him. The heat between them was palpable, a fierce and consuming fire that left them both yearning for more. Each touch, each caress, stoked the flames higher, filling the room with a heady mix of desire and love.

When they finally pulled apart, their breathing was heavy, their bodies tingling with the intensity of their kiss. Aegon looked at Reilla with a mixture of awe and adoration. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as much as I want you right now. Issa gevie ābrazȳrys.” Aegon whispered as he slowly reached out and ran his fingers over Reilla’s lace covered breasts. His hands slid the traps of the gown down her shoulders, marvelling at the soft, milky skin. (My beautiful wife.)

“Issa sȳz jurnegēre valzȳrys.” Reilla smiled up at him, tucking some hair away from his face. (My handsome husband.)

Aegon's breath hitched as Reilla's soft whisper reached his ears, her words igniting a fierce longing within him. The delicate lace of her nightgown felt tantalizingly fragile beneath his fingers as he pulled her closer, their bodies moulding together with an urgency that belied their previous playfulness.

Reilla's hands were hesitant at first, but as they found their way to Aegon's bare chest, her touch became more confident. Her fingers traced the contours of his muscles, marvelling at the smoothness of his skin and the strength she felt beneath her fingertips. She could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat, a testament to the desire they both shared.

Aegon’s hands roamed over the intricate patterns of the Myrish lace, revelling in the sensation of Reilla’s body beneath the delicate fabric. His touch was firm yet tender, exploring the curves of her hips, the dip of her waist, and the softness of her breasts. The nightgown left little to the imagination, and Aegon’s imagination was running wild.

He kissed her deeply; their mouths moving together in a dance of hunger and need. His tongue traced the seam of her lips before delving inside, tasting her sweetness. Reilla moaned softly into his mouth, her hands sliding up to his shoulders and then down his back, feeling the play of muscles under his skin. His back was a marvel to her, each ridge and line fascinating under her questing fingers.

Their kiss grew more fervent, more desperate, as they lost themselves in the heat of the moment. Aegon’s hands found the hem of her nightgown, lifting it slightly to brush his fingertips against the bare skin of her thigh. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through Reilla, her breath catching as she pressed closer to him.

Reilla’s fingers traced the line of Aegon’s spine, her touch light and teasing. She felt him shiver under her touch, a reaction that sent a thrill of power through her. She let her hands wander lower, exploring the hard planes of his abdomen and the slight indents that hinted at his strength.

Aegon pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark with desire as he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “I want to remember every inch of you.”

Reilla’s heart pounded at his words, her cheeks flushing with a mix of shyness and boldness. “My body is yours, Aegon.” she whispered, her hands slipping around to the front of his breeches, tracing the edge with a feather-light touch.

Aegon groaned softly, his hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. He kissed her again, this time slower, more deliberate, as if trying to memorize the taste and feel of her lips. Reilla responded in kind, her kisses growing more confident, more demanding.

Their hands continued to explore, each touch building the tension between them higher and higher. Aegon’s fingers slipped beneath the lace of her nightgown, tracing the curve of her spine, while Reilla’s hands roamed over his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing.

Their kisses became more heated, more desperate, as they clung to each other. Aegon’s hands found the soft swell of her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples through the thin fabric, eliciting a gasp from Reilla. She arched into his touch, her own hands gripping his shoulders as she kissed him with a fervour that matched his own.

The room seemed to grow warmer, the air thick with the scent of desire and the sound of their mingled breaths. Aegon’s hands were everywhere, touching, caressing, exploring, while Reilla’s fingers traced the lines of his body, committing each detail to memory.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing hard, their bodies trembling with the intensity of their passion. Aegon looked at Reilla with a mixture of awe and desire, his hands cupping her face tenderly. “I need you, Reilla,” he whispered, his voice filled with raw emotion. “I need all of you.”

Reilla smiled, her own eyes reflecting the same need. “Then take me, Aegon,” she whispered back, her voice a soft promise. “Mark me yours.”

“I want to make you feel good,” your husband finally uttered in a whisper. Of course, she had heard the servants speaking of pleasure. That sometimes, if the man did ‘it’ just right, the woman would find bliss but she had never dared ask the question.

“How?” Reilla glanced at the space just above his breeches, where a small trail of blonde hair disappeared.

Aegon’s thumb caressed her cheek ever so softly, pressing on the supple plumpness under the pad of his finger. He had leaned away, not too far, just enough to gauge Reilla’s reaction. Her throat felt dry, and she longed for a cup of wine or water.

“Will you let me?” he asked.

Reilla nodded her head, untrusting of her own words. As his deft hands lifted the nightgown to her hips, Reilla fisted the sheets tight in her hands. She watched him as he watched her, or her womanhood, rather. Aegon’s tongue ran over his bottom lip, his eyes twinkling under the subtle warmth of the dimness in his chambers. 

Reilla felt open… exposed. The urge to cross her legs threatened to overwhelm her, but Aegon’s hands caressing the meat of her thighs prevented her from doing so. He descended then, planting a trail of kisses down the inside of her thigh. Gooseflesh erupted over her skin, and Reilla gasped when he came close to her mound, making her grip his shoulder to stop him.

“Aegon…” she breathed out, eyes wild with panic.

“Let me do this for you, wife.” he whispered, taking her wrist to direct his kisses there. “Emagon pāsagon.” (Have faith.)

Reilla retracted her hand from his firm shoulder hesitantly, leaning her weight on her elbow to watch him. His breath was hot against her slit, which caused an involuntarily clench. He started with light kisses but soon progressed to little licks against her slit. His eyes flickered to gauge her reaction, where she had started to bite her lip to keep quiet. Two fingers parted her folds, baring her to his hungry gaze.

“Oh,” Reilla exhaled, tilting her head back, as his tongue delved deeper, penetrating her. With a surge of confidence, Aegon husband began to devour his little wife in earnest, licking and sucking. Sweet sounds, one he had never heard before in earnest, had started to spill from her lips.

A long finger soon replaced his tongue, entering her gummy walls as though it were his cock. He thrust it in and out of her the same way, and when he bent to feel up a rough patch within her walls, Reilla’s toes clenched as her spine bowed off the bed.

“Good?” Aegon asked sincerely. Reilla merely whined, the semblance of a nod greeting him.

His lips found her pearl, and then another finger joined the other. The king soon found a rhythm, one that had her writhing and moaning without shame.

Reilla could feel the pressure in her stomach build in a steady peak. It sparked her muscles to twitch in Aegon’s hold, growing convulsive as she was pushed closer to her precipice. Aegon watched as she finally came with a whine, her head thrown back into the feather mattress, grinning to himself at his accomplishment.

“Where did you learn how to do that?” Reilla asked, breathless. Black spots danced around her vision of him, swarming around the otherworldly sight of his flushed, glimmering lips and the loose silver strands that framed his face. It quirked into a small smirk as he regarded her, his arms caging her in between his hold. “No, wait don’t tell me.”

“It is of no consequence now.” Aemond responded. Reilla dared not ask what he meant, unwilling to learn who he had sucked and licked the way he did in order to be so proficient in the act, how he had learned to poke all the right places to earn such lewd sounds from her. Reilla merely hummed, tracing the line of his jaw in a trance.

His deft fingers had grabbed a hold of the straps of her nightgown, pulling them down to bare her fully to him. She let him, willingly so, encouraged by the look in his eyes that promised more. His gaze was fixed her breasts immediately before his warm, calloused hands took them into his hold. They fit perfectly in his palms, much their combined delight. Reilla bit her lip as he squeezed them, massaging the supple flesh and rubbing on your sensitive bud. Aegon could do this for hours, and if it weren’t for the throbbing in between his thighs, he would have.

He cleared his throat and stood, beginning to unlace and remove his breeches until he stood before her, cock stood stiff and weeping for attention. He was utterly handsome like this, bare and unguarded. She beckoned him closer, soft fingertips trailing his knuckles. “You are beautiful.”

He huffed in amusement, planting a kiss on her cheek before mumbling into her skin words she could not hear.

His stiff length was hot and heavy as it sat against her hip, a reminder of the fire that still coursed through their veins. Aegon pulled away, the look in his eyes taking a warmer, softer tinge. The smile on Reilla’s lips melted away to something sincere, hopeful. With a nod, she watched him take hold of his shaft, lining it upon her entrance. His breach was smooth but still, Reilla tensed.

“Don’t tense, love.” He murmured, kissing along her jaw before taking her lips in a passionate kiss to distract her from the pinching pain. Reilla breathed slowly, busying her mind with her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. He was pushing slowly, eyes shut tightly against the feel of her tight warmth around him.

“Fuck,” he growled when his hips settled flush against hers. He breathed out against her neck, raising more goosebumps. “Fuck, darling, please tell me when you’re ready.”

Reilla swallowed thickly and glanced down between them, where his cock disappeared. The pinching sensation had lessened and a blooming heat was spreading through her. He gripped at his shoulders and nodded at him, offering her mouth for a kiss.

Aegon’s hips took on a steady pace, rocking into her gently and slowly. It was nothing lewd or animalistic, but rather sensual, intimate. His face was buried into the crook of her neck, his grunts and moans traveling straight into her clavicle. Reilla was no better, her whines of building pleasure echoing into the quiet of the room.

Aegon took hold of her fisted hands and pried them open and intwined their fingers.

“Aegon,” Reilla breathed out. His nose pressed into the side of her face, breathing into the sweet scent of her dampening flesh.

“Say it again…” His voice was growing raspier by the second, but his tone was ever so soft. His lips closed around one of her nipples, sucking on the stiff bud in a way that made Reilla’s core clench around him.

“Aegon, oh, Aegon! My king,” she whined, holding onto the planes of his back as his pace hastened. His pubic bone rubbed on her pearl, sending shoots of fiery pleasure up and down her spine. She gripped him tightly, almost painfully, but he relished in it. He wanted to feel her everywhere, kiss on every ounce of flesh he could, she was his after all.

“My wife, my dearest queen. Will you come for me again? Spill around my cock, hm?”

Reilla nodded fervently at words, wanting nothing else to do exactly as he asked. His forehead was scrunched in concentration, lips barely an inch away from her. Their breath mingled and Reilla chased him when his tongue darted to lick a swipe across her bottom lip playfully.

She screamed his name as her release washed over her, moans swallowed by his hungry mouth. His length drove into her still, chasing his own release with the aid of her spasming walls.

Aegon pulled away to look at where they were connected, committing the sight of his cock, painted with a white ring around its base, disappearing into her sweet cunny. His pace grew rhythmless as his hips began to sputter. With a hand on his wife’s breast, the other on her jaw, Aegon came with an open-mouthed groan, spilling his hot seed deep into her womb.

When he collapsed by her side, she pulled him close to her chest, letting him lay on her breast with his softening length still nestled in her walls.

They lay there together in silence, comfortably breathless and boneless. His hand rubbed patterns on her waist, as hers ran over his back.

Slumber found them a while later, the heat emanating from Aegon’s bare body pressed against her in a comforting blanket.

Aegon and Reilla sat in the sunlit dining room of their shared quarters, enjoying a leisurely breakfast. The morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting a warm glow over the table laden with fresh fruits, bread, and various pastries. The room was adorned with rich tapestries depicting scenes of Targaryen history, and the scent of freshly baked bread and brewed tea filled the air.

Aegon looked at Reilla with a smile that hadn't left his face since their wedding night, his eyes full of contentment. "You seem to be glowing even more this morning," he teased, reaching across the table to take her hand.

Reilla laughed softly, her eyes twinkling with happiness. "And you, my king, look as if you haven't a care in the world."

Aegon chuckled. "That's because having you by my side makes all the difference. But truth be told, there are still matters that weigh on my mind."

"Are you nervous about Aemond leaving for Harrenhal?" Reilla asked, her tone gentle as she took a sip of her tea.

Aegon sighed, setting down his fork. "I am. Harrenhal is a fortress, but it's also a place of dark history and Larys Strong accompanying him puts me ill at ease, but the thought of Rhaenyra's loyalists trying to take it makes me angry."

Reilla nodded, understanding his concern. "Aemond is capable and determined. He'll do everything to secure it. Besides, Larys Strong is cunning and resourceful; he would never harm that hands that feed him."

He grinned at her words, knowing how much the man annoyed Reilla. She was too smart to say anything else, knowing that having Lord Strong at their side was a boon – he could easily decide that their cause was no longer his and disappear to Dragonstone to treat with Rhaenyra. “Soon he will be but a memory, darling.”

“Not a fond one.” Reilla muttered, chomping down on a strawberry as if it were Larys’ head.

Aegon leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "Mother mentioned looking at a betrothal for Aemond. She's been hinting at it for weeks, but there's been no announcement, not even a word in the Small Council meetings. It's unlike her to delay such matters."

"Do you have any idea who she might be considering?" Reilla asked, curious.

Aegon shrugged. "She hasn't mentioned any names. It's strange. She's usually so decisive."

Reilla pondered this for a moment. "I could ask her about it when I see her later. Perhaps there is something she's waiting for or some strategic reason for the delay."

Aegon nodded appreciatively. "I would be grateful if you did. Aemond deserves to know his future, especially before embarking on such a significant mission."

Reilla reached across the table and took his hand. "I'll speak with her. In the meantime, we need to trust Aemond's abilities and Larys' cunning."

Aegon squeezed her hand gently, his eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and love. "Thank you, Reilla. Your support means everything to me."

Reilla smiled warmly at him. "Always, my king. Together we will accomplish great things."

After finishing their breakfast, Reilla excused herself to prepare for the day. She walked to her chambers, where sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the elegant room. On the bed lay the new dress Aegon had gifted her, its rich green fabric shimmering in the light.

The dress was a masterpiece of Westerosi craftsmanship, designed to flatter her figure and exude regal grace. Made of fine silk, it was dyed a deep shade of emerald green that highlighted her striking Targaryen features. The bodice was intricately embroidered with golden thread, depicting dragons in flight.

The neckline was modest yet elegant, trimmed with delicate Myrish lace, and the long, fitted sleeves tapered to her wrists with tiny pearl buttons. The skirt flowed gracefully to the floor, creating a subtle, mesmerizing shimmer with every movement.

The dress also featured a belt of braided gold, cinching her waist and accentuating her figure. Reilla admired the way it moved as she turned, feeling a sense of pride and excitement. Aegon's thoughtful gift was not just beautiful; it symbolized his affection and support.

As she donned the dress, she completed her ensemble with delicate golden earrings and a simple necklace, her hair cascading in loose waves down her back. With one last glance in the mirror, she made her way to her next task, feeling every bit the Queen Consort she had become.

As she made her way to her good mother's chambers first, she thought about the strange delay in Aemond's betrothal announcement. It was unlike Alicent to keep such plans to herself for so long.

Entering Alicent's chambers, Reilla found the Queen seated by the window, reading a letter. The room was decorated with an elegant simplicity, reflecting Alicent's taste. Alicent looked up and smiled warmly at her daughter-in-law. "Reilla, it's lovely to see you. How are you this morning?"

"I'm well, thank you," Reilla replied, returning the smile. "I actually wanted to speak with you about Aemond. Aegon mentioned that you were considering a betrothal for him, but there hasn't been any news. He is curious, and so am I."

Alicent's expression grew thoughtful. "Yes, I have been considering a few matches for Aemond. However, the situation is delicate. We need to ensure that the alliance is beneficial to our house and strengthens our position against Rhaenyra. There are many factors to weigh."

Reilla nodded, understanding the complexity of the situation. "I see. Aegon is concerned about Aemond leaving for Harrenhal without knowing his future. It would give them both peace of mind to know your plans, I think."

Alicent sighed softly. "I understand. I will discuss this matter with the Small Council soon. Aemond's mission is critical, and he should know where he stands before he leaves."

"Thank you," Reilla said, feeling relieved. "I'm sure Aemond will appreciate it."

Alicent reached out and touched Reilla's hand. "You've been a wonderful addition to our family, Reilla. Your concern for all my children is commendable."

Reilla smiled, feeling a warm sense of belonging. "I have found true family with you all here and I will always support that."

After their conversation, Reilla made her way to Helaena's chambers. She found her good sister preparing for their visit to the city, watching a gaggle of servants ready the baskets of fresh food they would be taking with them. The room was filled with the scent of fresh flowers, and Helaena's presence brought a sense of calm and joy.

The princess was dressed in a gown of soft lavender, the colour complementing her fair skin and platinum hair. The dress was adorned with silver thread work that glittered in the sunlight, depicting intricate patterns of flowers and vines.

As Reilla approached, Helaena's face lit up with a warm smile. "You look beautiful, Reilla," she said, her voice gentle and sincere. "Aegon has excellent taste."

"Thank you, Helaena," Reilla replied, returning the smile. "You look stunning as always. The lavender suits you perfectly."

Helaena nodded appreciatively, then her gaze grew distant, as if she were seeing something far beyond the room. "A wolf dressed in pale blue," she murmured, her tone softening considerably. "There will be a wolf dressed in pale blue."

Reilla frowned slightly, puzzled by Helaena's words. "What do you mean, Helaena?"

Helaena blinked and seemed to come back to the present, her expression softening. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "Sometimes, I see things. They don't always make sense right away."

Reilla placed a comforting hand on Helaena's arm. "Your visions are a gift, Helaena. We should always heed them. Perhaps the meaning will become clear in time."

Helaena nodded, her gaze steady and reassuring. "Yes, perhaps it will. For now, let's focus on our task for the day."

The two women shared a determined look, then set off together towards the city, ready to deliver food to the orphanage. The words of the prophecy lingered in Reilla's mind, a reminder of the uncertain future that lay ahead.

As they made their way through the bustling streets of King's Landing, Reilla felt a sense of purpose and fulfilment. The people they encountered greeted them with smiles and gratitude, their spirits lifted by the generosity of their Queen and princess. The streets were alive with the sounds of merchants calling out their wares, children playing, and the general hum of city life.

Reilla and Helaena distributed food to the children at the orphanage, their hearts warming at the sight of the little faces lighting up with joy. They spent time talking with the caretakers, listening to their needs and concerns.

"These children have so little," Helaena said softly, her eyes reflecting her empathy. "It breaks my heart to see them suffer."

Reilla placed a comforting hand on her sister-in-law's shoulder. "We are making a difference, Helaena. One step at a time. And we will continue to do so."

Helaena nodded, her resolve strengthening. "Yes, we will."

As they made their way back to the Red Keep, Reilla reflected on the day's events. She felt a deep sense of satisfaction, knowing that she and Helaena were making a positive impact on the lives of those in need. Reilla knew that she and Aegon had many challenges ahead, but with the support of their family and their commitment to their people, they were ready to face whatever the future held.

Back at the Red Keep, Reilla found Aegon in their solar, poring over maps and muttering to himself about strategy. He looked up and smiled as she entered, his face lighting up at the sight of her.

"How was your day?" Aegon asked, his eyes full of curiosity.

"It was fulfilling," Reilla replied, taking a seat beside him. "We distributed food to the orphanage and listened to their needs. It's heartening to see how much a small act of kindness can mean to those children."

Aegon nodded, his expression thoughtful. "You have a good heart, Reilla. Our people are lucky to have you."

"And I am lucky to have you," Reilla said, leaning into him gently.

Their lips met in a tender, lingering kiss, filled with the warmth of their mutual affection. Aegon's hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair, as he pulled her closer. The kiss was soft and slow, a comforting embrace of lips that conveyed the depth of their feelings for one another. Aegon's other hand slid around her waist, holding her gently but firmly, as if he never wanted to let her go.

Reilla felt a shiver of delight run down her spine as the kiss deepened. She melted into his embrace, her hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her fingertips. The kiss was sweet and unhurried, each moment filled with the promise of their shared future. When they finally pulled apart, both were breathless, their eyes locking in a gaze that spoke of love, trust, and unspoken vows.

"You really do have a way of making everything better," Aegon murmured, his forehead resting against hers.

Reilla smiled, her heart swelling with pride. "I spoke with your mother earlier," she said softly, her fingers tracing patterns on his chest. "About Aemond and the betrothal she mentioned."

Aegon’s eyebrows raised in interest. "And what did she say?"

"She didn't give a definitive answer, but she seemed to be weighing her options carefully. I think she’s waiting for the right moment or perhaps the right match."

Aegon chuckled softly. "Matching Aemond’s intensity is no small feat. Did she hint at anyone specific?"

Reilla shook her head. "No, but she seemed thoughtful about it. I get the sense she wants to make a choice that will benefit both Aemond and the realm."

Aegon nodded, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "That sounds like Mother. She’s always thinking three steps ahead."

Their lips met once more, this time with a bit more urgency, a silent promise of their shared strength and unwavering support for one another. The warmth of their connection enveloped them, making the weight of the crown and the trials ahead seem just a little bit lighter.

The Small Council chamber was a grand and imposing room, its high ceilings adorned with intricate carvings and tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen. The room was lit by the warm glow of numerous torches, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. A large, polished table dominated the center of the chamber, surrounded by high-backed chairs reserved for the council members. King Aegon II Targaryen sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding respect and attention.

The attendees took their seats, their expressions reflecting the seriousness of the matters at hand.

Aegon cleared his throat, signalling the start of the meeting. "We have important matters to discuss today, the foremost being the departure of Larys and Aemond to Harrenhal to secure it against Rhaenyra’s loyalists."

Larys Strong leaned forward, his face a mask of calm calculation. "The task at Harrenhal is of utmost importance. Securing it will provide us with a strong foothold in the Riverlands and prevent any incursions from Rhaenyra’s supporters."

Prince Aemond nodded in agreement; his one remaining eye gleaming with determination. "We will ensure that Harrenhal is firmly under our control. Vhagar’s presence alone will serve as a significant deterrent."

Ser Otto Hightower, his expression thoughtful, added, "We cannot afford to show any weakness."

Aemond's gaze shifted to his mother, who seemed to be waiting for the right moment to speak. Alicent took a deep breath and addressed the council. "I have two viable options for Aemond’s betrothal, which will strengthen our alliances significantly."

All eyes turned to Alicent as she continued, "The first option is a daughter of House Baratheon. A marriage to one of Borros Baratheon’s daughters would secure his loyalty to our cause. Aemond, you may choose among the Baratheon girls as you see fit."

Aemond’s gaze flickered with interest, but he remained silent as Alicent presented the second option. "The second option is Rosyn Tully, the daughter of Lord Grover Tully. This marriage would not only solidify our hold on the Riverlands but also ensure that Harrenhal’s security is maintained. Additionally, if Aemond refuses Rosyn, Helaena could be married to one of Lord Grover’s younger sons, securing the alliance from another angle."

Ser Tyland Lannister, always calculating, leaned back in his chair, considering the implications. "Both alliances are beneficial. The Baratheons would provide strong military support, while the Tully’s would secure our position in the Riverlands."

Lord Jasper Wylde nodded in agreement. "We must weigh the benefits carefully. Aemond’s decision will significantly impact our strategy moving forward."

Aemond, who had been listening intently, finally spoke. "Both options have their merits. I will consider them carefully and will send my answer within a week."

Alicent smiled warmly at her son. "I know you will make the right choice, Aemond. These alliances are crucial to our success."

Aegon looked at his brother with pride. "Aemond, your judgment is valued here. Choose wisely, for the future of our realm depends on it."

The discussion then shifted to the logistics and strategies for securing Harrenhal. Ser Criston Cole outlined the security measures and troop deployments. "We must ensure that Harrenhal is fortified and that our men are well-prepared for any potential siege."

Larys Strong added, “Rumours indicate that Rhaenyra’s forces are spread thin, but we cannot underestimate her. With Vhagar at Harrenhal, we will have a significant advantage."

As maps were unrolled and plans scrutinized, the room buzzed with activity. Grand Maester Orwyle provided insights on the supply lines and the importance of maintaining them.

After a thorough discussion, Aegon turned to his council. "Is there any other business to address?"

Tyland cleared his throat. "There are reports from the western borders that require attention, but they are not as pressing as the matter of Harrenhal. We can address them in the next meeting."

Aegon nodded. "Very well. If there is nothing else, this meeting is adjourned."

As the council members began to rise and gather their documents, Alicent approached Aemond. "I trust you will make the best decision for our family and the realm."

Aemond met his mother’s gaze with determination. "I will, Mother. You can count on it."

The Small Council chamber slowly emptied, leaving behind an air of resolved determination as the Targaryens and their allies prepared for the challenges ahead. The future of the realm hung in the balance, and every decision made in that room would shape the course of history.

The Dragonpit loomed large and foreboding, its vastness filled with the echoes of ancient roars and the lingering smell of dragons. The air inside was thick with the heat of dragonfire and the musky scent of the great beasts. Stone corridors, worn smooth by centuries of use, twisted and turned, leading deeper into the heart of the pit.

Helaena Targaryen led Reilla through the massive stone corridors, their footsteps echoing softly against the cool stone floors. The faint light from torches cast flickering shadows on the walls, giving the place an almost ethereal quality. The anticipation built within Reilla with each step, her heart racing in both fear and excitement.

As they approached Dreamfyre’s chamber, the dragon’s massive, serpentine form came into view. Dreamfyre was a magnificent sight, her scales shimmering with hues of blue and silver, catching the light and reflecting it in a dazzling array. She lifted her head, her eyes glinting with curiosity as the two women entered her space. Her wings, though folded, hinted at the immense power they held when unfurled.

Helaena stepped forward, speaking soothingly to her dragon. “Dreamfyre, my love,” she murmured, her voice soft and melodic, like a lullaby. “This is Reilla, my dear sister by marriage.”

Reilla stood back, awestruck by the dragon’s sheer size and grace. Dreamfyre’s eyes, large and expressive, focused on her, and for a moment, Reilla felt a connection, a sense of understanding pass between them. She took a tentative step closer, her eyes never leaving Dreamfyre’s.

“Come, she will not harm you,” Helaena encouraged, her smile gentle and reassuring.

With a deep breath, Reilla stepped closer, her heart pounding in her chest. The dragon remained calm, her gaze steady and accepting. Reilla felt a sense of calm wash over her, the initial trepidation giving way to a strange comfort in the presence of the dragon.

Helaena watched them with a serene smile. “She likes you,” she said softly. “Dragons are more perceptive than most people realize.”

They spent some time with Dreamfyre, Helaena tending to her dragon and speaking in low, soothing tones. Reilla watched, fascinated by the bond between them, noticing the subtle, almost tender interactions. Dreamfyre would nuzzle Helaena gently, responding to her touch with a soft rumble of contentment.

As they finished, Reilla noticed another presence nearby. Aegon entered the chamber, his golden hair catching the light of the torches, and beside him was his dragon, Sunfyre. Sunfyre’s scales gleamed with an otherworldly brilliance, a striking blend of gold and red. His regal form moved with a fluid grace, his eyes sharp and intelligent.

“Aegon,” Helaena greeted her brother, “I thought it would be good for Reilla to meet Sunfyre as well.”

Aegon nodded, his gaze shifting to his wife. “Sunfyre, meet Reilla,” he said, his voice firm yet gentle.

Sunfyre’s eyes locked onto Reilla, and for a moment, the dragon seemed to assess her. Reilla felt a mixture of awe and trepidation, but she held her ground. The golden dragon lowered his head slightly, a sign of acceptance.

Aegon walked over to Reilla, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “He likes you,” he said, his tone softer now. “Sunfyre can be quite discerning.”

Reilla felt a rush of emotions, a sense of being embraced by these magnificent creatures. “Thank you, Sunfyre,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aegon placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You have nothing to fear from him. He knows you are family now.”

Reilla looked up at Aegon, a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty in her eyes. “I’m still getting used to all of this.”

Aegon chuckled softly. “It takes time, but you’ll find your place here. We’re all adjusting in our own ways.”

Helaena watched them with a serene smile. “Reilla has a good heart, Aegon. She’ll fit in perfectly.”

Eventually, Helaena turned the conversation to a more personal matter. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Reilla,” Helaena began, her tone curious and thoughtful. “What happened to the dragon egg that was sent to you as a babe?”

Reilla sighed, her expression wistful. “It never hatched. I kept it close, hoping it would one day, but it remained cold and still. And with my upbringing at Runestone, claiming a dragon was impossible. I never had the chance.”

Helaena nodded thoughtfully, her fingers absently stroking Dreamfyre’s scales. “Perhaps you could try bonding with one of the castle dragons without riders. There are several that remain unclaimed.”

Reilla’s eyes widened in surprise. “I’m not sure about that, Helaena. I’m not much of a warrior, though I have had some sword training.”

Helaena smiled gently, shaking her head. “Bonding with a dragon should never be about fighting, Reilla. It’s about the connection, the essence it brings to one’s life. A dragon is more than a weapon; it’s a part of you, a companion.”

Reilla pondered this, her eyes drifting to the tunnels leading to the nests of the unclaimed dragons. “Which dragon would you suggest?” she asked hesitantly.

“Silverwing,” Helaena replied without hesitation. “She’s relatively docile and loved her previous rider, Good Queen Alysanne, very much. She might accept you if you approach her with an open heart.”

Reilla’s gaze turned toward the direction of Silverwing’s lair, uncertainty and curiosity warring within her. “I will ponder it,” she said softly, her eyes lingering on the darkened tunnels. The idea of bonding with such a majestic creature was daunting, yet exhilarating.

Aegon, who had been listening quietly, added, “Silverwing is a good choice. She’s wise and gentle, perfect for someone like you.”

Reilla looked at Aegon, a small smile forming on her lips. “Thank you, Aegon. Your confidence means a lot to me.”

Helaena reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Reilla’s arm. “Take your time. The bond with a dragon is not something to be rushed. When you’re ready, Silverwing will be waiting.”

Reilla nodded, feeling a deep sense of gratitude towards Helaena and Aegon for their understanding and support. “Thank you, both of you. Your guidance means a lot to me.”

Helaena smiled, her eyes reflecting her sincerity. “We are family now, Reilla. And family looks out for each other.”

As they made their way out of the Dragonpit, the anticipation and excitement of what lay ahead stayed with Reilla. The Dragonpit seemed less intimidating now, the shadows less foreboding. The notion of bonding with a dragon, something she had long thought impossible, now seemed within reach.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows as they exited the pit, the warmth a stark contrast to the coolness within. Reilla couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope igniting within her. The idea of bonding with a dragon was daunting, yet exhilarating, and she found herself looking forward to the possibilities that lay ahead.

“I’ll let you know when I’m ready,” Reilla said, her voice filled with determination.

Helaena nodded, a look of pride in her eyes. “I know you will, and I’ll be here to support you every step of the way.”

Aegon added, “And so will I. Together, we’ll face whatever comes.”

Together, they walked back toward the Red Keep, their steps light with the promise of new beginnings and the strength of their newfound bond.

The war table in Dragonstone's grand hall was surrounded by the key members of Queen Rhaenyra’s faction, the atmosphere tense and charged with anticipation. The news of Aegon’s coronation and marriage to Daemon’s estranged daughter, Reilla, had sent shockwaves through their ranks.

The chamber was bathed in a warm, ambient glow from sconces and flickering torches, their light casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. At its centre sprawled the Painted Table, an immense block of wood carved and painted meticulously to resemble the detailed contours of Westeros as it stood at the dawn of Aegon's Conquest. Settlements and landscapes were vividly depicted, yet without the confines of borders, offering a panoramic view of the realm's expanse. Near the representation of Dragonstone, a raised seat awaited, providing an optimal vantage point to oversee the entirety of the map. Over three centuries of varnish lent the table a rich patina, while nearby, an iron brazier crackled softly, adding to the chamber's warm ambiance, complemented by the gentle heat emanating from a hearth nestled in one corner.

Rhaenyra stood at the head of the table, her presence commanding and regal even amidst the turmoil. Her silver hair cascaded down her shoulders, and her violet eyes were steely with determination. Daemon stood beside her, his expression dark and brooding. His gaze flickered with anger and frustration, the tension palpable between him and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, who sat opposite with her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon.

Rhaenyra’s voice broke the heavy silence, steady but laced with anger. “Their union strengthens Aegon’s claim substantially,” she began, her eyes scanning the faces of her loyal supporters. “We need to act swiftly and decisively.”

Rhaenys, her eyes flashing with the same fire that burned in her husband, nodded in agreement. “Harrenhal must be secured. If Aegon sends forces there, it will cut us off from the Riverlands.”

Daemon slammed his fist on the table, making everyone jump. “I will gather an army and claim Harrenhal. Aegon will not hold it while I breathe.”

Corlys looked thoughtful, stroking his beard. “Borros Baratheon remains undecided. We need his support if we are to secure the Stormlands.”

Jacaerys Velaryon, Rhaenyra’s eldest son, stood tall and resolute. “I will fly to Storm’s End and treat with Lord Baratheon.”

“No,” Rhaenyra interjected, her tone firm. “You are needed to fly to Winterfell. We must secure Lord Cregan Stark’s aid. Lucerys will go to Storm’s End.”

Lucerys, though younger and less experienced, nodded bravely. “I will do my duty, Mother.”

The tension in the room mounted as the discussion shifted. Daemon’s face darkened further as the conversation turned to Reilla. Rhaenys brought up her concern with barely concealed contempt. “This marriage is an affront. Reilla should have been here, with us.”

Daemon’s eyes blazed with fury. “Reilla is a mistake, just like her mother. I would have bastardized her if Viserys and that snake Alicent hadn't interfered.”

Rhaenys stood, her voice rising. “You may despise her, but you cannot deny she is your blood. My sources say she is the spitting image of the late Queen Alyssa. Raised with the Royce intelligence for battle and political strategy, she would have been a powerful aid to Rhaenyra’s cause.”

Daemon’s hand went to his sword, his knuckles white with the intensity of his grip. “Speak another word about that child, and you will regret it, Rhaenys.”

Corlys rose to his feet, placing a protective hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Enough, Daemon. You will not threaten my wife. We stand united, or we fall.”

The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Rhaenyra’s voice broke the silence, calm but commanding. “We cannot afford to be divided. Our enemies are formidable, and we must stand together. Harrenhal must be secured, and we must bring the Baratheons and the Starks to our side.”

Lord Bartimos Celtigar, who had been quietly observing, spoke up. “We have dragons, Your Grace. They are our greatest advantage.”

Rhaena Targaryen, squaring her shoulders, added, “Silverwing remains in King’s Landing, but Vermithor is on Dragonstone, along with Sheepstealer, Grey Ghost, and Seasmoke. Cannibal is too dangerous to approach. Aemond’s dragon Vhagar is the biggest threat we face; she is powerful beyond measure.”

Daemon nodded, his expression hardening. “We have Meleys and Caraxes.”

Rhaenys squinted at her cousin shrewdly, clenching her hand on the arm of her chair to avoid saying something that would start an all-out brawl. “Baela and Moondancer will train with myself and Meleys as well, so that she might be ready for any circumstance.”

“We might search other avenues as well,” Jacaerys said trying not to let his nerves show. “We could enlist riders from outside the family-

“No dragon will accept a non-Targaryen rider.” Daemon scoffed dismissively.

“Dragonseeds have enough Targaryen blood.” Jacaerys said, eyes flicking to his mother. “Who cares where our fighting power comes from, as long as we have it.”

Maester Gerardys nodded in agreement. “The dragons are crucial to our success and there might still be some on the island with dragon blood…”

Ser Erryk Cargyll, cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I will have my men scour the island for information on any remaining Dragonseeds and descendants, Your Grace. The prince’s idea is a good one.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched and he stood abruptly, storming from the room without a second glance. Rhaenys shared a look with Rhaenyra, conveying her ire towards the Rogue Prince.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, her gaze sweeping over her council. “We will move forward with our plans. Daemon, will prepare to take Harrenhal. Jacaerys, you will fly to Winterfell. Lucerys, you will go to Storm’s End. We must secure our allies and our positions.”

Rhaenyra turned to her sons, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “Be careful, my sons. The fate of our House rests on your shoulders.”

Jacaerys and Lucerys nodded, determination in their eyes. “We will not fail you, Mother,” Jacaerys vowed.

The council members continued to discuss their strategies and plans. Rhaenyra spoke with Lord Bartimos Celtigar about securing additional supplies and reinforcements, while Maester Gerardys and Ser Erryk Cargyll provided updates on their intelligence and reconnaissance efforts.

The air was filled with a sense of urgency and resolve. They knew the road ahead would be difficult, but united, they were determined to reclaim what was rightfully theirs. The battle for the Iron Throne was just beginning, and they would fight with all their strength to claim it.

Taglist: @481theralicat

[goldenringbanquet]

Golden Ring Marriage Hall in Alipur Delhi: A Comprehensive Guide

Are you planning to tie the knot soon and looking for a wedding venue in Alipur, Delhi? Look no further than the Golden Ring Marriage Hall, which offers top-notch facilities and services to make your big day unforgettable. In this article, we will provide a comprehensive guide to the Golden Ring Marriage Hall in Alipur Delhi, including its location, amenities, packages, and reviews.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Location and Accessibility

Overview of the Venue

Facilities and Services

Banquet Hall

Catering

Decorations

Audio and Visual Equipment

Parking

Wedding Packages

Reviews and Testimonials

How to Book the Golden Ring Marriage Hall

Frequently Asked Questions

What is the capacity of the Golden Ring Marriage Hall?

Can I bring my own caterer or decorator to the venue?

Does the venue have an in-house DJ or can I hire my own?

What is the cancellation policy of the Golden Ring Marriage Hall?

Is there a separate area for the bride and groom to get ready?

Location and Accessibility

The Golden Ring Marriage Hall is located in Alipur, Delhi, which is a prime location for weddings and other events. The venue is easily accessible via public transportation and is just a few minutes' drive from the Alipur Metro Station. Additionally, the venue provides ample parking space for guests.

Overview of the Venue

The Golden Ring Marriage Hall is a spacious and elegant venue that can accommodate up to 500 guests. The venue boasts a modern and sophisticated design, with state-of-the-art facilities and equipment to ensure a seamless and enjoyable experience for you and your guests.

Facilities and Services

The Golden Ring Marriage Hall offers a wide range of facilities and services to make your wedding day as special and memorable as possible. Some of the notable amenities include:

Banquet Hall

The venue features a spacious banquet hall that can be customized to suit your preferences and requirements. The hall is equipped with modern audio and visual equipment, as well as comfortable seating arrangements to ensure your guests' comfort.

Catering

The venue offers a range of catering options to suit your tastes and dietary requirements. Whether you prefer Indian cuisine, continental dishes, or fusion food, the venue's experienced chefs can create a menu that suits your palate.

Decorations

The Golden Ring Marriage Hall offers a range of decoration options to create the perfect ambiance for your wedding day. Whether you want a traditional, modern, or fusion theme, the venue's decorators can bring your vision to life.

Audio and Visual Equipment

The venue provides state-of-the-art audio and visual equipment, including sound systems, projectors, and screens, to ensure your wedding ceremony and reception are a success.

Parking

The venue offers ample parking space for guests, ensuring that parking is never a hassle.

Wedding Packages

The Golden Ring Marriage Hall offers a range of wedding packages to suit your budget and requirements. The packages include catering, decoration, and audio and visual equipment, as well as other services such as photography and videography.

Reviews and Testimonials

The Golden Ring Marriage Hall has received rave reviews from previous clients, who praise the venue's facilities, services, and staff. Many clients commend the venue's attention to detail and commitment to making their wedding day unforgettable.

How to Book the Golden Ring Marriage Hall

To book the Golden Ring Marriage Hall for your wedding or event, simply contact the venue's staff and provide your details and requirements. The staff will guide you through the booking process and answer any questions or concerns you may have.

Frequently Asked Questions

What is the capacity of the Golden Ring Marriage Hall?

The venue can accommodate up to 500 guests, making it an ideal location for large weddings and events.

Can I bring my own caterer or decorator to the venue?

The Golden Ring Marriage Hall has an in-house catering and decoration team, but you can also bring your own caterer or decorator if you prefer. However, it is recommended to discuss this with the venue's staff beforehand to avoid any misunderstandings.

Does the venue have an in-house DJ or can I hire my own?

The venue does not have an in-house DJ, but you can hire your own DJ or music band for your wedding or event. The venue's staff can also recommend experienced and reliable DJs or musicians if you need assistance.

What is the cancellation policy of the Golden Ring Marriage Hall?

The cancellation policy of the venue depends on the specific package you choose and the terms and conditions outlined in the contract. It is recommended to read the contract carefully and discuss the cancellation policy with the venue's staff beforehand to avoid any issues.

Is there a separate area for the bride and groom to get ready?

Yes, the Golden Ring Marriage Hall has separate areas for the bride and groom to get ready before the wedding ceremony. The areas are equipped with mirrors, seating, and other amenities to ensure a comfortable and stress-free experience.

Conclusion

The Golden Ring Marriage Hall in Alipur Delhi is one of the Top 10 banquet halls in Delhi an excellent choice for couples looking for a stunning and sophisticated venue for their wedding day. With its top-notch facilities, services, and packages, the venue is sure to make your special day unforgettable. Book your wedding at the Golden Ring Marriage Hall today and make your dream wedding a reality.

[inkofthebrain]

Imperial

[Paul Atreides x Reader] 1179 words

Paul Atreides, Duke of Arakkis, takes the hand of the Emperor’s eldest daughter for the throne, yet neither are pleased. They know they must learn to be civil, but what will it cost them…

Tags: post-Dune 2, strays from book canon, no use of y/n, dune typical everything, Corinno!Reader, slow burn, enemies to lovers kind of? ARRAIGNED MARRIAGE TROPE EXCEPT BOTH PARTIES ARE PISSY ABOUT IT, not proofread LOL.

Warnings: Dune typical themes, motifs, and actions

A/n: ITS HERE! Sadly, there will be longer times between updates. But to mitigate that I have decided that shorter chapters and for frequent chapters will do better for my writing stamina

Previous chapter Next chapter (coming soon…)

Dune Masterlist

Eight———

The great hall is exceptionally expansive, its high ceilings supported by massive wooden beams. The room is filled with guests, all dressed in their finest attire, the women in flowing gowns and the men in tailored suits. The windows are bedecked with heavy velvet drapes, though right now they're left open to let in the soft golden light of the afternoon sun.

At the far end of the hall, you see the altar where the officiant stands, poised and expectant. Before him stands Paul, his figure tall and commanding, a vision in his ceremonial attire.

The atmosphere in the room is electric, charged with excitement and anticipation, yet you can’t help but feel anything other than fear. The guests are silent, their eyes fixed on you as you make way down the aisle. The music swells softly, its notes a perfect accompaniment to the scene unfolding before you.

Countless factions and political powerhouses are in attendance, all sat in organized sections waiting to bear witness. The Bene Gesserit stand in the shadows, Irulan eyes sticking out behind her veil. You give her a curt nod. Each step is carefully calculated and filled with poise. You carry a small smile on your face as you elegantly approach the altar. A facade of power.

As you make your way to stand in front of Paul, your heart is pounding in your chest. The officiant speaks, commanding the attention of the room. "we are gathered here today to witness the joining of two illustrious houses," he begins, his voice resonant and clear. "House Corino is an ancient line renowned for their wisdom and strength, their rule over the great empire marked by benevolence and prosperity. and joining them is the house of atreides, heirs to a long-standing legacy of honor and courage, their reputation built upon fearless leadership and unwavering loyalty."

as the officiant continues his speech, his voice takes on a more somber tone. "however, even in the grand tapestry of empires, a darker shadow looms. the emperor's rule has been marked by greed and corruption, injustice and tyranny. the empire has become a prisoner of its own vices, its people suffering under the weight of its excesses."

"but now," he declares, his voice rising with newfound hope. "with the union of these two great houses, a beacon of change has appeared." he turns to you and Paul, his eyes gleaming with optimism. "the atreides-corino union represents a hope for a new era, a time of prosperity and justice that will transform the empire for generations to come!"

As his voice rings through the room as you and Paul stand side by side observing the short applause. Dignitaries from all areas of the spacing guild and known universe have come to witness the eminent shift of power. The lesser houses hoped for more riches and power while the great houses feared for their standing within the new empire.

Breathe. That’s what you remind yourself. Just breathe. You have the weight of an empire on your shoulders yet you hold your head high. You refuse to falter, there is no room for weakness within this court; this you know very well.

the officiant looks towards you and Paul once more, a soft smile playing on his lips. "and so, as the stars witness this union, may the wisdom and strength of the golden lion, the honor and courage of the atreides, and the hope for a brighter future coalesce in this moment, and forever change the course of the empire's history. let the union be sealed, and the new epoch begin!"

He guides the two of you to a lavish table where union documents are played out. Paul approaches first as the room is filled with an eerie silence. He takes a deep breath before glancing down at his fathers ducal signet, pouring out a small puddle of wax and pressing his fist into it, leaving an impression of the Atredies crest. He steps back and motions for you to go next.

As you walk up you notice the existing signatures recognizing this marriage. High court officials, Lady Jessica, and your father. His lavish signature mocks you from the paper. His last decree is the overturning of his power. You take a deep breath and grab the pen layed on the table and sign your name. It is done.

Your feet trail backwards and your back is met with the arm of Paul, who then swiftly turns you to face the audience.

“House Corino and House Atreides have been conjoined! Through sickness and health, times of peace and times of war; this union will stand triumphant.” The officiant speaks into the air before turning to you and stating your name and title, “Do you recognize this union?”

Without thinking you begin to speak, “I do.” Your voice doesn’t falter.

“Duke Atreides , do you recognize this union?”

You feel Paul slightly stiffen before speaking, “I do”

From the pedestal adjacent to where you and Paul are standing lay the wedding bands. Within moments they are presented to the two of you, you with Paul’s and him with yours. No explanation is needed for the next steps.

Paul’s hand reaches for your left and you raise it to him. His hands are rough and slightly scarred, from training and perhaps Arrakis, as they slip your ring on.

It’s anything but delicate, the titanium wraps around your finger coming to a plateau at the top where a compacted sphere of spice encased in some preservative lay. It's similar to Paul’s, which you hold in your right hand. A silver band with spice marbling that demands your attention.

Your eyes flicker up to meet him as he releases your hand and outstretches his left. You slip the ring on before averting your gaze to the officiant. The silence in the room is broken.

“Duke Atreides, you may kiss your bride.” He states.

You turn your eyes to meet Paul’s before taking a deep breath. A kiss to seal your fate. The entire sentiment is ironic to you, such a soft and delicate act to mark the beginning of such struggle and pain. You have yet to see it but something within you shudders with the weight of the future.

Your eyes lock with Paul’s blue eyes as he leans in, his face cupping your cheek before his lips meet yours. His lips are soft and warm, a slight twinge that reminds you of cinnamon. Spice. Power over spice is power over all. A power which you are soon to hold.

As you pull away you wonder if Paul will falter under the weight of the crown. There is a want within him which you have yet to place, a want that proceeds past that of wealth and power. In the short time you have gotten to know your now husband, you have learnt a few things about him. He is strong and loyal like his father was yet cunning and intelligent like his mother. He has seen things you cannot even imagine, the significance of the power he holds terrifies you, yet you fear more for what power this union will birth.

———

Next chapter

Want to join the Taglist? Just ask!

🍾 Taglist: @aoi-targaryen @serapinaxx @goldeneagles-posts @star-maker-rain-dancer @beebumbo

[yeyinde]

GAZFEST | fistful of ashes

for Gazfest by @glitterypirateduck

CATEGORY: alternate universe, AU | PROMPT: "I really want to kiss you right now."

"Did you know?" "Of course I knew," he reaches for you, mouth turning downward, bitter and sad, at the way you flinch back, shying from his touch. But he's relentless, and you feel the burn of the sun, of searing stars across the back of your hand when he runs his fingers over your skin. He dips down, wrist to vein to knuckles to— "How could I not?" He inhales long and hard, and takes all the air from the room. "When you're wearing my brother's ring?" 

Warnings: 18+ MATURE | infidelity/cheating (Reader cheats with Gaz, not on him; is married to Gaz's brother for political reasons), inaccurate historical descriptions, religious imagery, slight secret identity; Soap is a terrible wingman; angst; pining & yearning; allusions to smut but no descriptions

Word Count: 15,2k

Entombed between marble monoliths is a secret alcove, a hidden nook. It's a place of refuge when the howling winter winds seem to shake the foundation of the sprawling estate, screaming through the barren hallways. You spend most of your day curled on the day bed pushed against the far wall where the window sits, framed in thin, iron rods. On the opposite sides of clear glass is a stained mosaic depicting the fall of a dragon and the triumph of a king. Dusted in semi-opaque primary colours, it spills a kaleidoscope of beauty on the herringbone floor. 

Its discovery came weeks into your marriage with the eldest Garrick when you wandered down the sprawling halls of your new home, fingers trailing over mahogany walls with evergreen trim, contemplating your new forever. 

Then: a stutter. A gap. Your hands sunk into emptiness, into a vacuum just big enough for your frame to squeeze through on a halted breath. 

Inside this abyss, you found a circular room with a vaulted, domed ceiling of metal, and books shoved in a haphazard pile at the foot of the daybed. 

It smells strongly of toluene—that cloying scent of dust and rotting paper—and something breaks apart inside of your chest at the sight of this place. Cosy and small. An intimate, homey escape in the middle of stifling, oppressive opulence. 

The respite it offers becomes an anchor amid a turbulent storm. A crutch to curl your trembling fingers around, finding purchase in stone. An immovable object. You bury your nails into slate and hold on as tight as you can. 

No one can find you here. 

(You don't even think they bothered to look.)

But—

"Thought I'd find you here, birdy."

—He does. 

He always finds you. 

He. He. 

He introduces him—cheeks rudied and bashful, head dipped in a soft sort of reverence—and tells you that everyone calls him Gaz. You like the way it fits between your teeth. Gaz. It's a small blade you keep tucked in your breast pocket: unassuming and deadly. Gaz. Gaz. 

On the window pane, etched in a child's scribble, is that very same name. Gaz. He shows it to you after he finds you hiding away in the alcove and the shock of a man you don't recognise suddenly squeezing through the gap in the wall abates. 

You run your finger over the indents as he sits with his back against the marble pillar, eyes fixed on the horizon line as the sun dusts his face in a golden glow, and tells you this place used to belong to him. His escape when he was a child. 

Sheepishly rubs his head, then, and admits that he'd missed it more than he thought he would. 

"It's just a room, but—" one shoulder lifts in a tentative shrug. "'dunno. Just—kinda missed the peace of it all, I guess."

"Yeah," you whisper, your breath warm when it passes over your lips. Warm. It makes your heart stutter. "I get that. This place is—"

There are many words that buoy in your mind as you take a moment to run your eyes across the small dome, the well-loved books that line the walls, the marble pillars, the mosaic, the sunset in the distance. It feels otherworldly, in a way. A place etched out on paper and brought to life with a delicate hand. 

You catch his eyes, broken into fragments in the cuts of stained glass, and even through the frosted reflection of the window, warmth bleeds through. The gentle rays of the sun. Apricity. You press your knuckle against the blurry dip of his cheekbone and the frigid winter moulding itself to the outside burns your skin. 

He's different from everyone you've met here. 

Their frigid disposition isn't unlike the icy Chinook raging through the draughty insides of the sprawling palace—a polite indifference at best, a cold dismissal at worst—and the contrast between them and him is a startling one. The man whose domicile you stumbled upon exudes heat; blooming warmth. It fills the barren gaps between your lungs and prickles molten fingers across your pericardium, strumming it like the nimble chords of a harp. It reverberates inside of you. 

(Your heart is a gong. His hands are a mallet.)

The thought, intrusive and unwarranted, makes you jolt. It brings you back to yourself quite suddenly, and you're all too aware of the fact that you're an intruder in his private chambers, his secret home. 

The apology rushes to your tongue, clanging against the back of your teeth, and you breathe it out in a whisper, too afraid of speaking more than a breeze in this sanctuary. They'll find you. Drag you out because it isn't proper to hide in a corner surrounded by books and the heady scent of a man—woodsmoke, charcoal, vetiver; toluene, musk, sun-bleached linen—and make you hide away in your rooms where no one knows you exist, or sit you in the grand hall where everyone pretends that you don't. 

"I, um, don't mean to intrude. I can leave…"

His eyes are warm when you whip around to meet them, lips tugging downward in a harsh, fearful frown. 

He waves you off with a lazy roll of his wrist. "Nah, you can come as much as you like." 

From anyone else, you would have taken it as a banal pleasantry, but there is something about this man that bleeds true. And so, you do. 

Every day you find yourself sitting on the chaise, reading through the array of epics and poems, all still carrying the fingerprints of the child who carved his name into wood. He joins you often enough, taking his spot on the opposite side of yourself, sometimes reading or regaling stories of each blemish and imperfection you come across. The copy of Fall of the House of Usher is waterlogged because he once used it to balance a cup of water on the bed as he reached over to grab his matches; it's readable, he insists, but—

"That bit about the sister. It's all ruined," his brow pinches in a soft contemplation. "But it's probably not that important, anyway."

—The match he struck burned a hole in the side of the bed. He smoked tobacco that he knocked from his father's study and ashed it out on the windowsill, which still bears the scorch mark. 

It's lived in and loved. A haphazard bivouac pitched by a child who grew within the circular walls. Toys tucked into the corner. Children's books stacked at the bottom of the bookshelf, hidden from sight as his taste changed, grew more eclectic and matured. Singed tobacco leaves shoved inside naughty books he snatched from the maid when she wasn't looking. Alcohol stains the rim of an old mug with the faded painting of an old action hero smiling on the side. Childish delight stroking the walls with wonder and excitement to a moody teenager drowning himself in the plights and woes of others, to an adult sitting on the floor and musing fondly about the disarray and the decay. 

You watch it all unfold in a series of memories and soft, little moments that dance across his handsome face—some open, and spoken aloud; others hidden, a secret thing not meant to share (like the panties in the corner you'd found that turned the tips of his ears and the knob of his nose bright red—the maids, he'd stuttered out—and the old bucket hat under the pillow that made his brow pinch in a deep sense of dismay, of loss). 

He was in the war, he tells you one evening, eyes solemn, and brushed with pensiveness. One he never wanted to be in, but he met a man—a warrior, he calls him—and knew, then, that he’d go wherever he went. Following his cause until the bitter end. 

You know the story—how could you not when the bitter end was found the moment you signed your name away on a piece of paper? 

And so, you tell him. 

“I ended it. A trade, you know?”

“I know,” he says, scoffing. “Of course I do. I was there. I was close enough that I could have rescued him, I have—” 

“I’m sorry,” you speak to Gaz but can’t tear your eyes away from the hat clutched between his fists. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your apology, offering a quick shrug instead.

“Are you happy at least?” He asks, and what a strange question it is. Happy. Happy. What is happiness?

You let out a laugh that sounds brittle. Pieces of glass lodged in your throat. “What does it matter?”

It's this admission, and the palpable weight of his loss, of your own, that seems to serve as the catalyst that breaks open the levee between you. Gaz meets you at the door the next morning, ushering you in with a soft, secretive smile that turns his honeycomb eyes a startling amber in the yawning sun. 

He tells you about himself—he was always a rather quiet child but got quite restless in his teenage years; his father was never as proud of him until he said he was joining the war; he hid chocolates and treats in this room to eat later, and you spend an afternoon hunting down them all; he likes the ocean but loves the feeling of sand between his toes even more; he reads a lot, he confesses with a peculiar little flush darkening his cheeks: mostly poetry because it sounds like a song when he whispers it aloud, and you find yourself weaning heat from the sun when he relents to your pestering and finally opens his favourite book and reads it to you. His voice is a guitar strum. A piano pluck. 

It settles between the gap where your lungs hang, curling over moondust bones. It's a heavy thing to carry at first, but the weight feels like an anchor, steady and sure, against the turbulence when he's not around. 

You, in turn, give him pieces of yourself. Cleaving large swaths of your essence, your being, for him to wear over his shoulders like a quilted cloak. 

There are things you don't tell him. Things you keep to yourself because you like the anonymity this little haven affords, and how he treats you like a person and not like a pretty little trinket meant to be sealed away in a glass display case. 

You know that he's keeping things from you, too, like who he is—a guard, you think; a soldier, maybe—because the history he has with this place speaks of intimate familiarity but he owns up to nothing except a name that you don't really believe is his. 

But you think your secret is even bigger, more damning, and you keep it pressed tight to yourself—a putrid little thing made of rot and obligation, one that leaks noxious miasma into the air whenever it's touched. You don't want the stench to permeate the air of your sanctity, the one you share with Gaz, and so you swallow it. Choke yourself on the festering lump until it slides down your esophagus and moulders in your stomach. Far enough away from this place you never want it to touch. 

In between the worry, and the responsibility that makes you curl into yourself, desperately wishing for respite inside the dome with Gaz reading poems to you in secrecy, you find yourself slipping down a precipice with no clear end in sight. A steep slope into an abyss. There is nothing to suspend your fall. 

(You wonder, sometimes, if you even try.)

It should make you feel guilty, but Gaz holds your trembling hand in his and offers up books for you to read together, and suddenly the fall isn't as scary as it once was. 

Suddenly, it feels right to find solace in his touch and feel love bloom in your chest. 

How could it be wrong when he makes you feel as if the world that was once on fire is now just warm? 

On a whim, and filled with the courage of multitudes, you whisper the words threaded in the seams of your heart against the worn pages. Softly, slowly, and then all at once. 

"I love you, Gaz."

His hand shakes. There are stars in his eyes when he blinks. Orion gleams in umber. Sagittarius heaves in sard. He leans close and you smell lightning in the air, ozone and copper, and feel static on your cheeks. Magnetic, he pulls and pulls, and you go, quietly, willingly, and think of white sand bleached by the summer sun. Dancing for Ra with the ocean glinting like crystalline diamonds. Twin footprints in the sand. Love left behind on the shore. 

"Oh, birdy," he breathes, and the words are filled with elation but touched with a deep, unrelenting sense of fear. "Why would you—?"

But he doesn't finish. 

Gaz kisses you and it feels like the hot breath in the desert. All warmth and light, gentleness tinged with sadness. 

Sadness. Sorrow. 

Because you're not meant for him, and you're wearing another's ring.

Gaz doesn't return the next day. 

Or the next.

Winter fades into autumn, and you sit on the bed with your empty chest and your hollow marrow. 

Whenever he's gone, he still wears your quilt. 

And carries your heart in his warm hands. 

The marriage is at the end of November when the ground frosts over with winter's cruel breath, and the air bites your cheeks and stings your lungs. 

You'd have preferred the warmth of summer, when the sun reached the solace, sitting at its zenith and painting the world in lovely shades of bloom and green. Golden in its splendour. 

Idle dreams flicker by as you stand beside the altar, fingers caught in the webbing of your thick gown. Thought filled with a wedding on the sandy shores, with the humid air hugging you from all sides. The scent of the ocean in the back of your throat. The sun kissing your crown, wrapping gentle hands over your shoulders. Embracing you. Holding you. You bow to Ra, to Helios, and suckle on tart dragon fruit and sweet sugar cane. Rest wreathes of sunflowers and bluebonnets at the foot of their temple before dancing in the sand.

You dream of sweaty palms linked together, twin sets of footprints in the sand. The ocean calls out in bliss as you dip yours in the cool waters, and kiss under the fading sun. 

It bursts quite suddenly when a cold hand grabs at your wrist, pulling you from the yonder, the hinterland where you dream of a man with a smile as bright as the sun. You blink away the thought when it twists painfully at your chest. An ache of something that will never happen. Forever a dream.

Impatience seems to linger in the air when you sluggishly bring your trembling hand up, taking the ornate pen—the blessed metal cold and painful to the touch—and clumsily sign your name on the second line. 

It's a hurried thing. The air of celebration is moot; festivities hardly matter when the only point of intrigue is the signature wet ink at the bottom of a parchment paper, claiming your matrimony to the eldest Garrick, firstborn son, and the subsequent peaceful merging of families, dynasties with much to gain from two little rings. 

You barely finish the last letter of your name before they pull the paper away. A jagged trail of ink cuts a line across the bottom, down, down, down. The sight of it fills you with dread—a bad omen, maybe—but they pay it little mind as they swiftly stamp it, sealed and bound in royal wax; unbreakable, now, and permanent, and hurriedly roll it up, tucking it away where it's in the pocket of the officiate. 

It leaves you feeling colder than the Chinook roaring down the mountain. All air in your lungs is sharp shards of crystallised ice. Piercing and painful. Breathing through frostbitten lungs. 

Your husband, Griggs, is a handsome man, you suppose. Classically beautiful with his dark eyes and strong cheekbones. He's tall and stolid. You'd be remiss not to notice his attractiveness, but there's an air of distance, detachment, that seems to permeate over you like a looming storm cloud. He doesn't take your hand in his. Doesn't stroke the back of it with his thumb. There are no airy words of comfort or secretive smiles he can't hide. 

It's transactional. 

The ladies around you cup their hands over their mouths, whispering about how lucky you are to have such a man. But maybe it's the loss of agency, the lack of romance, that makes you sour at the thought of it all. 

How lucky indeed, you think when he turns you to, lips a grim line, and eyes several degrees colder than the ocean at the bottom of the cliff. 

"Right, then," he says, voice carrying the same echo as the barren gallows. "I suppose a kiss is in order? To seal it all?" 

His kiss is just as cold as his words. The dream in your head blurs, turning black as it streaks with tendrils of tar. 

Indeed, you think, breathing shuddering through the bergschrund of your lungs. Indeed, indeed, indeed—

Days bleed into weeks, months. Winter tangles into the seams of your new life, fraught with uncertainty and a deep-rooted despair. 

Your husband is not a cruel man, you know this, but there is an absence that seems to linger between you. An absolute nothingness that permeates the air, thick and stifling. The duties shared in matrimony reek of responsibility and obligation. Checking the boxes of an itinerary to appease everyone else. 

When he isn't in his war room, conduit to a bloody battle that seems to stretch into every crevice and corner of your life, he's weaving the merger (merger, because that's what it is; business first and foremost, romance an afterthought) into a new tapestry to proudly display the alliance of your families. 

Favours gained to everyone, your father had said. Everyone except you, of course, for nothing of this acquisition, this farcical marriage, is of any benefit. It's a new cage, gilded though it may be with the finest gems embedded in bars made of gold. 

Your mantra to get through the empty marriage bed, the isolation in this sprawling mausoleum where the people around you treat you like a tchotchke, a precious artefact meaningful in symbolism only, becomes: it could be worse. 

And it could be. 

Your brothers and sisters were married off to Lords and Counts and Kings who bestow their ownership in fine prints dusted across their neck, the gentle folds of their wrists. Cruelty is the only thing they've come to know after a lifetime spent languishing in a palace by the sea. 

It could come to you, too, and you hold on to that. Cling to it until your knuckles protrude from your skin. It could be worse. 

To avoid thinking of everything, anything, you hide yourself in the vast library, and find solace in the words printed on pages; tales and woes far greater than your own. You ignore it all, and it, in turn, ignores you. 

Left to waste away in a palace that feels as desolate as the moon, and just as familiar, too. 

It could be worse. It could be—

"My brother is returning," Griggs says, hands smoothing down the front of his shirt. There's an air of pride that seems to roll from beneath the small tick in his jaw. "You'll meet him soon. Do look your best, won't you?" 

You murmur your assent, but your head is elsewhere. Still stuck in that room with Gaz whispering poems in your ear. 

"Good." 

He doesn't wait around long. There is no kiss goodbye, and he leaves the room without another glance in your direction. 

The room always feels colder with him in it, but the broad expanse of his back hurrying through the door is just as chilling. 

You don't think he ever wanted to be a husband, but your sympathy, your pity falls short of missing true authenticity. He could have said no. The peace would have still come. The war would have ended. Allied in matrimony was a spectacle for everyone else—a true, unbreakable union; the merging of two powerful lineages—but the point would have been made with a paper, too. 

He condemned you to a life of lovelessness, a tchotchke no one knows how to act around, for the power it gave him. The dictation. 

Griggs might have been happier with someone else, but his pride is gluttonous. Ravenous. He needed more, more, to cement himself as an important man, incapable of being usurped. 

The pity you could feel is a saponaceous thing. There, maybe, but unable to be held; too slippery to touch. Each time you think you have a proper grip, you remember that he did this to himself, and he did this to you, and it falls back from where it came. Breaking into shards on the pavement. 

You hate him. Hate yourself a bit more for not running away after Gaz when you had the chance. 

(Too late. Too late.)

They fetch you later, wearing bright smiles on their faces as they talk about the return of the youngest Garrick. A hero, they wink, and you bask in their joviality after months of nothing but frigid indifference. 

"A hero?" You question. 

The lady nods. "He was in the war. I'm sure he'll tell you all about it. It's been so, so long since he's been home."

You tuck the information away with a soft smile. 

"What is his name?"

He stands with his back to you, hands moving as he tells a story to his brother and the men situated around him. You feel the barren space in your chest thud. 

You'd know him anywhere. The cape he wears around his shoulders is made from the fibres of you. In his warm palms sits your heart. 

"His name is Kyle," they say, but you know him as Gaz.

He carries the same aloofness as his brother, an inherited trait, maybe, but where there's distance in the umber druse of Griggs, canyons and unreachable valleys, Gaz's is full of warmth. Flickering campfire in the distance. A gentle sea breeze. Tigers eye. Sard. He burns. 

In spite of it all, you feel yourself unravelling under his heat. 

"Hi," he swallows, and you hear the hitch in his breath. The stutter in his lungs. Those honeyed eyes warm just for you. "I hadn't realised your—" he stumbles, swallows again. You feel heat brush against your cheeks. Warm palms on cool skin. "Your wife, ah, was this beautiful."

It's under his younger brother's acknowledgement that your husband seems to preen; prideful, now, that someone has assured him of your worth. 

"Yes," your husband murmurs, haughty and sure. "Quite the sight, no?" 

"Yeah," Kyle breathes, and his warm breath leaves scorch marks on your cheeks. "Quite."

Griggs folds his pride neatly between his Duchenne smile, and the sight of it makes you want to weep. How could you not notice such blatant similarities between him and the man who snuck around the estate like it belonged to him? 

Wilful ignorance, maybe. 

You look away from them, glueing your eyes to the glossy wood waxed to perfection until all of the roughly hewn mahogany is gone, erased, now just a shadow of itself, and try not to wallow in the loss of it all. 

There was real happiness in that alcove that now fills you with shame. Now poisoned by the rot you choked yourself on to protect him from the gangrenous mass growing inside of you. Shielding him from it all. 

You wonder if he was doing the same, and the words come, rain against moss: soft and soundless, before you can swallow them down, too. 

"Did you know?" 

His hesitancy makes sense now, in hindsight. A lot of things do. The missing pieces to a puzzle you didn't try very hard to solve fit together. 

How could you be so stupid? How could you—

There's a part of you that wonders if this was a ruse set up by your husband to test your—and your family's—loyalty to the Garricks. To wave a man in front of you, one who was patient and kind and much too good to be true, and see how hard you fall. 

But Kyle looks at you in dismay, and the sight of it twisting across the face of the man you love—loved—is almost too much to bear. 

He waits until the soldiers have passed before turning to you with a broken visage of a smile slipping across his face. His eyes are dark. Noculent. 

"Did I know?" 

He laughs but it's hollow. Empty. The vacancy in your chest aches at the hushed pain fracturing spiderwebs of grief over his expression. 

"Of course I knew," he reaches for you, mouth turning downward, bitter and sad, at the way you flinch back, shying from his touch. But he's relentless, and you feel the burn of the sun, of searing stars, across the back of your hand when he runs his fingers over your skin. He dips down, wrist to vein to knuckles to—

Your heart pulses in his hand. Aching. Shattering. 

"How could I not?" He inhales long and hard and takes all the air from the room. "When you're wearing my brother's ring?" 

(The only sound made is the shattering of your heart still clutched in his warm palm.)

To torture yourself for your transgressions—a form of self-flagellation, maybe—you think about what might have happened if you met him first. If the silly pride of the men you're forced to place your faith into had abated long ago, and the one you were gifted to was Gaz. 

You would have married in September when the world was still in a lush, green bloom; summer still clinging to its last vestiges and painting the world in cornstalk yellow and azure blue. 

The heat on your cheeks. The sun scorching your back. A perfect equinox of summer into autumn. Your honeymoon spent under the sheets all winter. It would have been perfect. 

He would have wed you on the shores instead of the cliff. He would have danced in the sand with your hands tangled in his. A mass of atoms merging into one. 

He would have been able to love you the way he wants to, and you would have done the same. 

It's a breathtaking hurt to think about such things. To dream of the life you would have lived and taste the sun on the tip of your tongue only to wake up in an empty bed with a ring on your finger that seems to grow tighter and heavier by the day. 

Agony fills the gap in your chest, but sometimes it feels like it isn't enough, that it should hurt more because as much as it burns, as much as it aches, you always go back to him again. Drawn to his arms: moth to a flame. 

You'll do it all again and again and again. 

At dinner, his hand slides under the table. 

You meet him in the middle, drawn there by a gravitational pull. Orion calling you. Cosmic dust fills your nose; a nebulous gossamer spooling over you in threads of weaving red. 

His hand feels like Gaz's when it folds over yours, and in that, you find home.

When everyone breaks away, wandering back into their fixed places within the sprawling estate on the better side of the war (aided, in large part by your father's considerable contribution in the form of your dowry), he gives you a knowing wink from across the table, an amalgam of cheekiness and subtly, and parts for the evening as well, leaving you to alone in a room much too big for one person. 

And so you go. Follow the familiar footsteps to the alcove where Kyle meets you by the door, palms flat on the frame as he leans in, pushing himself between the marble pillars, and kisses you until you see stars. 

He always pulls away with a smile that looks like it costs him a shard of his soul. And maybe it does. Maybe it chips at yours, too, but nothing matters anymore when his hand drops to your waist and he pulls you into this secret room where nothing exists except you and him. 

"Missed you, Gaz," you whisper, a secret confessional that no one should ever hear. 

But he does, and his smile looks like it pains him. "Me, too, birdy."

It pains you, too, but maybe it should. Maybe it should hurt more because you're certain that there's no room in the great beyond for the person who falls in love with their husband's younger brother. 

Unlearning Gaz to make room for Kyle brings up a strange assortment of emotions from within you. All slipping through the cracks that break apart against your skin, your person; hollow crevasses where you flayed yourself to give pieces to him. 

It's a slow process filled with trepidation, guilt, and uncertainty—

He left you once, after all, and a little part of you fears that he'll do it again. 

It gets harder to sneak away to the alcove with so many eyes on you—on Gaz. Kyle. Wonderstruck and filled with adoration, they follow his every move. Asking questions of his gallantry, of the war. Of the men he saved along the way. 

He's overwhelmed by it all. You know him enough to see through the gossamer of temerity he weaves around himself in golden threads is as much of a farce as the marriage you find yourself locked into. 

Broken people trying desperately to patch up the cracks with duct tape and false hope. 

Still. Still.

Underneath it all, the heavy blanket of lies that saturates the air between you, the glances met in the middle of a crowded room, gentle touches hidden behind marble monoliths, it's still Gaz. The man who whispered Byron's prose in your ear, and laughed at the absurd humour nestled in the fine print from Poe. Argued the semantics of Pliny's lies and painted a beautiful picture in the seams of Homer's epics. Who breathed life into words on paper, and stained your hands with borrowed ink. 

You love him. You love him. 

But you're not allowed to. 

Outside of the shared kiss between towering pillars, he barely touches you. Shunned, maybe, by the ring on your hand. 

You try to hide it, to stifle it down. To play the part of a loving, adoring wife to the man who is barely ever home. 

The alcove is forgotten. A place you pretend you don't know exists. 

It sits on his shoulders just as heavily as it does yours, but what can you do? 

You offer thin smiles and waning glances, hoping that this ache in your chest will dissipate with time—

nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?

—with distance. 

But Kyle's hand brushes yours in corners concealing your sin in thick drapes of tenebrous. Touches gentle and sparse. A tentative reacclimation of your still kindling love. It burns in these small moments, setting fire to the world around you until it's ashes in your palm. Where nothing matters except the heat of his skin on yours. 

"Missed you," he whispers in empty hallways. "Miss you so much, birdy, I can't stand it—"

"So don't," you breathe, silken petals on wrought iron. "Don't, Gaz—"

His responding groan is agony. The groyne splits into halves. 

The sound of it ripens in your barren chest. 

It's a heavy secret to keep, a burden that squeezes uncomfortably between your ribs. There's fear, of course—while the laws are no longer as archaic as they once were, no one would go after Griggs if he discovered this burgeoning affair and decided to kill you. Many would consider it justified. Even without knowing the way your heart beat so brilliantly when Kyle was near, or the feeling of permafrost that covered your flesh whenever Griggs deigned to touch you. 

Your own safety is a caveat to your secrecy, but you can feel the tension between Griggs and Kyle—some heavy, awful thing that rots in the air whenever they're together; and it goes beyond simple jealousy. You'll do whatever you can to protect him. To hold his soul in your palm, and keep it safe from the world that wants to hurt it. So, you swallow it all, and hide—

But one of the guards that came with Kyle, a soldier you think, greets you one morning and with his sharp smirk, shatters the illusion of safety you've constructed around yourself like it was a cheap, glass toy. 

He dips his head, and you blink at the cut of his hair—a mohawk, and quite unusual for this side of the court where there's always an air of propriety and decorum; a stuffy sense of prestige—but the confusion is bit down the middle when he smirks. 

"Don't worry. Yer secrets safe w'me."

"Oh," you murmur. Oh. 

"Does anyone else know?" You ask one evening, eying the way the man with the unusual Mohawk seems to smirk whenever you and Kyle are near. "About us?"

Kyle's easy grin turns sheepish. "Ah, well. My friend—Soap—" you make a face, and he grins. "Don't worry. His parents didn't really name him that. His name is Johnny. We fought together, with Price. He knows, but only because he's so bloody observant. He looks stupid, but he isn't. He's probably the smartest man in the room…"

You let the admission sit in your tongue, tasting the weight of being known, and gauging how it fits between your molars. You'd be able to kiss him freely, to love him openly, wholly. No one would even blink if you leaned over, resting your weary head on his shoulder after a long day in the waning summer sun. A kiss to his cheek would be as natural as the cool indifference etched in the harsh lines of Griggs’ face when he regards you each morning he deigns to join everyone at the table. The guards barely blink when he brushes his fingers over the back of your hand—a facsimile of a happy marriage for the men who watch you just as coldly as he does—and you imagine it's Gaz instead. Where there sits a frigid tundra is instead a lush savannah full of warmth. An oasis heated under the sun. 

A callous touch becomes a kiss. 

You would shy away from his affection, but your heart would thrill with the pleasure of his love. The openness in which he regards you—something to be cherished, worshipped. Your cheeks would burn in a flustered embarrassment as Soap barely tried to hide a jesting leer behind his cup, but it would be no match for the way your heart sang under the solace. 

Something creeps along the edges of your periphery. A phantom sensation that rots you from the inside out, makes you glow green—

Avarice. It takes you a moment to realise what it means, what this strange feeling in your chest is, but—

You're jealous of that person, that fictional you in the fantasy, who has everything in the palm of your hand but still shies away from his touch. 

Stupid. Stupid. It's so silly. So foolish. Your lips tug downward in a sharp, steep frown. 

Kyle watches the flickering emotions pass by, and quickly shakes his head, but how would he know the rotten tangle of contradictions within your heart?

"I trust Soap with my life." His words are sharp with his sincerity, and you know instantly the harshness isn't meant to scold, but to reinforce. He's trying to convince you of the same. You feel it in the sure way he reaches out for you, laying his hands on your shoulder, making you see the truth in his words as he speaks them aloud. "And I trust him with yours, too."

His probity thickens the air. 

"Okay," you say. Okay. You bring your hand up, pressing it against the steady beat of his heart. It's firm, true. You want it to echo in the hollow of your veins forever. "Then I trust him, too."

And, oh, how he smiles, then—

(Avarice. How could that be when you have the brilliance of his grin stretched out in front of you? When Kyle stands before you, the most beautiful kouros you'd ever seen?

That you who shies away from his touch ought to be jealous because in the palm of your hand sits pure happiness.)

The visits to the alcove become a distant memory. Large vacuums of time where you're both missing will undoubtedly raise suspicion, and with Kyle's return, Griggs seems determined to play the role of a dutiful husband. His personal passel of guards follows you around, an ever-watchful shadow. 

"He's not suspicious," Kyle shakes his head when you inquire about this presence. Was it something you've done? But no. "It's something a husband—" the disdain in the word makes you blink, but he leaves no room for you to ask: "—would do. And he's all about appearances. He's doing this because he thinks I'll notice if he doesn't."

With the alcove dashed—mourned over in the evening when you pass it by, fingers slipping sorrowfully into the cold vacuum—he whispers to meet him in the library instead. 

You spend many hours just sitting together, gauging the appropriate distance in the frown that lines the guard's face as he takes you in. All proper and cold. Polite indifference. You yearn to have Soap watch over the two of you instead, but Griggs is firm about his men watching you. 

(Following you.)

You pretend to be two people who have never known the taste of each other's breath, or the way his heart thundered under your palm. His lips on your lashes, smothering you in tentative kisses as he bid you that final farewell as Gaz.

The dance gets easier. 

You lounge on the chaise with a book open on your lap—sonnet sixty-five—and play the dutiful spouse happy to see your husband's younger brother when he wanders in, his own book tucked between his forearm and side. A pantomime of a happy family. 

He sits at a respectable distance after a perfunctory greeting, and opens his own book—Lancelot, le Chevalier de la charrette—and pretends he isn't more invested in meeting your furtive stare than he is at the plight of a lovelorn knight. 

Each meeting seems to triplicate the growing tension that has been there since he fell asleep one afternoon, still moonlighting as Gaz and sleepily turned toward you with eyes made of melted pennies and crushed umber. Soft, molten, and just for you. Just for you. 

"Sorry, birdy," he whispered, voice thick and rough from sleep. "Didn't mean to pass out on you…"

It was then that your heart began to struggle. Frantically pulling and pulling at the ivory prison it was kept inside until it became loose and freed itself from the confines of your ribs—a gnarled, rotting birdcage where it was meant to moulder for an eternity—and lept to him. The permafrost on its flesh melted the closer it got to him, to his touch, his warmth. 

Gaz runs hot. A lavascape. Thermal springs. 

(How could you have ever expected it to stay with you, shivering from the cold, when he soaked up the blistering heat of the sun?)

It's easy to toe the edge of that unseen precipice in these quiet moments. To shuffle closer when the guard watching over you leaves, satisfied that no harm with befall you (and encouraged by Gaz, warrior of the Garrick house, to take a break, to rest); to lean into the space he occupies until the heady scent of him—charred bundles of pine, evergreen, sycamore; the brininess of his sweat—fills your nose until you're lost in a daze, a cloud, where only you and he exist. A microcosm of your own making. 

He lets you rest your head on his shoulder as he reads to you about the perils of his latest book, voice a deep ravine, a fusillade against the palm you lay flat on his chest. 

But the peaceful innocence of a gentle love shatters when he begins the passage. 

Lancelot and Gunivere. 

Everything about it, them, makes you burn. 

His hands tremble, voice cracks. Adultery. Sin. It sucks the air from the room until you struggle to breathe. 

How could they? You ask, the stutter in your voice tangible. How could they?

Gaz presses his nose against your crow and breathes in deep. His whisper curls around your bones. How could they not?

(How indeed.)

Lancelot and Gunivere give in. 

Gaz places his hand on your wrist, eyes burning coals in the fading sunlight, and you find a question in those sweltering depths. A plea. 

They did it, so why not us?

You taste sweet jasmine petals and green cardamom when he leans in, his breath ghosting across your lips, your tongue. 

"Finally—" the word is mangled in his throat, shorn off by a groan when your lips touch his. Tentative and sweet. The slow unfurling of a late summer's morning when the shade is cool, but the sun burns your skin. A languid unfurl. 

When he opens his eyes, a slow, dreamy blink, you're reminded of an old calico you had back home. A lazy beast who was fed a little bit by everyone around it because no one could say no when it would mew up at them with large, glossy eyes. You caught it one morning on your balcony, slumbering next to the picked bones of a fish it must have snatched from the men at the harbour—the ones who always sent him on his way with a little herring or a piece of tuna. It blinked then, slow and full of torpor, much like Gaz right now, before it yawned, paws stretching across cement before it rolled over, soaking up the heat on its round, full belly. 

His likeness to that little beast fills you with longing for home, for the crystalline shores of a port town where everyone smiled at you, and didn't pretend you weren't there. Where you felt safe and happy and—

Gaz kisses you again, and it feels like you're there, standing in the square of the market, surrounded by jovial chatter and old ladies haggling the price of a fatty tuna and a pinching lobster. It's a warm embrace surrounded by familiarity. You lean into him and wonder if he'd leave here with you. If he'd run away back to your home. 

But you'd never ask because he'd never go. He would never betray his family like that just like yours would never accept you back. 

You're content with this. This sin is enough. 

Enough, enough, enough. 

The word becomes a mantra as winter slips deftly into spring. As the ground blooms in swaths of green, and the air turns balmy as the sun awakens from its hibernation. 

Enough, you think when Gaz presses his hands against yours beneath the table, eyes darker than obsidian and streaked with want, green with greed. 

Enough. Enough—

His kisses grow deeper as if he's trying to swallow you whole. To devour every part of you until nothing remains in this earthly realm; until the entirety of you is locked tight inside of him, safe and sound, and just for him. 

He kisses you like he's desperate. Like he's in pain and you're an antidote to his misery. 

(But when he moans so achingly against your lips until the vibrations run through your skin, making them tingle, you feel more like a poison. The catalyst.)

And maybe you are. Maybe every cell in your body is infectious, and he's been syphoning from the noxious sap that pools on your tongue. You, the personification of pestilence dragging him down, rotting him from the inside out. Him, the hapless victim. 

It would make sense, that. You've always been awful—so greedy for him, and wilful in the sins you're willing to commit against your marriage. 

"Fuck, birdy," he pants into the seam of your lips, nose grazing your cheek. 

You're burning. Feverish. 

You want, want, want—

"If we don't stop now," he says at length, fingers knotting into the fabric around your waist. 

Bunched in his fist, it pulls at the hem until just a sliver of your skin is revealed. His thumb brushes the heat of your flesh, then—whether by accident or design, you don't know, but the feeling of him, naked and bare, makes you shake, makes your stomach quiver under his touch.

There have been moments before this when it was just the sateen slide of skin on skin. The prickle of coarse hairs dusting across his forearms. The heat of his flesh searing your fingerprints. You've mapped the ridges and valleys of his face between your palms. Know, quite intimately, the way his cheekbones feel pressed tight to your lifeline. The little flutter of his lashes before he dips his chin, catching the inner knuckle of your thumb between plump lips. 

The stubble around his jaw tickles your hand and your upper lip when he kisses you softly. His nose presses into the skin of your cheek when he bows his head to syphon the air from your lungs. Or the soft push of his lips when he kisses the tip of your nose the weight of his hands on your waist, keeping you close. 

He likes to bring your hand up to the light sometimes, fingers laced together, palms locked in a tango, and charts the way the sun scatters over your flesh. 

You know him. You know Gaz, Kyle. 

But this—

The rough graze of his dry thumb trailing over your belly makes you tremble, and heats you up from the inside out. 

It's too much. It's too much. It's—

You mewl his name. A soft plea. 

Gaz groans like you've gutted him. 

"Oh, fuck, birdy—"

—not enough. 

He kisses you until you’re breathless, stealing small snippets of your soul with each fervid lash of his tongue on yours, chasing the poison leaking from within. 

(Poison, maybe—)

Gaz pulls away from your mouth with a reluctant dip of his chin. A mournful sound spills from his wet, bruised lips, but he doesn't give in and kiss you again. He rests his forehead on yours, and you feel the heat of him bleeding into you. Sweat drips from his hairline, and tickles your skin. You want to glisten in it. To drench yourself in him, wear it like shiny, new skin. The whole world would know then, that you belonged to him. 

(—or sweet nectarean.)

"Can't—," he makes another noise in the back of his throat when his thumb reaches higher, tip skirting the rim of your belly button. Your flesh is damp. Slick with sweat. You feel the fever in your veins, leaking from the cracks in your marrow. "Can't do this, birdy—"

He swallows. You hear the click in his throat like a gunshot cutting through a field. 

(You, the hapless fool, standing right in its trajectory.)

It must show on your face. The suddenness of your dismay, your confusion, because Gaz lifts his hand from where it was clenched tight around the back of the chaise and presses his knuckle against your hairline. A soft rap on your skin. 

Knocking sense into this head of yours, he joked once when you'd jump with fear over each noise made in the hallways. Mind always spinning, looping; weaving knots of spooled anxiety between each synapse.

He does it now, too, and despite yourself—and the anguish notching inside your chest (does he not want to? Does he not want you? After all this time, is he going to change—?)—your burning lips quirked up in a small smile. 

"—m'not gonna change my mind," he's whispering to the fearful, vindictive hisses in the back of your head. His knuckle drags down your temple, trailing up the incline of your cheekbone. Gaz's eyes are cloudy with want when he lifts his chin up, reinforcing his words with a blistering stare. "Just not—not here—not for our first time. You deserve better than a stuffy library." 

Nothing he says reeks of deception. There's nothing hidden beneath the surface that will come and tear you apart later. He's suffering in this just as much as you are. The weight of your combined guilt will surely crush you both one day, but it will be together. Together. And—

You splinter down the middle at his words. 

You reach up, cupping his fist in the palm of your hand. "Yes," you murmur, soft and full of adoration. "I want that, too. I want that for us."

Kyle smiles and you think of a supernova.

With your shared acknowledgement of this, this, and the inevitability of where it's all heading, Kyle seems to grow bolder. Boastful. More wanting. 

His touches linger. His smile seems to grow when you're around. 

"I don't want you to get hurt," you confess, hushed and severe as he peppers kisses down the column of your neck. "I don't know what they'll do to you if we get caught, but—"

He grunts. "We won't."

"Kyle—"

"My brother is the most daft man who's ever lived. You think he'll notice anything at all?" 

This, too, is new, but only just. You know there is animosity between them—covered in a thick layer of propriety and feigned familial affection—and that it doesn't have much to do with you. Not at first, anyway. This grudge they foster spans far beyond your arrival, but you're not oblivious to the way Kyle seems to grow darker, more possessive each morning after you've retired with his brother in tow. 

He kisses you under the shade of a marble pillar when no one is looking as if he's trying to erase the memory of him from your skin. 

He pulls away when you hesitate, brow knotted in a touch of contempt that hardens his words into a mallet. 

"He hasn't even noticed that you don't love him. Do you really think he'll find out about us?"

"That's—"

It's true. He doesn't question you when you disappear for most of the day, making sparse sightings around the estate just to have a story in place in case someone begins to wonder why you and Kyle are always absent at the same time. Not that it matters much, really. No one has. 

No one will, he promised. Not a single fucking person here likes the bastard. Do you think they'll rat us out? Run to my older brother and tell on me?

You acquiesce, but it sits in your stomach like a stone. 

"I've been reading something," he tells his brother at dinner, eyes dancing with derision over veal. "About Lancelot and Gunivere." 

You tense in your chair, knuckles whitening from the grip you have on your fork. That statement alone feels like a confession. 

But your husband doesn't even spare you a glance. "Really? Sounds—stuffy." 

"It's really good," Gaz grins at you, wide and sharp—a mouthful of fanged teeth—and you feel the heat spume in your belly. "You should read it sometime."

"I think I'll pass." He reaches for the glass of wine with a muted shake of his head. He'll be busy all night, he murmurs—much too busy for silly books.

Beneath the thick oak table, you kick Gaz in his shin, lips turning down in askance. A silent admonishment that doesn't quite reach your eyes. 

He doesn't stop grinning.

"I really want to kiss you right now." 

The words are a heated whisper that barely catches on the towering stelae concealing you both from prying eyes. 

It's wrong, you know. Heinous in the way that these sorts of affairs usually are. Wrongness emanates from your coupling, sinfully detestable; it calls upon illicit evils and conjures images of damnation and dread from the pit of your stomach, but—

"Yes," you breathe, heart sitting heavy in your throat. "God, yes. Please, Gaz—"

When he presses his lips to yours, it feels like coming home. It feels right. Like the shape of them were made to fit the curve of yours. 

How could it be wrong when it feels like this? When you can taste nirvana in his gentle breath, feel the burn of heaven on your skin when he touches you tenderly. 

It can't be wrong. It can't be—

Kyle lays you down on the daybed made of silk and dark pine, and touches places that feel like they were made to bear his fingerprints, to carry his mark.

There's a quiet reverence in the way he seeks you out, learning new arning the new flesh bared to his eager gaze, his wanting hands. A soft propitiation. Each stroke of his fingers on your body is painted in adoration, love, until you’re covered in the hues he makes of you. A pastiche in shades of love, passion. It seeps into the crevasses, and the valleys; floods your pores and burrows into your bloodstream. 

You colour so prettily under him. 

And he, a painter, an artist, pulls back in the fading light from the waning sun and admires his masterpiece. 

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he rasps, nearly choking on the words as they claw their way out of his chest. “I could stay like this forever. Wake up to the sight for the rest of my life.”

It sounds more like a promise than it does a wish, and your heart aches for him, for you. For this moment that ought to be hung from the walls for all to see, to know, but instead is tucked inside a corner, hidden behind walls. You want to scream aloud how much you revere him, and love him, but the precariousness of it all dampens your voice. Dousing water on an incipient flame that hasn’t even had the chance to bloom. 

“Oh, Kyle—” Grief scorches his name until it’s charred, leaving stains of soot and ash between your teeth. 

He bends down, stealing the sorrow from your tongue. “Just for now, birdy, just for a minute—” 

He takes your hand in his—tender and bleeding warmth—and lifts it high above your head until your knuckles graze the pine of your headboard before he settles over you, broad shoulders blocking out the dying sunset until all you can see, all you can feel, is him. 

“This is just for us. Just for us—” Kyle swallows the anguish so it doesn’t hurt you anymore. “Let’s just pretend for a moment?”

And you do. 

“If I could steal you away from him, I would.”

It’s a balmy confession into your crown as he holds you tight. The steady beat of his heart is a testament to the truth in his words, and you long to burrow inside his chest, to fold yourself between the gaps in his ribs, and stay there for as long as he’ll let you. 

(And if it’s forever, you will merge into his bones until you’re suffused into his marrow.)

“I’d take you away right now.”

You think of that cat without an owner. The one who sleeps on any balcony that’s kissed by the sun and eats fatty tuna by the sea. It’s homeless but that doesn’t matter: it was never meant to be trapped inside where the sun cannot caress the soft spot between his ears, or tickle his chin. 

Sometimes he lounges on the top of the seawall, batting lazily at the waves, and you’ve always thought that was the meaning of freedom. To do whatever he pleased, to go whenever he wanted. To brush his body against the ankles of passersby, enjoying brief comfort in the arms of a stranger before wandering off to pester the tabby who mewled at him from behind thick glass.

Living that life blinks by, coloured in shades of flaxen and azure; warm honey, melted gold. Glittering pennies by the shore. Sand between your toes. Hot pavement burning your feet.

A little house—white stucco and royal blue trim—by the sea; living there in perpetuity with him. 

You think about asking, then. Voicing this little sapling aloud, nurturing it into growth. To make it real. To escape with him, and run until you find another alcove hidden between marble; a place just for the two of you. 

But you don’t. The words sour in your throat. 

It isn’t that he’ll say no that keeps the words at bay, but the fear that he’ll say yes. 

You’ll do whatever you can to protect him—even at the expense of yourself. Your happiness. 

(You’re content with this. This is enough.)

“Sounds lovely,” you whisper into his skin. “Maybe one day…”

And you tell him about that place. The cat that reminds you of him. The white house near the shore with a rickety pier you used to stand on for hours, just gazing out at the sea. 

He pulls you closer. "We'll go there. Just the two of us."

This—your consummation—breaks everything open. 

The feverish desire that bloomed turns rapacious—a near-constant ache from within that feels unquenchable even when you're still burning from the phantom whisper of Kyle's touch. 

That little taste was just a morsel. It whets the palette of the beast that resides in your soul, but it's ravenous. Starved. It wants and wants—unslaked with just a simple touch. 

You're not alone in this devastating agony, this heedless need. Gaz must feel it, too, because those soft, tender kisses turn biting and aggressive; possessiveness seems to bleed into the space where his body isn't touching yours. He rushes out the guard the moment you walk into the library, clumsy in his haste to finally be alone with you. To explore the charted valleys of your body and marvel at the way they seem to fit his peaks perfectly. 

("Made for me," he breathes against your collarbones. "Just like I was made for you.")

The broken levee is shattered at your feet. In the sudden rush of water, you become clumsy. Jaded with apathy when you're not in his arms, and careless with your passion. 

The book lay discarded on the table when Gaz slides his hand up your knee. 

"Again?" 

Your name comes out in a needy huff. "And again. And again. And—"

Sometimes, in Kyle's arms, you seem to forget that you're married. That his brother waits for you to finish combing your hair before he climbs into bed, murmuring soft nothings about the world around you, and how it all fits. 

He's quite taken with philosophy, you find, gazing at yourself in the mirror. It's startling to see how much you've changed since you first were told of this whole affair—the war, marriage, and how that single piece of paper, and this heavy ring, would be the cause to end it all. You were a sunken shell of yourself. Hollow, empty. 

But your cheeks are fuller now. The corners of your eyes creased with laugh lines. Your lips were redder from the kiss Gaz snatched before you were whisked away. 

You look different. Sunkissed. That cosy home on the cove, white stucco and royal blue, buoys in your mind again. With the sure set of your shoulders, and the ghost of a smile still whispering across your lips, you know that this is the closest you've ever come to being the first set of footprints in the sand. 

You almost reach for it. 

Let me go—

"And Price is alive, I suppose, so that complicates things."

His reflection waves a flippant hand when you dart to him, half visible in the corner of the mirror. 

"What—?"

Price. That name sounds familiar—

My captain, he whispers, tapping out a skewed rhythm on his bent knee. The hat dangles from the tip of his finger, but despite the almost careless disregard he shows for the item, you know it'll never touch the floor. Was a good man, but stone cold when he needed to be. Willing to do all the shite we couldn't. Respected him a lot, you know? Looked up to Price… 

"He's been imprisoned by Makarov for the last three years. Prisoner of war." He shrugs like it means nothing, but you suppose to him, a man whose signature is on tonnes of death certificates made in limbo during the war, it would be. "A right nightmare."

"Are you—? Have you told G—your brother?"

He scoffs. "No. The last thing I need is for him to run off and try to free him. Bad enough the Mactavishs' have heard whispers and haven't stopped pestering since then."

He moves closer until he's situated behind you, and for a moment you're startled by the sight of him. In the fading twilight, he looks striking. Where Gaz seems to glow in daybreak, illuminated by the coruscating sun and creating an almost breathtaking sfumato of copper, umber, warm gold, amber, and raw honey, his brother, by contrast, is suited for dusk. It casts shadows beneath his lashes, under his cheekbones, in a chiaroscuro. 

The contrast between them is unmissable—Gaz is made of starlight, and meant for sunrise and sunsets; and his brother for moonlight, for overcast days in Autumn—and it bludgeons into you, a mallet to your chest. 

The impact breaks everything into pieces, everything you thought you held firm. Guilt puddles to the surface, and overflows in a great deluge until you're swallowed down, falling into the abyss. 

You can't think about it. 

"Gaz will be furious if he finds out you kept this from him."

"Gaz?" He repeats, head tilting to the side. In the reflection, your eyes widen. "You call him Gaz? You're both rather close, aren't you?"

Your heart leaps to your throat, thudding painfully with each panicked thought that races through your mind, a cacophony of does he know? and when did he find out? 

Gaz called him daft. Oblivious now that the power of ruling over the court was in his hands. In many ways, it's true—his visits have been infrequent, sparse; and when he was there, his mind seemed miles away. It made the guilt churning in your stomach settle when he'd pass on a message that he wouldn't be retiring for the evening in your shared suit, but would be busy with other things. His absence was a notable gap in the estate, and without him there, you'd slipped so easily into Gaz. Fanning the flames that burned so brightly in the alcove all those months ago. 

He wasn't around enough to witness anything, and you've always been so careful. Hiding behind pillars, and sneaking into empty rooms. Evading the prying eyes of your appointed guard and the passel of workers who drifted around the halls as they needed. No one saw anything except the carefully curated picture of stumbling upon each other in the library where you both went to read, and you're sure that any reports he might have gotten would attest to this. 

It abates some of the panic, but there's a keenness in his narrowed eyes that makes you bluster. He knows you're not—in love with him, and so, your hesitation around him should be obvious. Normal. Nothing has changed except sometimes you catch yourself frowning at his back, desperately trying to pretend you weren't wishing he was Gaz when he rolled over in your shared bed. And maybe you pay more attention to Gaz at dinner instead of him, but how could he glean anything from that when his mind was elsewhere the entire time? When his circuit of advisors whispered in his ear and drew his attention away? It's normal. All of it. Everything you and Kyle have ever done in public is perfect chase, acceptable. 

You swallow thickly and his eyes drop to the smooth column of your throat, buoying in the reflection. There's something there in crushed amber, something knowing and horrid. It curdles your stomach, twisting in knots that keep looping over itself in tight tangles. 

"No more so than most."

His narrowed eyes slide across the unblemished skin of your neck, and pause on the soft patch of flesh beneath your jaw. Your heart seizes. The phantom graze of Kyle's fanged canines brims. He's grown rather fond of burying his face into the column of your throat, nipping along your sensitive neck. That place in particular he often peppers a series of soft kisses to before suckling on a patch of skin, drawing it between his lips, his teeth. 

But it's unmarked. 

Kyle knew his brother would be home tonight. It's untouched for that reason. And yet, he lingers there. Watchful. Keen. Is that suspicion in his eyes or has he always carried dark ravines in those drusy depths? 

You swallow again. An excuse—you need—

But he speaks before any form in the roaring tangle of your thoughts, and his tone is—upbraided. You burn. Shame, maybe. But no more guilt. Just—

Fear. Panic. 

"Mm, I suppose so."

The next morning, he presses a kiss to your numb lips when he wakes. It's soft. Chaste, almost. There's something sweet about it—but it's cloying. Saccharine. It rots your teeth. 

Thoughts begin to loop inside your head, weaving messy tangles as they arc high above before battering into the soft ceiling. There's a sense of chaos to them; unfettered terror. They push and push against the walls but there's no escape from their domed prison. They slip past, but they're sluggish even in their fright as if moving through thick molasses. Syrupy. Soporific.

But as he stands from the bed, and turns to you with a cold smile, one tangles around the tips of your fingers in a muted panic, seeking comfort from your own hand: 

He knows. 

He must because Griggs waits for you—an uncharacteristic move that only serves to reinforce the fear curdling, sour and acrid, in the pit of your stomach because he never stays, never lingers—and gives you no time to tell Kyle anything. About Price, about his brother and the poorly kept secret. 

You wonder when he must have figured it out as you comb through your wet hair, gazing vacantly at the etiolated spectre in the mirror. Was it when Kyle had you against the marble pillar? Mewling his name out in a scorching benediction to the night as he held you tighter than ever before, whispering hymns into the sweat-slicked heat of your neck? Or in the library when he spread your thighs apart, locking your knees on his shoulders, and took you to nirvana with just his mouth. 

Or maybe it was all of it. Each gentle touch, and press of his lips painted you in a mosaic of colour for everyone to see, to know. Every stain is a testament to the devotion echoing inside your heart for a man who is not your husband. 

Your face, once full and lustrous, falls sallow, clouding with determination. 

You'll save the man who makes you burn—no matter the cost. 

Despite the watchful eye he keeps on you, locked to his side, a prisoner in your own home, Gaz finds out about Price. 

Whispers, maybe, through the halls. The guards. Whatever the reason for the leak, you can see the way it makes his older brother burn with barely concealed fury. How dare they speak when he told them not to? 

It's matched by Gaz's own anger when he storms into the dining hall, eyes blazing with vigour. His wrath makes them darken to smouldering coal, and guncotton. You can almost smell the acrid burn of salt peate in the air. 

He seems to stutter in his march at the sight of you sitting so close to his brother, an unusual discovery, and you know the growing crease between his brows is in response to that, to the scant space between his arm and yours. You long to reach out, to tell him he knows, run, but the words are swallowed when Griggs drops his hand to your wrist, silencing you. 

Kyle takes in the sight with a steep tug of his lips, a flash of teeth, but he says nothing about it. Can't, you know. Can't because it isn't isn't his place. 

Instead, he seethes, and turns to Griggs with his nostrils flaring. "Price is alive?" 

Griggs tuts. "How did you find out?"

"That doesn't matter. When are we going after him?"

It’s cut down with a swift shake of his brother’s head. “We're not. It’s too reckless. We’ll end up back in war with Makarov, and I’m not going to allow—”

“So we just leave him there—?!”

A nod comes and you’ve never felt anything colder, more callous than that.

“Unbelievable! You’re just going to let him rot?”

“We’ll negotiate, but if it goes nowhere—”

“The MacTavishs won’t settle for this. Soap and Ghost won't, either.”

Griggs leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Well, they have little say in the matter, don’t they?”

"Are you serious?" 

He nods, and Kyle bears his teeth in disgust. "Price's predicament is of his own doing, not ours—"

"His own—?!" Rage turns his words caustic. Fury paints them charcoal black. "Some fuckin' leader you are! You've got a kingdom falling into disarray and a spouse that doesn't love you, so what do you know?" He scoffs, skewering his glare at the way Griggs' hand rests over your wrist. "War hero, they called you, but all I see is a fool. A coward. He was twice the man you'll ever be."

Kyle looks to you, then, nostrils flaring in his fiery anger, his hurt, but he waits. He waits for you. 

This is it. That moment he spoke of—steal you from right under his nose—and there's hope blooming in the fibres of your chest at his proposal. Run with me, his eyes scream, beseeching you. Run with me now. Leave this place. We'll make do on our own. 

Your mouth opens, but Griggs digs his fingers into your wrist. A warning. Griggs' grip is tight. Paralysing. You can't move. Can't—

The betrayal flashes across Kyle's face as he realises you're not going, you're not moving, and it rips through your core like the serrated edge of a white-hot knife, tearing your flesh into scraps, into pieces. They hang from your ruined flesh in drapes of agony, but nothing hurts more than the anguish on his face when his fist closes around the mournful brag of your heart in his palm. 

Keep it, you think. Keep it safe. It's always been yours. Always, always—

"Careful, brother," his tone is low, a rough scrape that cuts through the stifling heat of Kyle's trembling fury. It chills you. "That might get you in trouble one day, to speak so ill of your future king."

"That's what it's about, isn't it?" He spits. "Playing nice with Makarov so you get to be king? While Price fucking rots?! I'm not going to let you do this—"

"And who did this in the first place, Kyle?" He turns to you with a coy tilt of his chin. "Did he ever tell you?" At your confused expression, he seems to scoff. "Of course not. They're always the righteous ones, aren't they? Who do you think caused this war between Makarov? Who prodded the beast when he wasn't supposed to?"

Price is a bit… bloodthirsty when he sets his mind to something. Hard-headed. He'd have stopped at nothing to get Makarov—

"That's—" Kyle's eyes cut to you. "That's not—"

"Was it not you? Not Price? Did you not go and meddle where you shouldn't have, and cause this all to happen? Tell me I'm lying, Kyle."

"You bastard," he seethes, but he doesn't refute his claims. 

Your stomach plummets. This war was the reason you were made to leave your home, the sandy shores and the fat, lazy cat. The reason you had to marry Griggs. 

Your eyes burn with unshed tears. No, no. "Tell me that isn't true—"

"Oh? Had he not told you?" Griggs coos. "Did you know that you were supposed to marry him?"

I should have been here. I should have been—

You couldn't have stopped it, Kyle. 

…yeah. Yeah, I—

"Yes, you were meant to marry Kyle all along but he was too busy running around the countryside chasing after ghosts to be wed." He leans down, whispering mockingly in your ear until it burns. "A shame, isn't it? That you could have been his all along."

No, no, no—

He says your name, but it's strangled in his throat. "That's not—I didn't know—I had to–to find Price—"

His question is at the forefront of your mind. Mocking, now. Cruel. Are you happy at least? And, oh, how painful it is to have your heart cloven in two. 

There's a part you have to play to ensure Kyle's safety. A facade you must wear. The dutiful spouse does not leave their husband's side. 

And so, you sit. You stay, and you break into pieces when Gaz's shoulders shake with the weight of his grief, of yours, and he turns his back to you. 

It can't go on like this. It can't. 

Griggs strokes your pulse with the flat of his thumb. "Good choice."

Outside the dining hall, you can hear Kyle calling out to the men around him, ordering them into action. His voice is a powerful weapon, and he wields it with cutting precision, slicing down any question of his authority, his goal. 

You wonder what Griggs thinks about his men being tethered so tightly to Kyle, more loyal to him than their own eventual King. 

You wonder, too, if this was why he didn't show up to wed you. How cruel. How—

"What did he mean by that?" He asks, glancing down at the ring on your hand. "A spouse that doesn't love you. What does love have to do with anything?"

And you break. 

"It's a bit important, isn't it?" You snarl. "But you knew—you knew—"

For the first time since you've met him, he cracks a small smile, and the sight nearly cloves your heart in two. 

It's misery. It's resignation. 

"I can't relinquish you from this contract, you know I can't. The moment I do, I yield the power to keep Makarov away from my family. If you get caught, you'll be punished. Kyle will, too. Adultery used to be ground for execution but—" his smile, then, is an ugly, gnarled thing. "How am I meant to kill the brother I'm doing all of this to protect? How could I possibly become King with my younger brother's blood on my hands? But you… I can't be a foolish wittol."

"So, what will you do?"

He moves closer, arms folding over his chest. "Kyle is smart. Pragmatic. But when it comes to that man, well…" he offers a wan smile. "He's quite reckless. He'll go after him, of course. But I can't have that. I'll send him away."

"Where?"

"North, maybe. Send him on a merry chase through the countryside while I negotiate with Makarov."

"Gaz would never go. He's too smart. He'll see through it."

"I've never seen my brother so happy before…" There's a touch of wistfulness in his voice. A hint of regret, maybe. But when it looks at you, all you see is nothing. A frigid wasteland. "And I guess that's because of you, isn't it? So, you'll send him away. You'll tell him to go. And he will because it's you."

"No. No—"

"You will. You know you will, because accidents happen, don't they?" His smile is vicious. The threat, the implication, curls around your throat. "And we wouldn't want that, would we?"

Griggs is far more cunning than you could have ever imagined. 

"His hubris was your undoing," he murmurs, smoothing out the collar of your shirt. "Lancelot, le Chevalier de la charrette. He thinks I'm an ignorant fool, and always has because my idea of valour is much less—" his lips twitch. "Bloody than his. Or the Barbarians he sides with. You see, we never really got along much these days. I always thought Price should have been thrown in prison where he belongs for the stunt he pulled. The only reason he wasn't—well, Makarov got there first, didn't he?"

"You hate him this much?"

"He nearly got my brother killed," he says, but you know there's more to it. "And he killed Barkov. Caused a massive uproar in Urzikstan. You know they supported my rise to the throne? It was quite a nightmare to have to pick up the pieces and make excuses as to why it was covered up. Foolish, the lot of them. And that Riley—"

"I don't know him—" 

"Of course," he cuts you off with a wave of his hand. "It doesn't matter. You're going to send Kyle away. You're going to tell him you hate him, you never want to see him again. You wish he was dead. All those dramatic things, yes? And then he'll leave. He'll go with his guard under the careful orders of General Shepherd and Graves."

The names are meaningless to you—maybe you heard them in passing a long time ago, but they don't register any sense of familiarity, and you tuck them away with little more than a numbed nod. 

"Good. Now do what you're told, and we'll pretend this little—ah, affliction—never happened."

It did, you want to scream. It happened. It was real. It was. 

But in spite of your conviction, the unignorable weight of Kyle's involvement in this—in ripping you away from your home and into the cold embrace of a man you don't know, couldn't ever come to love—splits your resolve, and funnels the same anguish he tried to hard to swallow down into your heart. 

Griggs has you wait for Kyle near the entrance hall, standing bereft of comfort and numbed in the antechamber as he assembles his soldiers in the symposium down the hall. 

You haven't seen him since he stormed out, and it feels as if you've been gutted and hollowed out. A trojan horse meant to mislead and deceive. Caught in a political game of euchre between two brothers you have a tangible relationship with. You know which side you're on, who you'll always pick in the end, but still. 

It stands out again just how guileful Griggs is, and how deep those roots go. The unveiling truth of Gaz's involvement in the war is meant to shatter the relationship between you into pieces he can exploit. The betrayal sets everything up for him—pawns to his victory—and you're meant to lash out, to hate Gaz for this slight against you. A tool to inveigle him to the opposite side of where Makarov is while Griggs continues to play games behind the scenes. Master puppeteer. He'll play Makarov, too. Entice him with a treaty. 

The dominoes are stacked for him: you get to Gaz, sending him on his way. Griggs plays Makarov and gets rid of Price. He's crowned King, and you—

Somehow your affair will leak. A guard who saw, who was threatened into secrecy. He'll come forward once the throne is assured, and admit to what he witnessed. With Kyle in purgatory chasing ghosts, there is nothing in the way to stop you from being cast to the gallows. 

Adultery is more lenient now, he'd said, but you're not stupid. The time you had alone in the library was spent pouring over laws and loopholes. It might be outlawed in your kingdom, too barbaric, but here? It's antediluvian but still legal. 

You'll be convicted in court. His hands tied by the archaic legal system, all he can do is mourn your loss as you're sent away. Woe is him, the heartbroken fool. 

He'll change it after. He would have to, wouldn't he? In memory of you. 

Or an accident, perhaps. 

They do happen after all.

You suppose you have a choice here—or, rather, a test. Prove your devotion to Griggs and maybe he'll spare you. The implication of it hung so heavy in the air when he'd fixed the ring on your hand, and said—

With this, the whole kingdom could be ours.

Ours. All that power—

You hear footsteps and chatter before the door creaks, swinging open with a loud bang. It seems to shake the walls, and you brace yourself to face him again.

"Birdy—"

Hearing his voice makes you tremble. 

Gaz stands in the foyer, eyes widening at the sight of you. Prettied up in linen and lace. Made beautiful for him in the eyes of a man who thought he knew what Kyle wanted.

But it sits too heavily on your shoulders, and the weight of it all makes Kyle frown. 

"What—?"

"I've come to—"

He cuts you off with a shake of his head. "I can't—I have to do this—"

He stands, rigid and sure. Immovable in his decision. Beside him, Soap looks just as determined. Just as grim. 

It knocks against a tender spot inside your chest, and you think about the anger he'll feel after all of this, when he leaves and realises that Price is a placeholder for Griggs’ ascension to the throne. A peace offering to Makarov. 

He reaches out to you, but the action is full of hesitation, uncertainty. There's so much unsaid between you, so much rot putrefying at your feet. 

So much could have been different, and there's a small part of you that still seeks to blame him for it. All the whispered confessions, the heavy weight of your guilt—none of it might have happened if only he—

Gave up his dreams. 

A new shame is born from that awful, ugly thought. The reverence in his voice when he spoke of the man, the guilt that lashed at your sternum when he confessed in your arms about leaving him behind. 

I'll never forgive myself for it, birdy. I had to keep looking. I had to. 

Hindsight bleeds around the edges, tainting each memory with the gruesome truth nestled in his words. He kept so much from you, and the unignorable knowledge of it pools deep in your marrow, painting every moment with an ugly stain of envy, blackening it with anger. 

Were you ever a choice? Or were you—

An accident. 

A throwaway in the grand scheme of it all, easily passed off to the next available suitor. Unwanted. Unneeded. 

Until it suited him best. 

And you want to scream. To rage at him. To split your anger, your betrayal into shards and throw them at his chest. Daggers of fury, of heartbreak meant to maim, to hurt. You want him to feel the same anguish inside your veins, dragging festering blood to your pathetic heart that still sings for him, still yearns.

Under it all, a bigger part of you still understands why—why he did it, how he could. Kyle didn't know you when he made his choice, and you're sure that he's suffering for it just as much as you are. 

"I know this is something you have to do," you murmur, but your words are stilted. Mechanical. "And you—you should go."

It seems to throw them both. Soap looks pensive as he stands, rigid and faithful by Kyle's side. His hand lowers to his sword, and you're almost taken by the sight of his intuition; the way it flickers across his features is almost indescribable under the honeyed glow of the lanterns. 

He knows something is wrong. Tastes it in the air. 

Kyle, blinded by the sight of you, doesn't yet. And you know, then, what you must do. 

"Birdy—?"

"It's what you have to do, isn't it?" 

There's so much between you. A thundercloud looms overhead, threatening a downpour. You ignore it all—a conversation for another time, maybe (hopefully)—and move forward, gathering them into your arms. 

Hugging Kyle openly is unusual for you, but embracing Soap stands out. You feel Kyle tense in your arms. 

"Birdy…"

"Don't trust Graves," you whisper into his chest. "Or Shepherd."

"...what?"

"He knows. About us—"

"Birdy—" he tries to pull again, but you cling to him. 

"Don't. Don't. I know—I know this is something you have to do. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I'll be okay. Just—Makarov isn't where you think he is."

"That slimy, fucking—"

It's Soap who keeps Kyle from lashing out with a firm hand on his shoulder, and a pointed glance. "Yer sure?" 

You pull back with a muted nod, too aware of the guards standing just outside of the hall. Out of earshot, but still. Still. Much too close for comfort. 

"He told me so himself. Just don't—do what you need to, but don't let on, yeah?"

"Steamin' bloody Jesus… the whole fuckin' court is corrupt."

Soap looks startled, unmoored by the devastating blow you dealt to them. The betrayal, the treachery by their own men, their own commander, seems to dig deep into him. It hurts. You can see lashing across his face, the pain of it too deep for him to remain impassive. He buckles, but he doesn't break. It's tucked back into neutrality with a nod that feels like it meant more for himself than for you. 

But Kyle still looks wrathful—the picture of ferocious betrayal, hatred, and you think about Griggs and his own version of love in that instance. They wear their fury in the clench of their jaw, the furrow of their brow. It turns their eyes to lavascapes, melted pennies. Liquid gold. It drips from the drusy peaks of his iris, raking rivers of red through moonstone. 

Kyle comes back to himself, but worry paints his face a shade of grey. "Come with us."

"He'll know. I can't."

He waves. "You have to—"

But even as he says it, you both know it can't happen. Despite it all, you're safer with Griggs than you would be on the battlefield. You'd be a liability at best, and he needs to keep up the facade of loyalty to Griggs, to Graves and Shepherd, so that they can save Price. 

It's you or him. An ultimatum he's already been faced with before. 

Your smile is brittle. "Gaz…"

But he knows. He knows.

The careful visage of a determined warrior crumbles, leaving the shattered remains of a man, unsure and fearful, behind. It breaks you into pieces. One that drops over his shoulders like falling ash. 

He catches them in his fist, and holds tight. 

His voice is agony when he speaks. Broken timbre, charred wood, but he plays his role, now. 

He must. 

"I'll come back for you, birdy."

And you do, too. 

"I'll wander along the beach—" you breathe, forcing every ounce of longing, regret, heartache, and love into the words. A promise, an oath. You'll wait for him forever. 

"And I'll find you by the footprints in the sand."

"You might be right, birdy—"

You hum, and then:

"Why birdy?"

The hazy mirage of Gaz inverted in the foggy window, streaked with rivulets of rain, seems to blink as if started by your question. 

"Oh, uh… well," he clears his throat, a touch sheepish as he looks past your shoulder to the grimy window you stand in front of. "I saw you when I snuck home—here. When I, uh, when I snuck here."

"And you thought I was a bird?"

He moves in the reflection, taking careful steps to the edge of the daybed where you sit with your legs crossed, knees pressed against the wall, and your elbows resting on the ledge. Gazing, listlessly almost, at the rain-soaked world just beyond the thin glass. 

"Yeah, kinda. You might have been sitting just like this, but when I looked up, I just saw your face. With your arm like this—" he reaches over, grasping your left hand in his warm palm before pulling it up and tucking your knuckles under your chin. "Yeah, just like that, I think."

"And this made you think of a bird?" Your brow raises in the murky window. "Really?"

"From the outside, yeah. You looked—" his hand falters on your wrist, freezing in place. He swallows thickly, and you trace the bob of his prominent Adam's apple with a feverish fascination. He clears his throat before he speaks, eyes downcast. Lost in thought, maybe. "You looked like a trapped bird. A little birdy. Thought you were an owl or somethin' that got locked inside. I felt so bloody horrible—I couldn't remember the last time I'd been here. Thought you might have been starving—"

"But you found me."

His chin lifts. The weight of his stare paralyses you. "Yeah. I did." 

"Not a trapped bird, though."

"Birdy," he swallows again, and consternation gnarls across his brow. "You—fuck. I just—if I wasn't so much of a—"

"Gaz." You bring your hand up to his, trapping his palm against your skin before he can pull it away. "I'm fine. I'm better now that I have you."

But it doesn't abate his sorrow. Anguish collapses across his face. "Birdy, I'm so—fuck—"

You don't know why the thought of a trapped bird makes him so achingly sad, but the weight of his grief makes you mourn his loss alongside him. 

"It's fine. I'm fine." You kiss his palm. "As long as I have you, I'm fine."

"You can't mean that."

"I do. Always. And sometimes…" You fluster a little, heart racing in your chest. It beats so sharply against the fragile rings of your ribcage, that you wonder if a bird isn't trapped inside there, too. Longing to be free. "Sometimes I wish it was you."

"It will be," he promises, hushed and fervid. An oath for the walls to hear. Meant only for the room that watched him grow, that lead him to you. "I'll take you away from here. Somewhere far away—"

"Somewhere warm."

"The beach, then. The desert. I'll take you to the Sahara and we'll live with the birds and lions. So far away from anyone that could hurt you, birdy. It'll just be me and you."

"Sounds lovely." 

"I'll take you across the sea. I'll buy a boat. We could stay there forever at sea. Little, tiny spots in the great ocean. No one will ever find us." He bends down, pressing his lips to you temple. His eyes are embers: they burn with his conviction. "We'll forget what it feels like to be on land. We'll forget how to walk—"

"Maybe a house," you whisper. White stucco that absorbs the sun. Blue trim—as blue as the coruscating ocean. A fat cat, too. "By the sea."

"Yes. Yes," he breathes. His arm wraps around your chest, holding you close. "Just wait for me, birdy. Wait for me—"

"Gaz," you laugh. "Don't be silly. I'll wait for you forever. You can find me by the sea."

He shivers. "I really want to kiss you right now."

"What are you waiting for?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing—"

Credits: “Dante Swoons before the Soaring Souls of Paolo and Francesca, Virgil at his Side,” by Henry Fuseli (c. 1818)  / Madonna della Pietà (1498–1499) / Canto V (verses 121–123) of the Inferno from La Divina Commedia (ca. 1310–14) / Fitzwilliam Museum domed entrance ceiling / the Rising Sun by John Donne / The Cathedral by Auguste Rodin / Sonnet 40 by William Shakespeare / Cupid and Psyche by Antonio Canova (1808) / A Glimpse by Walt Whitman / 'La notte' by Hendrik Christian Andersen / Recreation by Audra Lorde / Unknown sculpture / Lancelot: The Knight of the Cart by Chrétien de Troyes

[opinions-about-tiaras]

So apparently the Rohirrim-focused Lord of the Rings animated movie is actually happening. I have to say that after it kept getting pushed back and there was no hype, no trailers, no nothing, I thought it wouldn't. But no, they showed like twenty minutes at Annecy and apparently it looks pretty good? They released no trailer to the public, but they did release some promo images, and I like what I'm seeing:

Image quality is kind of shitty, but that sure is the Golden Hall, and I do like a redhead. Very Princess Mononoke vibe from the whole thing.

So this is honestly a pretty good idea. I have zero interest in watching old man Viggo Mortensen track Gollum for four hours. That is... that does nothing for me. But the saga of Helm Hammerhand is a great hook; it's in familiar, iconic locations, but the events themselves are sketched out so roughly you can do an awful lot with them. There's political machinations, betrayal, war, conquest, pride, envy, some of that good shit that Tolkien really excelled at. Helm's daughter didn't even have a name in the appendices, which means that you're free to flesh her out just about any way you like.

But anyway! This got me to thinking about Helm and his reign.

So I hauled my books down off the shelf and read up on ol' Helm, and... okay, wow. I was honestly sort of surprised by what I found there. I remembered this, but hadn't really thought about it before.

Helm, the storied king of Rohan, second in renown only to Theoden and Eorl himself, is sort of... he isn't great. He sort of sucks, actually, I think.

You know what, I'm just going to excerpt the whole thing, which isn't that long:

Of the Kings of the Mark between Eorl and Theoden most is said of Helm Hammerhand. There was at that time a man named Freca, who claimed descent from King Freawine, though he had, men said, much Dunlendish blood, and was dark-haired. He grew rich and powerful, having wide lands on either side of the Adorn. Near its source he made himself a stronghold and paid little heed to the king. Helm mistrusted him, but called him to his councils; and he came when it pleased him. To one of these councils Freca rode with many men, and he asked the hand of Helm's daughter for his son Wulf. But Helm said: "You have grown big since you were last here; but it is mostly fat, I guess"; and men laughed at that, for Freca was wide in the belt. Then Freca fell into a rage and reviled the king, and said this at the last: "Old kings that refuse a proffered staff may fall on their knees." Helm answered: "Come! The marriage of your son is a trifle. Let Helm and Freca deal with it later. Meanwhile the king and his council have matters of moment to consider." When the council was over, Helm stood up and laid his great hand on Freca's shoulder, saying: "The king does not permit brawls in his house, but men are freer outside"; and he forced Freca to walk before him out from Edoras into the field. To Freca's men that came up he said: "Be off! We need no hearers. We are going to speak of a private matter alone. Go and talk to my men!" And they looked and saw that the king's men and his friends far outnumbered them, and they drew back. "Now, Dunlending," said the king, "you have only Helm to deal with, alone and unarmed. But you have said much already, and it is my turn to speak. Freca, your folly has grown with your belly. You talk of a staff! If Helm dislikes a crooked staff that is thrust on him, he breaks it. So!" With that he smote Freca such a blow with his fist that he fell back stunned, and died soon after. Helm then proclaimed Freca's son and near kin the king's enemies; and they fled, for at once Helm sent many men riding to the west marches.

It's been some years since I read this, and I have to say that... well.. Helm doesn't come off as the wronged party here, or as a just, evenhanded king. He comes off as a murderous asshole.

Freca is clearly an overmighty vassal, not doing proper homage to his king. This is a good reason for said king to mistrust him, but so far he hasn't done anything actually wrong.

Freca wants to make a match between his son and a daughter of the royal house. As someone with royal blood himself, a cousin to the king (Freawine is Helm's great-grandfather; Freca is probably Helm's third or second cousin) who has a mighty fief, Wulf would be an acceptable match. Helm, however, doesn't just demur, refusing the match; he responds to the offer with an insult. That's his right as king, of course, but it's still a dick move.

Freca responds by getting angry and "reviling" his king, and then issuing a veiled threat; saying in essence that Helm needs him more than he needs Helm. This crosses a number of lines; even when the king insults you in front of his entire court, you really can't do that back to him. Helm would be entitled to demand an apology, or banish Freca from his councils, or any one of a number of other appropriate proportionate punishments.

Instead Helm escalates about as far as you can escalate. First he forces Freca from his hall, probably so he can't be said to have slain a guest beneath his roof. (The Rohirrim are based on Anglo-Saxon cultural traditions and this had a strong, though not unbreakable, concept of guest right. I'm making a bit of an assumption there, tho.) Then he essentially says that in his eyes, Freca isn't one of the Eorlingas, one of the Men of the Mark; he is a Dunlending, which of course places him outside of the king's protection.

Then Helm simply straight-up murders him with his bare hands in cold blood.

Following this murder, of which there is not even a pretense of it being an act of a king dispensing justice rather than that of a thug murdering a rival, Helm puts the cherry on the sundae by dispossessing Helm's heirs and family and driving them from their homes by force.

And I mean. Fuck me. This is classic "how blood feuds start" shit. If I were Wulf I abso-fucking-lutely would have raised an army and come back and conquered the shit out of Rohan. The king murdered your dad! In front of everyone!

Helm Hammerhand is the proximate cause of his own kingdom's near-demise.

[bts5sosempire]

the tyrant (iv)

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: sukuna ryomen x reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 4,094

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: old time period, mention of arranged marriage, polygamous marriages, slow-burn yandere, power imbalances, peer pressure, gaslighting, mention of manipulation, dark content, mention of child neglect and abuse, etc.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: "you were the apple of Sukuna's eyes, the one who brought him solace and everything. The only thing you were incapable of was giving him a child, an heir he wished to spoil like he did to you."  

𝐚/𝐧: guess we’re reaching the pivotal point of the story where it’s gonna start taking a turn here on out 😈. churning on what I can onto my WIP archive. btw, please comment below the “comment” section for tagging. likes, comments, and reblogging are greatly appreciated too 💟 have a nice day bbs!

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

With the Fall Festival coming in an embrace to celebrate bountiful harvest and family joining together, you were standing in the middle of your room, facing a long mirror that Sukuna acquired from abroad from the western world when trading. Yumi and the other servants were fitting you for the special occasion as they layer you in countless pieces of clothing. The kosode was snugged around you tightly, keeping you warm from the upcoming chilling wind.

Speaking of Sukuna, he has been busy as of late; you were thankful for being able to breathe without him constantly eyeing your every move, but despite that, he settled down with his little spies around the castle to inform him about your stock status. Fiddling with your thick jeweled bangle around your wrist, you peer down and notice that the lock is quite loose. With a hard press in between your thumb and forefinger, you tried to bend the golden clasp to mold around the safety securely. But it's useless.

"Have you heard anything from Yuji?" Asking Yumi, who briefly looks up at you while fanning your kosode out behind you before looking back down.

Yumi: "From what I heard, he should arrive here in less than ten minutes."

There was a slight smile on your red rogue lips, "That's good." Readjusting your stance, the servants around you did a final touch-up on your hair and cosmetics. Turning around to exit your chamber, the screen door opens as you hold your head high.

Out into the main halls, other servants were bustling around alone after another or in groups. Meanwhile, each of them holds something in their hands or arms. They all greet you with a quick bow, mutter your title out, and make a way when you pass by before falling back into the routine.

After twisting and turning from many corners, you've reached the large entrance, where the welcoming banquet was thrown. Sukuna was already there, seated in his best midnight robes with stitches of gold and red in an intricate design that was carefully crafted only for him. There was already laughter ringing as concubines were talking amongst themselves. Across the main banquet room, on the left, was a Zen yard that divided children from dining with their parents. The children had their special mini banquet for them to feast while being under the watchful eyes of many countless nannies and guards. Tonight was filled with glee.

Stepping foot into the room, your presence was sensed immediately, and the chatter quieted, but not enough to kill the mood. Hanami quietly observes, sitting on the left next to Eisha. You made your way to the side and situated yourself next to Sukuna on the right. Sukuna glanced at you, but it quickly faded (you didn't even dare to acknowledge him). The unspoken and unresolved tension was noticeable, and no one dared to point it out. When it comes to you and Sukuna, the atmosphere is either rather scary, depressing, or heavy, like a dark cloud brewing over you two, with thunder rumbling at a distance.

Eisha cast a subtle view before facing forward. No words of sweet admiration from Sukuna? She smiles on the inside; there's nothing new with you and Sukuna; Eisha knows that Sukuna won't be mad for long. Still, she takes the leisure of enjoying the bitterness when you both had to offer to one another. It's rather intoxicating, knowing that it will remain stagnant.

"Open the doors and start guiding the guests to their assigned seats," Sukuna commanded, and a servant nodded before running off to complete their objective. The room remained quiet immediately, as not a word was spoken.

You nimbly pick up a small snack from the plate and gently place them inside your mouth.

As important guests pour in one by one or with their spouse, you gingerly watch until another pick hair comes into view. Yuji walks into the room with two people that you remember he mentions in the letters. Megumi Fushiguro and Nobara Kugisaki. The two children he had made friends with while staying at the Gojo compound.

Yuji talks animatedly with them both; as you can see, they're already fed up with him as their faces grimace. You could see Yuji pointing to you, urging Megumi and Nobara to look before waving excitedly like a puppy, and you smiled politely back at Yuji. You couldn't determine what they were saying, but Megumi pushed little pink hair starfish Yuji to their assigned seat as you assumed to free the entrance from being blocked. Nobara only sighed heavily at their antics from where you could see.

It's not long before your Aunt Setsuko steps into the room; she is suddenly glamor by the attention of older men and women alike. They all compliment how she could remain youthful and beautiful despite being forty-three. Hanami's moods sour on the side, and sparks of hatred seem to fly across the room as no one notices how your Aunt Setsuko gives out a discreet smug look of happiness from ruining her rival's evening. In a blink of an eye, your Aunt Setsuko's demeanor changes to elegance.

Waiting patiently for another twenty minutes, you look up from your snacks as you feel yourself freeze. From the entrance, you could see someone, their dark hair cascading down their back that is partially tied up. Your breath was caught up in your throat. You could feel it closing up. Past feelings and affection for them start to swell up in your chest again; oh, how much you miss him. Trying to remain indifferent as possible, it didn't go unnoticed under Sukuna's hawk eyes that remained trained on you; under his half-lidded stare, how your chest suddenly inhaled a breath and released it shakily. Even you went rigid.

Sukuna's eyes flitted to Geto Suguru, the bastard who still occupied your heart. The smile blossoms on his lips when he sees Suguru, who is equally astonished upon seeing you again, but he quickly regains composure once he sees the directive eyes of Sukuna. Sukuna, who didn't break eye contact, wanted to make sure Suguru knew who you belonged to, "How do you like my gift?"

This made you snap out of your daze. You cast an accusing look at him, your brows furrowing in anger and confusion.

Sukuna leans down, the tip of his nose close enough to touch your ear lobe, and his warm ticklish breath hits your cheek. He also purposely ensures that Suguru gets a good look, "I will make him miserable," whispering lowly into your ear. You didn't dare to budge or move. Your jaws were locked tightly that even your fists were balled ups that your pearly white knuckles were shown through the skin. Sukuna then chuckles deeply. From every angle, it looks like you both are a loving couple; you could feel the gazes piercing through you.

From the guest seating area, your Aunt Setsuko masks her displeasure expression behind a drawn hand fan as her eyes glower upon seeing Suguru. It then fled to you, seeing your facade slowly crumbling despite your trying to build it back up. What did you do? She could see the devilish expression that Sukuna was wearing. Whatever you did will be needed to be dealt with. It won't be good if anyone catches on.

Suguru then took his assigned seat; it felt like he was standing forever. He then didn't look your way again, for he was tense as you were when he finally saw you again. It's been five years since he last heard from or made contact with you. He forced himself to look forward no later than how much he wanted to rear his head your way. If he does look your way, he would be overwhelmed and flooded with emotions seeing your face again, but somehow he saw how restricted you had forced yourself. Suguru isn't stupid to pinpoint the why; your husband made you jaded with how much exertion you continuously build to keep Sukuna at bay.

"Is this what you wanted? Revenge?" You whisper right back at Sukuna, who once again chuckles.

Sukuna: "How could you think lowly of me?"

You: "It's not lowly when my opinion of you is below ground level."

"Then yes, it's revenge. You've denied me for so long, hurting me too. I'm just giving you back what you did to me." Sukuna taunts you, and you want to roll your eyes so badly.

"Me hurting you? You hurt yourself, not me; I made it clear, yet you push and prod me." There was a slight edge that sounded heavy with malice. "You wish to grasp something that is out of your control."

As if your words were not affecting him, Sukuna didn't take it to heart like he always did this time; somehow truth still lies in those words. "I will make you love me one way or another; you don't want to see him end up dead, do you?" This caught your attention, and Sukuna cruelly snickers. Before you could retort with a remark, Sukuna cuts you off, "It would be your fault if he somehow left behind two children too." Sukuna could see how a dubious expression settled on your face, but it got the message across. His capabilities to make it a reality if he wishes to. You didn't know if Suguru got married or not. Of course, you don't; how could you? A part of Sukuna hates seeing you deplorable, but this was a lesson for you. "Do you wonder who he married? Does it hurt knowing it wasn't you?" Slowly weaving himself inside your head, Sukuna never thought he would see another side of you as he dug deeper and deeper.

A weakness.

(Surname) clanswoman was prideful and forthright, but you look quite the opposite; right now. If Sukuna could laugh out loud at his discovery, he would, but seeing you in this naked state of mind, just using Suguru as a threat, exhilarates his interest. Is this the real you?

Now, this got Sukuna wondering if he should press on. Seeing how soft and pliable you look stirs his pools, despite your will waning. The temptation of breaking you dilated his pupils with such craze that he suddenly backed off from you slowly. Thus your resolute self returned once he was not in your space anymore. Still, you're quite a bit shaken. Sukuna had planned to torture you more, but this exceeded his expectations.

Sukuna didn't want to prolong the banquet; for he had a lifetime to strip you. You are already an addiction in his mind, slithering in every nook and cranny of his cranium. It's only fair for him to do it right back, even if it was unpleasant on your end. His mood shifted happily as he grabbed his cup and gave an ovation toast to the room's crowd. "I'm glad that everyone has accepted my invitation and decided to join this glorious event," putting on an impromptu act of class, Sukuna eyes every person in the room, but his gaze lingers on Suguru, who pierces right back at him. Smiling wide with his teeth shown, Sukuna's strawberry orbs glow with mockery to test and see how long Suguru was willing to accept his taunting and humiliation. No one knows the hidden smile that Sukuna is projecting; they all assume it was a typical behavioral trait from the Lord.

"To my wife, Eisha," Sukuna made a loving gesture to her, and Eisha smiled politely back at Sukuna to keep up with the farce. "Who had spent countless hours and times of her days to make this event possible..." Going off in his speech, Sukuna talks about being grateful and portrays himself as the perfect family man.

You only sit in silence and listen to the vernacular and nit-pick everything apart. Everyone may buy his bullshit, including the harem; it's not hard to believe if you're naive enough to buy it. You always knew from the bottom of your heart how Sukuna divides his love and attention, a dose to keep someone floating to come back begging for more. Easier for him to manipulate and control. He is a man whose mind could easily conform others to his cause if he gives them something to believe in; if not, he's good at negotiating to give someone a false benefit, but it only benefits him above all else. Everything is always a transaction to him, nothing more.

Once the speech ended, the applause went off, and your attention shifted again.

Your Aunt told you to follow her quietly, and you notice how her mood has been depleted. Any kindness left her the moment she saw Suguru and your reaction.

Once you both are far enough away from all earshot, she lets her fury be known. "You insolent child, do you know what you could've cost me?" Setsuko seethes out, face lashing out with anger. You understand this demeanor very well; you saw this countless times during your first stay with her. Anything that isn't delivered to perfection will be handled with outrage. "I've raised you to be absolute. Have you forgotten anything I put inside your brain?" The manners and duties of a woman. "We (Surname) women are not made of weaknesses; we strive to be the finest among all."

Despite remaining stoic and quiet, your Aunt could see how detached you'd become from the mold she had pounded you into since childhood this evening. And it's all because of Suguru. It's all his fault. The number of times she has made you perfect came crumbling when that man came around, how you become unruly and unladylike. Almost untamable. Too alive.

"What leeway did you give for Sukuna to invite a lowborn?" Setsuko demand.

"I didn't give him anything." You told her back and steeled yourself from what would come next.

Your Aunt Setsuko's face twists more, with anger prominently overtaking her elegance, "Do you know what happens when you lie to me, child?" You shudder at the thought, and your past comes back flooding. The nostalgic pain of your heels and calves being whipped by a thin stick until you bleed and couldn't walk properly, sit, or sleep as it hurt too much at night. If not that, then you would have to spend countless days scribing down numerous copies of books and family scripts from dawn to dusk with a needle pointing directly at your throat hidden underneath your clothes to ward off any thoughts of sleeping or your head drooping too low.

Then Suguru came into your head.

He was gentle with you, despite your Aunt having to shoo him away rudely or making guards patrolling the area to make sure to get rid of Suguru on sight. Suguru comforts you by sneaking into your Aunt's compound any time of the day by applying ointment to your wounds or helping you scribe down texts; he never once stifles you. He allows you to be who you are with him. The old days when he sneaked you out of the house to go on a horseback ride with him down the rivers, creeks, and forest. When he and you spend time under the stars sneaking kisses and giggling with each other. To give gifts for each other with the thought of each other. You still remember going to the village to eat delicacies with Suguru you were forbidden to eat when you were out with your Aunt. In the end, you feel safe and see with him that love blossoms between you.

"Fix your face this instant," Setsuko deeply growls out "that pitiful look doesn't suit you." You didn't realize what kind of face you were making when thinking about Suguru, but your Aunt thought it was her that caused you to make that expression.

Straightening yourself with a deep breath, you square and pose your shoulders to give off a strong impression like you were always taught. Setsuko's face eased for a fraction, but the look remained. She looks out where the crowds are gathered, idling around, worshipping the gold and food that was platter out for them to greed. Setsuko's cast her vision to Suguru, who was surrounded by other women who had their daughter(s) conjoined to them by the hips, selling them out to him. She sneers with a click of her tongue in distaste. Shameful, their eyes speak of nothing but greed, power, and camaraderie. Although Setsuko has to admit she may have underestimated Suguru's potential.

Suguru was a second born to the seat of the Geto clan, but an unknown and unnamed illness had taken both his father and older stepbrother a few years prior back together. Seeing him here didn't smooth the knots of prejudice Setsuko had against the young man; in fact, a pit in her stomach feared that he might be the denotation that would undo all her hard work. He has become prominent in social standing.

Then her eyes were thrown around, seeing how some of Sukuna's concubines were swelling with child. Another reminder of why she was also here too. Setsuko motions for you to stand next to her, "Do you see them?" She questions, her sharp eyes viewing you out of the corner. You trail after where she set her sights on, and it was the concubines. "Have you failed to do your womanly duty?" You know what she was referring to.

"We're trying." Lying through your teeth, you hope that your Aunt won't question you, but it's impossible to bypass her.

"Really? Then you would've at least had two children and swelling with another on the way." She cruelly remarks. Sometimes you wish that you weren't so grateful to her when she dehumanizes you like this. "You are the only child my brother and sister-in-law sired; that is my blood." Sometimes you are stubborn, almost like your father, to the point where Setsuko thinks if it's worth raising you and that you aren't so defective to cause a collapse in her plans. "There have been talks from the clan about sending in Kuromi and Enyaru's daughter Wakana to marry Sukuna since she's of age."

You: "For what reason?"

"To dethrone you, and they won't fully support me if you can not bear a child," Setsuko told you as a matter of fact, "I may have arranged you to marry a man that was unattainable if it weren't for Tsugahara's affection to allow me sending you in, but it's not enough to solidify to grant me a spot to become one of the Thirteen Elders of (Surname)." There were also inner conflicts within the clan that wasn't known outside; your Aunt had been competing against her half-brother Enyaru for the longest time for the seat about a decade. Their hostility to each other and the need to gather support from the clan have split them into two factions—Setsuko vs. Enyaru.

With a quick clench of your jaws, you finally realized. You're a pawn, no matter what. Maybe it was your swear great devotion to her that overridden every thought that was supposedly your own. Despite how badly she may have treated you.

"Why me? Why not one of your daughters? Mari and Aimei? They would've been a better candidate than me." You ask the daunting question, and a scoff of laughter emerges in the air.

Setsuko laughs as if you had asked the funniest question, "Mari and Aimei resemble more of their father despite their beauty, but you, you resemble me much more than those two. You're my perfect piece for taking down that old hag." Unraveling her true nature, you finally see the side that causes your Aunt to go to great lengths to acquire the revenge she has been dreaming of. "Every day, I want her to see you, and when she does, she will be reminded of me until her last breath!"

This side of your Aunt unnerves you. She looks happy to see your mother-in-law Hanami fall into demise. The pieces fall together more and more as you connect everything; you hear how your Aunt Setsuko was once a fair and bright woman in her youth who treated everyone fairly with no malice, but upon hearing Tsugahara's marriage and a scar of betrayal that hurts too much to heal properly has changed her overtime. Her smiles that were once sincere turn to hidden intentions, and words that were once uplifting have become enchanting to make people do her bidding.

Now you also understand why people who were once close to her say how you're like her younger version; they love the old her, but not this her.

You're constantly reminded that you like a breath of fresh yet familiar air.

It wasn't until your Aunt silently told you to recompose yourself before leaving your side to go back to mingle and make connections. You let the facade drop again. In your state, you felt no desire to go back to the banquet or be a pretty doll sitting and smiling; you might ruin the night with your unstable sentiments.

Most of all, you were feeling perturbed; it's becoming second nature to you as more things occupy your mind when the bitter truth is suddenly splashed on top of you like cold water. Your fate has been pre-mandated ever since your birth. You let out a quiet bitter chuckle to yourself; a part of you feels resigned, and the other is angry. Tears overwhelm your vision as it blurs.

Moving deeper into the darkness, you whisp past the countless bamboo that glows a faint blue under the moonlight. You didn't stop walking until you reached a clear opening in the middle where wildflowers grow, and the sound of people was no longer heard. Deep outside the estate, no one dares to venture this far to find solace.

Collapsing onto the flower bed, its petals ruffles and float into the air upon impact; you finally cry out everything, and both hands fist a handful of the flowers before pulling them off the ground. Angrily tossing it away, you did it a few more times before stopping, letting your hands fall onto your lap; loud sobbing echoes around and under the moon. You thought about how life is truly unfair to you. You're alone in this world.

An Aunt who only uses you to fulfill her desires and revenge for the sake of competition, bitterness, and climbing to the top. Her anguish was taken out on an innocent person like you. Sukuna, who is openly obsessed with you and loves you in his twisted way, that there were no words that can describe the tortures of it. The harem that is ready to rip you apart if one day you were to lose favor from him, your death could as well be planned too.

Then there's is... Suguru.

Yes, him.

The only person who you have only loved your entire life.

Why couldn't you be with him instead?

"(Name)?"

Tearfully turning around, you spot the dark clothing and hair of Suguru. He comes out into the open, and you break down crying again.

You: "S-Suguru."

The man kneels on one knee as he takes you into his arms and rubs soothing circles onto your back. Your arms found their natural way of embracing someone still dear to you. Right now, you don't need anything but the warmth of someone who happens to be Suguru that comes out to chase after you.

"It's okay, I am right here," he speaks softly to you. The reassurance in his voice causes you to release the tension that has been bottling up for years, and today's problems seem to have broken your dam.

"You shouldn't, you'll get in trouble," hiccupping out the words, Suguru's chest ached at the sight of you crying. His expression is filled with forlornness as he tightens his grip around you and pulls you deeper into his chest. He cradles the back of your head with a free hand, and his nose nuzzles into your hair as he shushes you. Whenever you're in pain, he does his best to take it away.

"Well, what do we have here?"

Another voice joined, and the embrace was cut short when a flurry of black, red, and gold was shining upon from the moon. Sukuna stands there with his face obscure from the direct light, but his eyes grow dangerously. Your blood ran cold.

"A man like you dares to coddle up my wife?"

Taglist: @sukunasobject @lilliansstuff @lucyrocks86 @ladywolf44005 @watyousayin @sandronebabyy @pinkrose1422 @skepticalleo @please-help-therapy-needed @whatsonthemirror @krispsprite @loser-alert @saturnknows @samidrc @littlemochi @akigoat @mxghostbee @rose4958​