#let’s all have a celebratory feast

[phishtoast]

aaajfjfhdhd this year’s artfight really brought out the best in me!! I loved making these pieces for Moon, SoulSylver, Pansear, Leon, Emerald, Steel Raven, PAPERSNATCH, Luna, Cloveyy and Drymm! See you all next summer!!

seafoam solos btw. also tw for horrible stats under the cut + the attacks people made for me

Also huge shoutout to everyone who made attacks of my characters or included them in mass attacks i love you all

Please check out the wonderful people who made these!!!

[brittle-doughie]

I hunger for... yandere cookie run...

So, imagine yandere ancients cookies meeting their good old friend (who they still have a huge crush on) traveling with the brave gang!

And when any of them tries to convince reader to stay with them, Y/N cookie immediately turn down the offer and said that they'll stick with the brave gang until dark enchantress cookie is finally defeated.

I hope this ask goes through💔 and I'll be fish anon from now on

-🐟

Gotta Go (The Ancient Cookies)

Pure Vanilla Cookie and Black Raisin Cookie would want to thank Y/N Cookie by asking if they wanted to stick around and help with the Vanilla Kingdom.

Since DE is defeated for now, you actually grant this request and stick around with Brave and the others to help patch up things in the place…all the while Pure Vanilla and Black Raisin crowd you wanting to chat, lol.

Barely having enough time to process the dragon being defeated had you being scooped up and squeezed tightly by Hollyberry Cookie. You were just so cute fighting the dragon like that, Princess Cookie would agree!

Jungleberry and Royal Berry would ask if you had to stay for a celebratory feast, it was the least they could do to commend you for your efforts. Hollyberry is there to try and butter you up, but you had DE to stop and didn’t have the time. The Teo royals understand, but Hollyberry is insisting she comes along to keep you safe!

Dark Cacao Cookie couldn’t thank you enough for the efforts you and the group put to ward off the licorice threat and snap him out of his corruption. He insists that a warrior like you would be at home in the Dark Cacao Kingdom.

Caramel Arrow would insist on Cacao’s offer, saying that by staying, you’d be a constant inspiration for her and the other warriors to train and fight harder. This gets DCA on the protective side, his asking of you to come to the kingdom being urgent, he did not want to leave you to get twisted into an evil mockery of yourself.

You wouldn’t realize it yet, but Golden Cheese Cookie had gotten more attached to you then you expected, it seemed not even GC was immune to the effect you had on cookies. She focused on you and how you were doing much more than the group, something that would annoy Black Raisin to no end.

It would all come to a head where she’d offer you to be a permanent resident to her kingdom, but you had to refuse, saying that DE had to be stopped no matter what, but GC insisted! She grew worried, this war shouldn’t matter more to you than your own life. You should just STAY HERE where you couldn’t get hurt under her watch, she’s not letting you leave out of fear that she’ll endure the same pain she had endured years ago…

White Lily Cookie didn’t like the sound of your plan, were you really going to face Dark Enchantress Cookie? It sounded too dangerous for you, you can get hurt or something even worse! She’ll help you, but it meant that you had to stay back as she and the others handled DE.

But you refused, you had been on this mission since the start, you weren’t going to back out now. But White Lily believes that your life can be more fruitful if you remained here…with her. So please….stay. You couldn’t, you wanted to see this until the end. The others were counting on you…

White Lily wanted to protest, when she realized that you’re in a crosshairs of a particular group of cookies….

[undiscovered-horizon]

"Finnish polka" - Ivar the Boneless x Reader

SUMMARY: After helping one of the northern Jarls, the Lothbrok brothers attend a celebratory feast. There, they're faced with a tradition of warriors catching flower crowns that belong to young women. How surprised Ivar is when you almost shove your crown into his hands.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.1k

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Ivar is tired.

Of course he's glad that Jarl Thorstein came out victorious. And that his brothers are fine. Still, he feels weary as the adrenaline leaves his body. His legs start to ache. Ivar downs the rest of his mead in hopes it makes him a little more deaf to his mood.

The upbeat, bright music fills his mind like an obsessive thought. His heart beats to the rhythm tapped by the feet of dancing women. They spin, jump and run around with flower crowns sitting atop their heads. How the wreaths remain immovable, he can't quite say.

Ivar is also angry.

As the local tradition entails, when the song ends, all the dancing young maidens will throw their flower crowns to the crowd. Whoever catches it, is believed to be the girl's lover chosen by the gods. However, whether the couple indulges and trusts gods' judgement is a different story. But if the wreath falls to the floor, the girl is said to remain unmarried for the next five years.

Ivar knows the chance of him somehow catching one of those is near zero. He's sitting quite far from the dancers. Even if he did catch it, he's disillusioned about the imminent dissatisfaction of the flower crown's ownert. Not only is he disabled in a way that almost entirely excludes him from fighting but he's also infamous for his ruthless nature and vengeful heart. Hardly a man who invokes desire. Still, some naive piece of him remains hopeful that maybe he's wrong. Maybe he can be terrible and loved all the same.

He shakes those weak delusions away from himself before they sour his mood further.

His piercing eyes have been following one of the dancers for the better part of the song when he catches himself. Her movements look effortless even when the musicians pick up the tempo. Clearly, she's done this dance one too many times to have any doubts about what she's doing. Joy beams from her in a way that makes her appear almost shining. The wreath on the top of her head is mostly green with white and red flowers. It makes Ivar think of the woods surrounding Kattegat; it makes him think of home.

Ivar leans toward Oddleif, one of the Jarl's men, who's sitting next to him.

"Who is she?"

Oddleif looks at Ivar out of the corner of his eye. He scoffs, takes a large sip of his drink and only then decides to answer:

"If you're thinking of catching her flower crown, don't." His blond braids dance slightly as he shakes his head. There's a hint of laughter hiding in the back of Oddleif's throat. "Half of the surviving army wants it."

"I have no care for flowers," Ivar lies through his teeth. "They have no use. They wilt and die and soon no one remembers them. I am simply curious about her."

"Her father is the blacksmith. You might have seen him in the battle, swinging that damned sledgehammer." Ivar silently nods. He remembers that man - tall as a pine tree and wider than a stable. The blacksmith invokes respect even when he's not decimating enemies like a troll equipped with a tree trunk. "He said once that he'll let any man marry his daughter but only if he can lift an anvil. Tried it once myself. Not that I had any success as you can imagine." Oddleif laughs bitterly and continues drinking. His eyes are glued to the dancers but Ivar knows that right now, the two of them are admiring the very same girl with a flower crown like a forest.

The melody continues to quicken. Despite being out of breath, you don't want it to end. Your feet ache but they do not falter nor do they stumble. It seems that their muscles know the dance better than your mind. There are a dozen girls dancing with you but you do not see them. Not really. They appear worlds away from you and the song of bagpipes and strings.

And then appears he.

A slouched, dark figure flies before your eyes as you're doing another pirouette. The man simply sits there, in the corner, but his presence is overwhelming. Or so you think. He does nothing and yet he tears his way into your microcosm of quick footwork, turns and lively polka.

You recognize him. Of course you do. Many whispers, equally frightened and amazed, have spoken of him. You have believed in all of them until the moment you met his gaze for that split second. Right then, somewhere between blinks and breaths, you renounce every gossip you've ever heard about him. A voice in the back of your head, a trickster or an oracle, nags at you to learn the truth yourself.

When the lively, fast melody comes to a stop, you find yourself shaken awake from the thoughts about Ivar the Boneless. The end of the song seems somewhat abrupt to you as you've been letting your fantasy run wild without paying much attention to what's going on around you. Dancing the last part purely by the memory of your muscles. The moment musicians stop playing, a small crowd begins to form in front of you. Men of different class, age and ancestry reach out their hands. Each one of them is more determined than the other to catch your wreath. They start to yell something but considering that the inside of the long hall is awfully loud anyway, you can't make out any words. Reading their lips, you can only tell when they're exclaiming different variations of your name.

They're only pushing towards you, shoving each other away. You keep taking steps backwards but the distance you create with each step is quickly shortened with the men calling out to you. You knew there would be many of them in front of you but never assumed that many. Instead of somewhat flattering, the siege is terrifying and imposing.

Looking for help or advice, just something that will ease your tension, you silently look around the long hall. Your gaze falls on the same slouched, dark figure. Strange peacefulness washes over you when his eyes meet yours.

The dim candlelight seems to bend around Ivar, making his corner appear darker than anywhere else in the long hall. He's simply sitting there. Maybe he's not interested? But the way he's staring at you shows nothing if not burning curiosity. The sons of Ragnar aren't know for their patience. No, they're said to take whatever they want the moment their desire sparks. Despite that, the youngest of them, and arguably the most famous, appears to be waiting. But for what exactly?

The fresh pine needles prick your skin. You furrow your eyebrows. Your gaze falls to the wreath and then comes back to Ivar. Could it be...?

It isn't much of a throw, really. You toss the flower crown towards him without looking anywhere else but into Ivar's eyes. Without as much as blinking, he catches the wreath with ease as though he has been prepared for that. Low murmurs hit your ears but quickly the sounds of disappointment fall silent as it's made clear who caught your wreath. Despite their initial determination, the men who had been reaching out to you suddenly disperse like fog does in the early morning. They knew better than to get under the skin of a Lothbrok. Especially that one.

"I believe this belongs to you."

Ivar is holding up the wreath. Despite his words, he makes no effort to offer it back to you. His eyes are bright and glistening, the corner of his mouth is tugged ever-so-slightly upwards. He appears amused.

At first, it was nice to finally sit down after dancing for what seemed to be hours on end. But now, when you're facing the consequences of your spur-of-the-moment decision, the tension sets in once more. This time, however, it doesn't feel threatening. In turn, the nervousness is somewhat welcome like the jittery state before a surprise is revealed.

"If I wanted to keep it, I wouldn't have thrown it," you answer in a light tone.

"And why should I keep it?"

The blue eyes study you for a moment. It's a strange feeling - you can't help but think that the longer you are in Ivar's presence, talking or not, he's reading your mind and soul. He stares at you in a way that tells you he already holds all the answers but wants you to confirm them.

"It's said to bring good luck." You shrug your shoulders. "Until the wreath wilts and dies, Freya and Freyr will look after you."

Ivar looks at the flower crown again. Only now, when he's holding it, does he realize that for a flower crown, there aren't many flowers. A few sandworts and poppies, yes, but the wreath is made mostly of evergreen plants. It might take weeks until the crown wilts.

The microcosm seems closed again. Now it's not you and the bagpipes but you and him. It's strange and it's new but it's not threatening. It's not the kind of presence a man of his infamy should have. Or perhaps you've simply fallen for his honey trap.

"Why did you throw it to me?" Ivar tries to make the question seem unimportant, just curiosity brought to light. But he can't quite convince himself that he doesn't care. There's a hint of something vulnerable and genuine when the words roll off his tongue. It's easy to miss like a dandelion clock carried away by a gust of wind.

You wish you knew the answer yourself.

"I don't know really," you say honestly. "Perhaps it was one of the gods that threw the flower crown for me." You make a pause. Ivar's face is unreadable. "Or perhaps I have no interest in urgent, desperate men."

Ivar chuckles. A deep shadow is covering part of his face, making him appear kind of sinister. For a moment, you question whether he's laughing with you or at you.

"And what exactly makes you think I'm not urgent or desperate?" he continues. You notice his smile is growing wider. That glint of amusement in his blue eyes has changed in mischief. "What if I'm worse than all of them? You surely know who I am."

"Of course I do, Ivar the Boneless," you drone the words. In a barely noticeable fashion, he clenches his jaw when you say his name. It makes him feel a strange, burning sensation in his stomach but Ivar is left unsure whether he likes it or detests. "The whispers of your ruthless character are unending."

"But you're not afraid?" he asks with both disbelief and suspicion. A girl with a flower crown doesn't necessarily strike him as fearless in any way. Or this whole strange situation is a little too good, too dream-like, for him to accept it at face-value.

Ivar's smile falters when your face takes on a confident, maybe even arrogant, expression. He's taken aback.

"I'm a woman of the North," you say while leaning towards him on the table. The distance between your faces shortnes. "The only person I fear is my own reflection."

The sudden closeness makes Ivar inhale sharply. The strong smell of pine needles fills his nostrils. For a moment, his imagination runs wild but it's not his fault - he has no grasp on it:

How those big eyes glistened in the semi-dark of the long hall as you were staring at him. Your smirk, somewhat challenging and beckoning him to push on. Then, the smell of conifer that shakes all senses awake. His fantasy leaves the northern snows and travelles to forests, to him brushing pine needles from your hair and your naked, flushes skin smelling of evergreen trees.

But quickly his shaken awake, to his utmost displeasure, by you:

"Well, if you don't want it, I suppose I should take it back, no?"

Your hand unsurely reaches out for the wreath in Ivar's hand. He's quick to pull his arm back.

"It's bad luck to take back gifts," he states plainly. In an act of nonchalance, Ivar is playing with the wreath, spinning it around his finger. "I should like to keep it."

Sometimes you come back to the night you've met the infamous Viking, when you're rendered sleepless while he's calmly breathing next to you, getting the rest he desperately needs. How funny all of it seems - that a flower crown in bloodied, merciless hands could lead to having a genuine crown on your head. Maybe you were right, after all, and it really was the hand of one of the gods that threw the wreath for you.

[pickingupmymercedes]

Hey love. Can I request “you’re blurring your words together, time for bed.” but drunk Lewis? Thank you ❤️🥰

Hi lovely. That was a fun writing, hope you like it too.

I can only imagine how much of lightweight he must be now that he doesn't drink alcohol anymore.

You’re blurring your words together, time for bed.

The last of Lewis' birthday cake sat untouched in the center of the table, surrounded by the remnants of a celebratory feast. The laughter that had filled his London home earlier had died down, most of his friends and family having already departed.

Lewis' 40th unofficial birthday dinner, with a few close friends and family at his London home, was winding down. The air thick with the warmth of good food, good company, and perhaps a little too much wine. Specially for a certain birthday boy who had had almost to no alcohol for a couple of years.

Y/N watched him, a smile playing on her lips. He was amusing his dad, his words slurred but his enthusiasm undimmed, about a particularly daring overtaking maneuver from way back in the day. Anthony, chuckling and nodding along as he held that proud gaze at the man he had raised.

Lewis caught Y/N's eye at his side and winked, a mischievous glint sparkling in his usually sharp gaze. He swayed slightly in his chair, prompting Y/N to push a glass of water towards him. "Easy there, champ" she teased.

"Am a big boy you know?! Forty, to be exact" Lewis slurred, leaning back in his chair, a goofy grin plastered on his face. "Bloody hell, never thought I'd see the day."

Carmen shot him a worried look. "Are you really alright, dear?"

"Peachy, mum!" Lewis declared, throwing an arm around Y/N, nearly knocking her off balance. "Never been better! Forty years of pure…" he trailed off, his brow furrowing in concentration.

"Well," Lewis began, his voice dropping to a thoughtful and vague tone, "I never thought I'd still be racing at forty. Thought I'd be, like, retired, settled down…”

Lewis' gaze drifted to Y/n, he cleared his throat, a playful glint still lingering in his eyes.

"Maybe a few mini-Hamiltons," he stated before his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "though let's be honest, the pre-mini-Hamilton training has been… well, let's just say it's definitely kept me in top shape."

Y/N's eyes widened but she couldn’t help but laugh. The absurdity of his words making his step-mom look like a tomato, while his dad, bless him, seemed to be trying to decide between burying his head in his hands or bursting into laughter.

"Alright, birthday boy," she said, her voice firm but laced with amusement, "You're blurring your words together. Time for bed."

Lewis blinked at her, his expression a comical mix of confusion and indignation. "But…" he started, then looked around the table, finally settling on his wide-eyed nephew who was trying very hard to look anywhere but at them.

"Right." Lewis mumbled, a sheepish grin replacing the earlier defiance. "Sorry, everyone" he continued, his voice a little louder now. "Seems it really is time for bed for me. See you all tomorrow"

His friends erupted in laughter; the tension broken. Y/N couldn't help but nudge him playfully on the arm. This was Lewis, birthday drunk or not: a goofball with a heart of gold.

In bed, Lewis propped up on pillows in bed, was still musing aloud. "Sorry about that," he mumbled, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn't mean to…you know."

Y/N chuckled. "Don't worry about it. It’s not like they think we’re celibate" she teased, leaning in to kiss him softly. "Now, come on, Mr. Blurred Words, it's definitely bedtime."

Lewis wrapped his arms around her, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "You know," he said, "maybe forty isn't so bad after all. Got everything I ever wanted, right here." He reached for her hand, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her skin. " I'm glad I waited all these years though. Glad I didn't settle for just anyone."

Y/N squeezed his hand, her heart overflowing with love. "I’m glad too" she whispered. "I love you, old man"

______________________________________________________________

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[nyarumie]

Ruined Flowers, Beautiful Flowers.

hoshina soshiro x f!reader — 3.6k words. Mentions of stabbing, reader had an outburst, attempt at angst, established friendship, extreme fluff at the end because i cant stand making my characters suffer. Not proofread!

Author's Note: It's my first time writing something involving drama, feedbacks are highly appreciated! I tried my best and got carried away with the length. 💔

Author's Reply: A request from anon here. Kinda hit way too close to home when you said reader is afraid of falling in love 😭 (also guys pls send me Narumi stuff too I want to make more content for my guy)

Ask box is open! Also cross-posted on ao3.

Cheers erupted from your platoon, exhausted strength from the fight seemingly replenished as you dealt the final blow to the Honju once again. Their eyes sparkled with victory, anticipation filling the air as they immediately chatter to plan another celebration for your win. Familiar words of praise reach your ears, but none of them truly reach your heart. What's there to praise about when you're just doing work as expected?

You offer a soft smile to your platoon who is now approaching you, finally engaging yourself in chatter. You were never one for loud occasions, but you have a reputation to keep. They went on about your elegant strikes in battle, your speed and agility that beats even the fastest of lightning, and the reputable “silent, but deadly” strides you have.

“Man, I sure would always keep my distance from our platoon leader! Might get caught up in her Kaiju kill with how silent she attacks, y'know?” one of them joked, a series of awed agreements emerging from the others.

That's right, keep your distance. Getting too close… might just kill anyone.

You close your eyes as you listen, basking in the enthusiasm exuding from your officers. To them, the hushed strides you've perfected in battle is nothing more than a technique. To you, it's just the one thing that keeps your peace, and no one will be able to understand it the way you do.

Except, there's this one person—too persistent for your liking, so much more than your comrades asking you to mentor them. Scratch that, he's not persistent; he's simply way too highly attentive, it scares you just how much about you he already had figured out.

From a distance stands Hoshina Soshiro, the esteemed Vice Captain of the division you belong to. His watchful eyes never miss anything. You fail to ignore his all too familiar peering gaze even as you try to indulge yourself in the antics of your platoon. You don't understand, you never will. Why does he desperately want to unravel you? Closing your eyes really was the best option. That way, you'll avoid making eye contact with him lest he sees through you again, as if he's starting to pick up the puzzle pieces bit by bit. Curiosity getting the best of you, you peeked one eye open to see what he's up to.

Ah, he's now making his way to you. Well, damn him.

Concluding that you have no escape from what's about to come, you sighed and bid your platoon a (short) farewell, leaving them the promise of a celebratory feast tonight. You walked and met him halfway.

Vice Captain Hoshina was already grinning from ear to ear when you neared him, as if he wasn't mentally piercing through your own mind moments ago. You pouted. In an instant, his arm is heavily draped over your shoulder, his other hand playfully ruffling your hair. 

A series of complaints were heard from you, only causing him to let out devilish laughs and made an even more mess of your hair. 

“Vice Captain! It took me almost an hour to fix and style my hair, and we have a celebration to attend later!” you complained, begging him to stop.

“Fine, fine! Ya did another excellent job today. No wonder Captain Ashiro always trusts you a hella bunch.” he said, satisfied with today's operation. “However…” 

And there he goes.

He stood too near you, still hearing clearly enough despite how hushed his voice became. “You're a lot worse today. Still not spillin' the beans? I'm your closest friend here, ya know?”

You looked away from him, finding a car ruined to smithereens apparently far more interesting than whatever this is right now. “Must be your imagination. The Honju just so happened to be tougher today.”

Lie. Today's Honju had a lower fortitude compared to last time. You both know that. And you both know there's no fooling him from what he saw.

You stood atop the Kaiju's corpse after neutralizing it. Back facing everyone, holding your head up high. To the rest of the Division, you were basking in your victory, trying to keep your breath steady after all the action that took place. But there was no fooling Soshiro's eyes.

His keen gaze traveled over your entire figure. Breath ragged, chest heaving as if deprived of oxygen, a clenched grip on your thin, sharp sword forged akin to that of a rapier—in contrast with your lax hand holding your pistol, careful to not fire a shot. You looked like you were in complete agony and exasperation. Soshiro knows that you were heavily sobbing. Silently. Alone. Exactly how you do things your way.

You were only snapped out of your unrest when cheers finally erupted from your platoon. The smile you offer, to a stranger's eyes, is soft and gentle. To him, it's sad—as if it was a struggle for you to smile wide without hesitancy. Your deadly silence in battle wasn't so silent today at all. He can hear it far too well, that each slash of your blade and each shot of your pistol is accompanied with restlessness, each attack heavier than the last.

The Honju has been reported to have no vitals detected, but you kept slashing and shooting, ‘just in case’. Outrageous. You were literally taking out whatever storm is in your head to the Honju's corpse. Not that he minded the Honju, but he cared for you. He is your friend, you can pour your heart and mind out on him instead of a corpse of a monster. Why won't you? Why is the inside of your mind much more different from what you show others? How do you do it?

He doesn't understand. Or maybe he does, but you won't let him in. He wants to be with you, even at your lowest. And he's already failing.

“I see. If the Honju is indeed tougher today,” he started, “then report to me later, Platoon Leader. Post-celebratory report will do. Take it easy for now.” 

Was he upset? He rarely addresses you by your position. You carefully turned your head back to him, afraid that he's finally fed up with your bullshit. You're insufferable. Maybe one day he'll ask you to serve another Division. But instead, you see him grace you with a real, soft smile. It makes you want to cry.

'Take it easy for now.' You wish you could unhear it. You hate how easy his words always go through you. How can you take it easy when you try so hard to not be a burden? You don't want him to know any more than he already does.

“...I've no need for rest. But thank you.” You finally feel the tiredness creeping its way through your system.

Post-neutralization banquets are rare, happening annually at most. Somehow, your platoon members managed to smooth talk their way in securing an approval for tonight's celebration. For what, you don't know.

Everyone had their eyes on you when you entered the hall, bright smiles and expectant faces greeting you. This unnerved you, knowing full well what they're requesting with their doe, puppy eyes.

“Ahem. If you're expecting a heartwarming speech, I'm not the person for the job. You all should wait for the Vice Captain for that.” you said, earning a handful of groans from your members.

A hand suddenly lightly ruffled your hair, an action you’ve grown quite accustomed to. “Wait no more! Allow me to handle things, then!” the Vice Captain cheerfully said. Taking this as your cue to sit down, you excused yourself from him, feeling his slightly disappointed gaze trailing you as you sit.

Cheers echoed from the team as he finished his short spiel, everyone’s hunger evident as they hurriedly fill their plates with food. Your tablemates are no different, they're rushing here and there to get the best pieces of meat and pour each other some drinks. You decided to wait, not wanting to contribute to the mess the hall has become.

A plate filled with juicy meat and a bowl of your favorite stew was placed in front of you. Now someone is also taking up your space? About to reprimand whoever placed them in your eating area, you looked up to see that it was just the Vice Captain.

“Eat up. Keep waitin’ for the chaos to calm down and ya will be left with nothin’ to munch on.” He sat beside you, carrying his own set of food.

“Thanks. But I can grab my own fill just fine.” That's what you said, but still started eating what he gave you.

“Mhm… Just accept it in earnest. You never happily accepted any help I offered ya.”

“That’s because no one can give me the help I need.” you absentmindedly said, almost mumbling to yourself. Soshiro remained silent, now looking at you instead of his food. Maybe you shouldn't have said that. “... Let's just eat.” 

As the end of the celebration approached, he wanted to test the waters; he got up and collected the plastic flowers adorning the tables, wrapping them around a ribbon he miraculously spotted somewhere—his own version of a small, makeshift bouquet. 

He sat down beside you again, earning your attention. You raised your brow at him upon seeing the makeshift bouquet in his hand, a silent question about what he's up to.

“Ta-da! They aren't the real deal, but I did a pretty good job, won't ya say? This one's yours, ya look good with it.” He made a gesture for you to take the flowers, which you did, studying it closely for a while.

“Vice Captain, you shouldn't be taking the establishment’s props.” you said, frowning. “We should get back to your office. Let's get today's report over with.” 

Internally sighing, he doesn't know if you're purposely acting dense or just straight up ignoring his subtle advances. Maybe he needs to tell you outright. You once told him that words and actions come hand-in-hand.

It's surprisingly cold tonight even through the heat of the celebrations. He went outside the hall, leaning against the corridor’s wall to wait for you. You told him you have unfinished business to take care of, which is scolding your far too drunk officers who took their drinking competition to another level. Groans and wails from the inside resounded through the door, probably from officers begging you to lighten their punishment. 

Finally, he saw you stepping out of the hall. No makeshift bouquet in hand spotted. “Where’d ya put it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“Oh, the flowers? I told you we’re not supposed to take them. So I kinda dismantled the ribbon and put them back in place…” you said, looking away guiltily.

That surprisingly stung, despite knowing you didn't want to intentionally hurt him. He knows you’d leave it there, but dismantling them is another. He struggled putting it all together, after all.

“Makes sense. Let's get the report done.” he smiled, ruffling your hair again. This time, it's his way of saying ‘it’s okay, don't feel guilty about it’.

You threw him a look of concern, the playfulness absent from his smile. “I didn't—” 

“Are ya cold?” he suddenly asked. Before you can even answer, he removed his work jacket and draped it over your shoulders. “Please put the sleeves on. Yer hands are shakin’ so bad.”

Oh, you didn't even notice. Silently, you put them on as he asked. It's so… large. And oddly comforting. You hated it, somehow. The sleeves extend way beyond your hands and it would look like a mini dress if zipped up.

Satisfied with this, the Vice Captain started walking, pace slow. You followed suit, opting to walk behind him. You looked confused. You feel overwhelmed. Why is he always doing so much? You prefer your friendly banters, the idiotic laughter you share with each other after stupid musings; you dislike the foreign feeling and lingering intention in each action he does towards you. You don't understand.

He once gave you a poetry book about flowers, saying it was like a reflection of yourself. It wasn't. You told him to stop mocking you.

You never asked for company on boring work days, but he was somehow finding his way towards you, offering an invitation to train new recruits. He knew you loved helping others, imparting your knowledge and watching them grow. You turned him down, saying he's more than capable of mentoring them himself.

Once, you were feeling a bit too competitive. Your platoon urged you on, daring you to make a bet with the Vice Captain. The losing platoon must prepare a banquet according to the winning platoon’s wishes. He can hit you in your sword sparring as many times as he can, but hit him once in the given time limit and you win. But you just so happen to miraculously strike him at the last second. He lost on purpose. But you didn't attend the banquet.

Then a tragedy occured. A citizen hiding from the Honju was left undetected, causing you to accidentally inflict a fatal wound on them as you attacked the Honju. Had you known, you would've prioritized their safety. He didn't have to cover this up. He was there. He should be reprimanding you. You were at a loss then.

You bump into his figure, letting out a sound of surprise. You were already inside his office? Perhaps your mind has been too occupied all the way here, you don't even know if he said something on the way here or when he opened the door for you.

Soshiro looked too serious at the moment. You shouldn't have agreed to report to him, because the Honju being tougher today is bullshit. This leaves you with nothing to report, and god you want to miraculously vanish into thin air at this instant.

“What's goin’ on in that li’l head of yours? It's unlike ya to get so out of focus.” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Vice Captain. I’d like to proceed with the report, please.”

“But ya don't have anything to report. I saw it well with my own two eyes.”

He can barely hear you, your voice only a mere whisper. “...Then report to me instead, Soshiro.”

He walked closer to you, your breath almost stopping. Why is it like this?

"What do ya want to know? I'll give you everything." 

Your fists clenched in frustration at his words. He's doing this on purpose, saying something that totally means another.

“Why… Why do you insist on staying by my side? Why do you care so much? I don't understand. You're my friend, but you're doing so much for just a friend. Why do you do these things? The book—the poetry book you once gave me, saying it reminded you of me—it doesn't make sense! It's full of flowery words, it speaks of beauty, but none of those are me. You’ve seen what mess of a person I am. You say you’d give me everything, but I can't even give you a single thing, Soshiro!”

You grabbed the front of his shirt, lowering your head as you failed to stop the tears from flowing.

“You should've let me rot in bed when you found me in a sickly state. Should've reported me to the higher ups for making a careless mistake. Should've distanced yourself from me, I did nothing but unintentionally hurt you when all you wanted was to look out for me.” 

You bit your lip, not wanting to spill more than you should've. A warm pair of arms went around you, causing you to cry harder, your body relaxing against your wishes.

“I see. Do my actions confuse you?” he softly asked. 

“...I can't accept them.” 

“That doesn't answer my question.” 

Still sobbing, you answered, “I don't know. You confuse me. I don't want to rely on anyone. I don't know what to make of them. I hate the lingering, unspoken intentions. I hate not understanding. I hate pushing you away, but it feels overwhelming when you're too close. I hate the comforting feeling you give me. Please don't waste your energy on me. I’m filled with dirt, my hands are covered in more blood than you know about.”

You’ve never spilled this much before, Soshiro noted. He thinks that's a lot to unpack, but he has all the time in his hands to walk you through it. You were a ticking time bomb, the impending explosion only delayed by taking out your anguish on all the Kaiju you’ve slayed. 

Soshiro caressed the back of your head, speaking. “Then I’ll help ya understand. I like you and I like bein’ with ya, even if you think otherwise. If you don't wanna rely on me, then don't. But I’ll be here when ya need me. I’ll walk you through everythin’ slowly if you’ll allow me. And I still think you're as beautiful as the flowers I keep tellin’ you about.” 

He tried holding your hand. You pulled it away when you felt his, but he insisted. “And these bloodied hands ya speak of, tell me more, please? The stains might be impossible for you to wash away, but I’ll gladly hold ‘em still.” 

He isn't the type to deliberately fool others, even if he humors himself with being a menace to others. You looked at him and was met with surprise as you were met with the soft pair of red eyes and gentle smile you’ve deniably always found comfort in. Were you deserving of this, even after unintentionally turning him away?

You let out a shaky breath, bracing yourself to recall a scenario that has haunted your mind for years. 

“A Kaiju attack. Was a yonju. It was small, but I can tell it's dangerous. Grabbed anything sharp, anything heavy I can get my hands on. I closed my eyes and kept swaying my makeshift weapon around, in hopes of defending myself. I know my sister was hiding somewhere, but it all happened too fast. I heard a piercing scream right in front of me. The yonju had found her somewhere and used her as its shield. I didn't know that even a yonju could think of that. I… accidentally stabbed my sister. She died. I should’ve kept my eyes open. I was weak and was only 14 then. Today's neutralization location is the exact same spot where it happened.”

Tears filled your eyes again. “The day… when I accidentally hit a hiding civilian. I felt my mind shut down. The same scenario replayed over and over again. Had it not been for you, both I and the civilian would've been long gone now. I was only able to take a breath when they got stabilized by the medical team.”

“I’m sorry. I understand if you don't want to involve yourself with me anymore. But thank you for… being my friend.” 

Instead of letting you go, you felt his arm wrap even tighter. “I told ya, didn't I? I’ll walk with ya through everythin'. What happened then doesn't make you any less of a person in my eyes. You’ve saved more lives than any of us can count. I’m sure yer sister will be immensely proud of ya.” 

"And! I haven't kept my end of the deal for our bet. Ya didn't attend the banquet for it." 

How persistent. But he's always been like this. It comforts you, how he's still being Soshiro even after your heavy outburst.

You cleared your throat. “You said you like me.”

“Mhm? And what about it?” 

“...I’m sorry for unintentionally pushing you away, or if I was rude sometimes. I didn't know how to handle it.” 

He let out a laugh of relief. “Dear, that was nothin’ at all! Ya don't have to reciprocate, I only wanted to do what I can for ya. That won't change anytime soon.”

Back to his playful self, he let you go and squished your tear-stained cheeks. “I’ll go with ya anywhere, even if it's straight to hell.” 

What a fast turnaround of mood. You don't mind it, though. There's no use drowning in your anguish. You wanted to get better.

You frowned. “Don't want you to go to hell, ‘Shiro.” 

“Was kiddin’. Get some rest?” 

You tiredly nodded at him, eyes heavy. “Vice Captain. I’m officially giving you a chance. At the same time, I’ll start getting better.”

He shot you an incredulous look. “My title? Really now? Fine then, Platoon Leader, as a reward for taking your first step, let me bestow this upon ya. Close your eyes.”

What is he up to now? You’ll punch him with no hesitation if he kisses you on your lips.

You felt something cold wrap around your wrist, his own hand gripping the back of yours.

“Open up.” He held up your hand to your face level. It's a floral bracelet. He always loves associating you with flowers. You don't understand why, but someday you know you will.

“Perfect match, ain’t it? Now, for the cherry on top…”

His next move took you by surprise. With no hesitation, he kissed your palm. “There. I hope that wasn't too much?”

Receiving no reply, his eyes snapped to your face, worried if he overstepped his newly established boundary.

The sight that greeted him was something to behold. You were looking at anything but him, unable to control the redness of your face. Ah, so that was quite the shot to your heart then?

“Hello? Earth to you?”

“I’m fine! It's okay! Just… not used to it. Do give me a warning next time for my sake, please. And we're not yet in a relationship, mind you.” you said, shyness still evident.

He heartily laughed, still not letting go of your hand. “I’ll walk ya back to your room now. The princess needs her long needed quality sleep.”

And sure enough, it was indeed the most peaceful night you’ve ever had.

[biteofcherry]

Raised voices and boasts of triumph hushed as if cut with a blade the second you stepped into the brightness of the throne room.

Eerie, how the grand hall always seemed shrouded in soft shadows when your father sat on the throne, but now lit up with brilliance.

It wasn't a blessed change, however.

You knew not to welcome the light, as deceiving as it was, for one monster replaced the other.

You walked across the polished stones, knowing that far below it dungeons spread, where your father's broken body lied.

There was no tune of mourning in your chest. Not for the man who kept you locked and groomed like a pig to be served at the most celebratory feast. It was all you were to your father - a tool to gain more power and riches.

Not allowed to step a foot outside the tightly secured inner walls of the citadel since you were a child. Living in shadows and shrouded in legends he spun about you to the outside world.

Though you knew, thanks to your servants, that as much as others believed you to be of rare beauty and a docile lamb of a potential wife (like your father wanted everyone to believe), there were also mocking rumors that you were kept hidden due to ugliness, or sickness.

Whenever you tried to rebel, it always ended with vicious words, more restrictions and an accusation of being ungrateful for the protection he gave you from the cruel world.

But that protection was false.

The proof of it making you walk through the throne room toward the bloodthirsty conqueror, who broke your father's defences in less than two days of siege.

A beast, who awaited your approach.

His men stared at you, hungry like a pack of wolves ready to strike and rip a pound of flesh.

It only made your spine lock into a steel rod. Your head held high as you continued in a poised stride.

You wore your most ornamental dress; adorned yourself with jewels, as a warrior carries his weapons.

You did not bow, nor court, when you reached the steps on which the throne was raised. Where the new ruler of your kingdom stood, his lips curving into a grin the longer you held his gaze without flinching.

Tall and broad, his dark armor still carrying splatters of blood.

His eyes, however, were a striking hue of blue.

"Look at you," he stepped so close to your side that you could feel the heat of him seeping through the fabric of your dress into your skin.

"Ice and fury barely contained."

There was a delight in his voice, as if he was pleased finding out that you weren't the fragile flower like the rumors claimed.

"You're honed from harder steel than any weapon, aren't you?" He said your name, rolling it on his tongue with a low purr.

One that reminded you of what conquerors did to the Princesses of kingdoms they've just obtained.

"And you have a taste for breaking me." You didn't let your voice quiver, challenging him with a promise of resisting every pain he slashed your way.

"Breaking you?" His brows arched in surprise and then he burst out laughing.

"No, my fury." He shook his head as his laughter faded.

"I have no desire to break you." He touched your cheek with a single finger, tracing it gently.

When you hissed and made a move to turn your face from his touch, he gripped your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"Rulers have wild animals, leashed and sitting at the foot of their throne. Bobcats and cheetahs. I shall have a wild cat of my own, too."

His words clipped around your neck like aforementioned leash, vowing to keep your life bound to his; this beast who was excited to meet your fury with his own relentless ferocity.

________________________

Who is he?

[euphorickaeya]

THE ALMIGHTY | part 2

buwan’s notes : people seemed to really like my first fic, so I’m gonna write more about it haha hehe

summary : news spread of their creator’s behaviour to the people of Liyue, and the archons think they could scold their god for their behaviour, but the creator proves them wrong.

CW: obsession, revenge, classic signora move of taking a gnosis lols, threatening, sagau. (The dendro archon is not here lols, Nahida is granted full immunity from Reader’s wrath.)

recommended song : you should see me in a crown - billie eilish.

taglist : @emperatris-rinaka | @iyhmibyo | @nicebonescomrades

“It’s completely cruel behaviour!” Venti cried out, looking over to your throne, where you sat unwavered by Venti’s attempt to shake sense into you.

“That family’s probably suffering and you had denied them mercy! Your grace, it’s wrong!” Venti walked up to your throne, but a glare from you was enough to make him stop a few feet away.

“If you know what’s better for you, I’d say you stay right where you stand.” You hissed. Your glare redirected itself to the remaining archons in the room, all sat stiff in their respective seats, unable to look at you, for your eyes held nothing but hatred.

Even if they were archons, how could they bare such a scorning glare?

“Firstly, I thought this gathering was about my next plans as creator? not a pathetic scolding from an absent archon.” You didn’t have to pierce your spear to know you’ve hurt the anemo archon to a horrible degree.

“Second, what does it matter what I say, is this not what you wanted? A creator that ruled? I wasn’t made aware that I had to be kind, or generous,” you stood from your crystal seat, the heels of your shoes hitting the marble with ear-piercing clanks.

“I..your grace, it’s just inhumane.. only you have the power to cure any sickness from this world..” Venti suddenly cowered, even though he stood so proud just a few minutes before.

You scoffed, “please, what’s inhumane is the treatment I received upon descending on these lands.” Venti clenched his fists, refusing to take your selfish behaviour as an answer.

“Your grace, I understand your hurt and anger but you are the creator, your job-“ Venti couldn’t finish his sentence before crystals appeared paper thin right in front of his gaze. Ready to pierce, ready to kill.

“You absolute idiot. You don’t understand shit.” You spat, walking up to him, face to face, glaring into his core. “How dare you, tell me what my job is, you weren’t even anything, before I made you.” the crystals seemed to close in, making Venti hold in a breath he didn’t even know he took.

“You don’t want a creator, or a god, you want a puppet.” Your eyes glance at the sitting archons, all sporting a face of worry and tension. “You want a face so that you could do what you want.” Zhongli and Ei could hear the steps you took toward their table booming in their ears.

Loud and deafening, intimidating them to submit. “The only reason I’m sitting here is because of my gold blood,” you scoffed, seeing the archons move uncomfortably in their seats, “even then, if it wasn’t that golden colour you so desired, my head would be on display for those who “dared” to defy the creator’s will.” You slammed your hands on the table, making the archons flinch.

Ei could do nothing but gulp, her hands felt sweaty, her electro vision starting to bolt around in her hands, nervous.

“Your grace, you’re overreacting.” The tsaritsa stood, from her seat, and faced you. Challenging you, unable to take the horrible scolding you were giving them.

“Am I? Was hunting me down through teyvat, not overreacting? Was the celebratory feast of the capture of the imposter not overreacting?”You took a step towards the cryo archon, her cold glare suddenly breaking under your hardening stare back. “Was my planned execution, not overreacting?”

“You speak so much about what’s right and wrong, and have let your subjects do wrongful things in my name, yet I’m the one who’s overreacting.” You laughed, now you stood face to face with the archon, her stare somehow not wavering as she stood in front of her creator.

“Tell me, Tsaritsa, is this overreacting?” You asked, a sarcastic smile on your face, before you phased your hand through her chest, the cryo archon did not have enough time to even furrow her eyebrows in confusion before she was face to face with her own gnosis.

Suddenly, she felt the hollow interior of her body, making her gasp, shattering her cold demeanour. Her hand reached up to clutch her chest as she unwillingly wobbled, unable to come face to face with her core of power.

“I’ve given you all too much power, even as archons. Now, you think you could boss me around like a servant at your feet.” You inspected the chess piece in your palms, the cold of the cryo power radiated from said piece.

The crystalline blue glared at you straight in the face, as flurries of snow orbited it, showing anyone just how powerful a gnosis was.

“You don’t respect me, there’s not enough years of devotion under any of your belts to even come close to respecting me.” The six archons in the room now stood in fear, anxiousness of their creator.

A thud was heard, it was obvious that it was from the tsaritsa, who lost all of her strength in standing herself up, putting up a ground.

The tsaritsa could on stare at you in betrayal, in shock. How could a god she worshipped so passionately, take away their blessings so quickly?

“What can we do to have you forgive us, your grace? Say the word and we’ll do it,” the hydro archon stood up from her seat, desperation and a desire to please her god written all over her place.

A silence took over the room for a bit, you seemed like your were contemplating, even maybe taking in the hydro archon’s question, even the rest of the archons peaked their ears, trying to find out what would return their kind and generous creator back up to the surface.

It felt like days before you could answer, a laugh left your divine lips, you laughed out of mocking, of sarcasm, as the archons felt their hope slowly diminish at your heartless and emotionless laugh.

“If you think you can earn my forgiveness, you’re better off earning something else.”

[lullaebies]

Request: Aegon really trying to get along or at least be in good terms with Jaehaera but she's still grieving for Jaehaerys and her mother too much (and the years don't seem to ease the pain) that she can't fully accept him yet

a/n: ok so this ended up a bit longer that i expected! i was trying hard to think how to go about this. hopefully this will read well <3 tomorrow i will continue with the rest of the reqs sent!

He sits quietly by his wife during the feast, their lips both red with the dark of wine.

It is a celebratory night, The Feast of The Father Above demanding grandness, lest the septons decide it a fair night to accuse the Crown of not being pious enough. It mattered little to Aegon, but it mattered to his subjects; meaning he had little ways to object.

The septons say this holy day to commemorate the Father is a day of just rulings, a day of auspicious decisions. Perhaps if he had been more pious he would’ve trusted his judgement auspicious enough to shut their mouth with some coin and tell them to celebrate down their streets instead of his halls, but alas. 

He looks at Jaehaera. As of two days prior, she is six and ten. The spring of youth, if one is to go by how the singers describe maidens of similar ages. Girls that age absorb the sun and hold its beam in their smiles, warming the room around them in cheer and dance. 

You wouldn’t be able to tell so, with his wife. She looks a painted doll, with an even line to her red lips that refuses to bend. Jaehaera doesn’t celebrate her nameday; when it comes, she usually refuses to leave her rooms for days after. Her ladies-in-waiting had once tried to prepare her a surprise, and in return, she had raged.

The court never quite understood her. He still remembers Myrielle Peake weeping at Jaehaera banishing her from her rooms. Her father never quieted about it since, he thinks grumpily. But when he was told of this great injustice the Queen has inflicted on her well-meaning ladies, he had to hold himself from laughing at the complainers in their face.

As if she would like to celebrate the day she remembered her own twin is lost to the afterlife, while she is lost here. 

He dismissed the complaints with some platitudes. He had felt similar enough when his regents assumed him to be ever thankful for them sitting him on the Throne, as if the death of his mother and older brothers hadn’t been the sole reason a crown is on his head. Let us celebrate your coronation and our hard work, your Grace, the dimwits had said. It is a joyful occasion. 

They wouldn’t know how to make him joyful if they tried, and his wife even more so. 

Yet still, there is a pang in him, seeing her so muted. There are rare days, where they align in their routes, and her words are reminiscent of his. Where they walk down the same route silently and it feels more natural than the forced conversations he is met with from anybody else. She always scurries away after, avoids him after, but...

She is his wife, and as much as they were sewn together, they are of similar enough cloth. Smiling like the sun is not something he’d expect of her, but he doesn’t wish she’d never at least feel its rays. 

He may have drank too much today. Her wintry form had been much on his mind. He supposes he finds ways to be melancholic no matter what, but he looks at her and sees himself, from a long while back; from before Viserys came back, before he could hold onto his sisters again to cry.

The dance floor had been filled with duos dancing to string instruments gracefully. It is not something he does often, but had seen her dancing before. As a child, granted, before it all, but she had seemed happy to do so before. And who would ask her to dance again, but her husband?

“Jaehaera,” he mumbles her name before he can regret it. She turns to him, heavy brows lifting in wonder. “Should we dance too?”

It should help, in more ways than one. Seeing them being amiable would calm the many lords here, he thinks. Or spring some hope to their souls, or more importantly, some respect for Jaehaera’s being. Wouldn’t that help, having the world know she is no jilted girl? It would do her good. It would do them good. 

He never wanted a divide between them to haunt them. They have enough things haunting them. Is this a good decision? He knows not, but The Father may as well sanction it auspicious, after all the hard work put into this damn feast.

Jaehaera’s tentative fingers fiddle with her wine cup. She puts it down softly. “If his Grace should like that,” she answers, building her wall from him again as her eyes shy away from direct eye contact. The rings on her fingers drag across the marble table, clinging to the cold of stone as they approach him. 

Aegon notes her offering. He doesn’t quite like that it's simply complacency, but then again, he had been simply complacent when everyone else goaded him to do anything, even if he did find enjoyment in it in the end. And if she doesn’t find enjoyment in it, at least she would have a spring in her step for the singers to sing about, and mayhaps that will soothe her.

He reaches for her offered hand, picking it up gently from the fingers. The table, her rings, they’re cold, but her bony fingers are warm. It is almost surprising, with how distant she seems at the moment. They rise from their chairs to the surprise of the people around their table. Viserys looks at him crookedly, but he pays it no mind - Jaehaera seems to go along with him well.

His thumbs fiddle with her knuckles nervously as he attempts a squeeze of reassurance. He truly doesn’t dance often; Baela sometimes forces him and he looks a fool, Rhaena sometimes does so too and becomes his harsh, smiling critic. He shouldn’t be able to reassure his wife in regards to dancing, he has little talent in his lanky limbs, but he has to try, he thinks.

A spot is cleared for them in the center of the floor. She thanks the lord and ladies who move in a mannerly way while he simply nods. The musicians switch a song, and he vaguely remembers the form for it, reaching for Jaehaera’s waist. After confirming from those nearby he remembered correctly, of course. 

As for Jaehaera, the form they should be in dawns on her quickly, and her fingers curl over the peak of his shoulder easily. She looks at their feet when the song begins. He does too, to see his are well placed. He wants to brighten this night some, but he doesn’t want to look like an oaf doing so.

Despite that, however, he can’t imagine he doesn’t look like one. He is unsurprisingly rusty, and the length of his limbs lend to a taut gait and especially dance. Jaehaera is surprisingly fluid in her movements, on the other hand. He nearly steps on her foot once, but she evades it simply. “Sorry,” he whispers. 

When he hears a soft snort coming for her, he almost thinks it had been for the better.

She is not without faults — she does step on his foot. He huffs at her in some vindication he is not the only one with two left feet. She finally lifts her eyes to him, supposedly to apologize too, but then the dance calls for her twirl. She holds his elevated hand throughout it. He does notice a hint of a crinkle to her eyes, and he even meets it with his own one.

When he stops her, hand finding her waist again to hold her in a secure manner, he thinks he shook off that rustiness. But then Jaehaera’s eyes land on him in a strange gaze, and her limbs suddenly feel tense.

Jaehaera swallows, and looks down again, her grip on his shoulder digging into his bone. “I think…” she stops them from moving. “I feel ill,” she says abruptly. “I think I should retire for this night, Your Grace.”

He blinks at her. He is not convinced; her face only gained some warmth to it as they danced. Still, he draws her away from the dance floor to its side, knowing here too, there is little to object to. She feels all too rigid in his hold, and something had her gaze become cloudy.

Most of the room seemed to cheer at them joining the dance floor, so that couldn’t be it. The taste on his tongue is sour, feeling somewhat jilted himself. Perhaps because he himself hadn’t hated the dance all that much. He offered this for her and still… Fine.

“Then go rest,” he allows, trying to keep the bitterness behind lock and key. She says her farewell to some key courtiers and leaves, quickly disappearing to the dark, gloomy parts of the castle. 

For a while, he returns to his spot at the table. When they strike a conversation, they ask of the Queen; some of them deem her rude for her abrupt departure. He finds their voices offensive, for he would rather like to retire to his apartments himself at the moment.

“‘Tis a holy day, for us all. Ill or not, even a Queen must be respectful—” Lord Peake grumbles by his ear, and he wonders why he hadn’t let him go ages ago.

Irritated, he decides that it wasn’t quite fair for her to leave him this way. Especially with everyone around looking at him like this in pitiful wonder. And with these halfwits, surrounding him around the table and offering their daughters as dance partners instead.

“Pay my respects to The Father and preside over the rest of the feast, Lord Peake,” he says, and comes up again from his place. “I should see how the Queen fares.”

He gets up and walks in long strides out to the dark, gloomy hallways himself.

—

As he approaches Jaehaera’s apartments, he finds himself hesitating to actually come in. 

His wife hasn’t asked for any kindness, even if he had attempted to offer it. He does think the wine had made him rather rash if not overtly sentimental; he wouldn’t have asked her to dance in the first place without it, and he certainly wouldn't have come by her door.

The Father Above might be laughing at him from the dark skies. Auspicious decisions, my arse. 

And he is about to turn on his heel, when he hears a sob from the inside of her room. 

He reaches for the knob of the door and twists it open. 

Jaehaera is by the window, too close to the damn window, the dying light of the fireplace showing bloodshot eyes and tears trailing down her rounded cheeks. She is frantic in her movements until she stops in place when she sees him, holding a quivering lip from saying a thing. 

“Why are you…?” he tries to ask, but some anxiety spikes in him and he can’t find a way to articulate himself. 

“Your Grace, please leave,” she manages out of her system. That lights a visceral feeling of rage within him. 

“You will not order me to leave,” he says plainly. Your Grace, your Grace, she tells him the entire day, but she won’t force that distance upon him when he plainly sees there is something foul at play. “I don’t know what I have done, but I did not mean harm to you and you know this.”

“I know,” she answers, the glisten on her lash line more noticeable. She’s shaking like a leaf; what has rattled her so? “But you more than all know that matters little.”

Fuck. He had been irritated, but now he is properly upset. All had been well, what has he done wrong? 

“If you tell me what it is I can fix it,” he says. It is the wrong choice; she turns to look at him with a sharper gaze, even with her tears. 

“I used to dance to that song with Jaehaerys,” she says, and Aegon already understands he has lost here. Of course, the times he remembered her dance as a child, it had been with her brother. “Mother taught us the steps. It was her favourite. Jaehaerys was determined to learn it well, even though I always had to escape his clumsy steps. He wanted to show mother he listened to her.” 

She wipes her cheeks with her hands, holding herself. 

“We never had the chance to complete the dance without missteps.”

Aegon shuts his eyes. “If I had known I wouldn’t have…” he begins. What is the point in saying what she knows already? “I’m sorry. I thought it would make you happy.”

He foolishly assumed he would know any better than anyone else in the Keep how to do so. They are adjacent to one another in pain when the court already assumes it knows everything about them. And he thinks, there had always been some truce between them, in regards to that — perhaps that had all been in his head, too.

That dance felt like a moment of peace to him. He wanted it to be a moment of peace for her, too, for them all. He is so tired of fighting and guarding his own self; he simply wants to relent to the calm that he feels could exist between them.

Jaehaera’s hand reaches for the seven-starred necklace upon her, swallowing. “It had, for a moment,” she sniffles, shame in her voice. “It made me happy. But my brother can’t be, and my mother can’t see it, and I…”

That he does know, the guilt of being alive. The guilt of continuing on despite having the world shattered, despite witnessing so much death. And Viserys returned from the dead, and when he confessed it all, his brother had told him simply one thing.

“You’re not at fault for that.”

And if Jaehaera has resentment on her tongue, any hatred she wants to spit out about those who were at fault — she doesn’t say it. Simply looks at him with guarded eyes, keeping her distance. 

He can’t ask her to close it, just for the sake of his own peace. He wouldn’t ask her to, either. The ghosts that plague her on her namedays, day to day, they are there, he knows what they whisper — plenty had whispered to him day to day.

“You need not to dance, but you need not hide what plagues you, and what would make you at ease,” he says. “Her Grace the Queen has her voice in court, and if she’d like it, the King’s ear.”

Jaehaera looks at the floor, as she does, and let all the tears that had been unshed out. She needn’t close the distance, but she does need to know she can, if she’d like. He lets her sob until she tires herself out, helping her to the bed and tucks her in. 

Even if winter plagues them, forever piercing cold, as long as her skin is warm on this earth, she should have her own dream of spring. 

If one day she should choose it, he’d be willing to help her find it.

[lilacliquors]

pairing: bi-han x reader

sweet or spicy: sweet

word count: 728

prompt: [  OVERHEARD  ]: sender reveals that they’re in love with the receiver to a third party, not realizing that the receiver, while out of sight, has just overheard the confession. - bi - han x reader

notes: here's day five of the sweet and spicy special! we've got some fluffy bi-han goodness that definitely takes place before bi-han's betrayal, and i had such a fun time writing this &lt;3 even though i didn't want to use [y/n] and did my best to avoid it. that being said, if anyone would like a part 2 to this, just, you know, hmu ;)

your first time visiting outworld was everything you had ever dreamed it would be. everything around you was so vibrant, you couldn’t help but be amazed with it all. as part of liu kang’s security, you, along with the lin kuei brothers, stuck together while earthrealm’s champion and the others prepared for the tournament ahead. 

as it was tradition, there was a celebratory feast to welcome you all as guests, and to properly start the tournament, and it would be the one time you all got to unwind before you had to be on high alert. you and the brothers were sitting a bit farther away from the other earthrealmers, but still close enough if you were needed. 

“have you had any of the wine?” tomas asked you, offering you a glass.

“should we? i feel like this might be stronger than anything back home. can we really risk the possibility—”

“we’ll be fine,” bi-han interjected, his deep voice rumbling through you.

“well, maybe you will be. some of us don’t have fancy ice powers,” you said, smiling a bit. he looked away from you, and in the glow of the beautiful lights surrounding the tables, you swore his cheeks looked flushed. you and tomas shared a look, and you shrugged your shoulders before taking a glass of wine and sipping it slowly, determine to nurse it for the rest of the night.

once the feast was finished, and you were all heading off to your chambers, you took a small detour to wander the gardens. empress sindel had given you permission, and you weren’t sure if you’d ever get the chance to explore again, so you took the opportunity eagerly. as you walked around, you gazed at the flora, enchanted by its beauty. it was so strange to think that there were millions, perhaps billions, of people who would never know that outworld, and all of its beauty, existed. yet you were one of the lucky ones. as you continued on your walk, you could hear voices engaging in conversation, and you couldn’t help yourself. you were silent as you crept closer, and as the voices became more distinct, you could just make them out.

“... need to be honest with yourself, brother,” kuai liang’s voice was soft.

“there is nothing to be honest about. you’re looking too deeply into matters that simply do not exist,” bi-han replied, his voice gruff.

“nonsense. i saw the way you gazed at them during the feast. let yourself experience a bit of joy, bi-han. this life is short, and i don’t think father—”

“father wouldn’t know how to discuss this, nor would he care to.”

“i’m afraid i’ll have to disagree. you’ll remember how much he loved mother. of all his teachings, perhaps that is the one you should think about.”

you crept closer, your curiosity getting the better of you. the brothers were discussing … love? it was strange enough to think about either of them being in love, they were so honor bound, wrapped up in their duties, especially bi-han as he wore the mantle of grandmaster. but he would be needing heirs some day, so maybe the idea wasn’t too far fetched. and for some reason, it made you … sad.

“i don’t need to embarrass myself, kuai liang,” bi-han muttered. “as grandmaster, it would not do me any favors to make a fool of myself.”

“but you admit that, in order to make a fool of yourself, there’s … something there?” kuai liang asked, and you could almost hear the smile in his voice. there were some faint grumblings, and then a quiet groan of frustration.

“yes. there is something there. i … i’ve fallen in love with them. and the way they looked in the glow of the lights, their laughter tonight, their smile … i couldn’t bear to lose it. yet i cannot face the shame and sting of rejection if they don’t feel the same,” he said, and his voice was the softest you’d ever heard. but above all of that … he was in love with you.

and you couldn’t say a word. you couldn’t let them know you had been eavesdropping. you couldn’t just pop out and present yourself. no, he had to come to you organically. and as you crept away from the brothers, you found yourself hoping that he did.

[rahuratna]

The Feast at your Table (Part 1 of 2)

Content: Sexual content (MDNI!), explicit sexual content in next chapter, pining, friends to lovers, food play mentions in this chapter.

Posting some drafts that I've been sitting on for a while. Here goes.

It was official. You had no idea, whatsoever, how deal with your burgeoning attraction to Taishiro Toyomitsu, known to most as the pro-hero Fat Gum.

It wasn't that Taishiro was unapproachable. Quite the opposite. He was the embodiment of comfort, the patron saint of open door policies. There was nobody, out there on the streets he worked so hard to protect, or here within the doors of his agency, that wouldn't trust him with their lives.

Taishiro was kind, effusive, magnanimous and always determined, the kind of man who'd never fail to cheer you up, who'd be the shoulder you could always lean on.

All of which formed the basis for the reasons you couldn't ever let him know how you felt about him. You didn't know when it had started. And by the time you caught it, it was too late, spreading like a rampant infection through your system, weakening you to each and every one of this kind man's habits, gestures and traits.

It wasn't as if heroes were strangers to public attention or people wanting a piece of them. As pro-hero Fat Gum, Taishiro had his fair share of fan mail, propositions and adoring followers. As an employee of his agency, with a quirk that certainly didn't fall under the category of 'flashy' you'd managed to make yourself quietly indispensable over the past year.

It was also why you wouldn't want to pursue anything actively with the man who was essentially your boss. Taishiro was kind to you, as he was to all members of the agency. He'd buy you takeout, make sure to check in on you even with his busy schedule, and even dragged you out of the office at times to have celebratory meals with the team.

There were times when you felt something, perhaps a figment of your sorry, affection-starved imagination, times when you felt his eyes linger on you a moment too long, when his expression would switch from its usual congeniality to something more tender. But you'd studiously brushed away any thought of hidden feelings. On his part, at least. Why would he even look in your direction, anyway?

You certainly weren't anything special. Ordinary you'd always been and ordinary you'd remain. All you had to do was continue being the silent support, the rope that bound this agency together behind the scenes, the one who was always there with the towels, bandages, extra snacks and comforting words, the one who fielded the phone calls and briskly dealt with paperwork nobody else wanted to handle.

On this particular evening, there had been an emergency alert in downtown Esuha City, and Fat Gum along with two of his interns, Kirishima and Amajiki, had been called in to deal with a potential hostage situation. You remained at the office along with the two other employees of the agency, Rei, who handled marketing and publicity and Fukushima who dealt with tech and communications.

It turned out to be a tense evening, fraught with danger, and the added challenge of crowd control, considering how packed the area where the hostage situation occurred had been. By the time everything had been resolved, it was almost 2 am and the ragged heroes, their various sidekicks and interns included, were slowly making their way back to agencies all over the city. The rest of the team had left, packing up and congratulating each other with tired eyes on a job well done.

You remained, however. You wouldn't be able to rest easy without knowing that Taishiro was back safely and had a ready supply of food should he be low on energy. Time ticked by and the elevator pinged with its customary chime. Standing hurriedly at your desk, you breathed a small sigh of relief when Taishiro's bulky form appeared in the doorway to the office.

He'd obviously expended a lot of his fat today, his tall form still bearing a visible protective layer around the middle, the raw brute strength beneath now more evident in the chest and arms. His uniform hung on him. It was dirty and torn in various places, the signature knee pads scuffed and dented. The golden tufts of his unruly hair were streaked with dust and grease. He looked worn down and weary when he came in, but his expression changed to one of surprise and tenderness when he saw you.

You realize that's it's been a while since you've been alone with him. To take your mind off the potential awkwardness your infatuation could induce, you hurry forward and start to warm up some of the food you'd ordered earlier, calling over your shoulder to him.

"I'm glad you're back in one piece. But you look like you need something to eat. I'll have it ready in - "

A large, solid hand on your shoulder cuts off your stream of words.

"Why didn't you go home with the rest?"

"I - well, I was worried."

"About me?"

He huffs out a small laugh, and coming from him, it's never condescending or mocking.

"You never have to worry 'bout me, sweetheart. This ol' body of mine can take a real beating and come out just fine. But hey, I'd never turn down some snacks. Now what ya got for me?"

The endearment rolls so naturally off his tongue, and for a moment, you wonder what he would do if you grabbed his collar and tugged him down towards you. You flush and turn away from him, suddenly very occupied with the pork buns you've been re-heating.

"There's a lot we - I ordered in earlier, because I thought you'd be low on energy. Why don't you go clean up while I handle all of this?"

"Gotcha."

He ambled away, yawning and stretching sore muscles slightly with a groan. He headed to the locker rooms that could be accessed through a door in the hall outside the main office. Normally, you wouldn't hear sounds through the partition so clearly, what with the bustle of the office during the day, but the quiet of night allows you to hear the shuffle of clothes being shed, the water turning on and Taishiro humming tunelessly as he gets in.

Those pork buns just might spontaneously combust under the laser-lit stare you're giving them. If you could just focus on getting this food ready ...

In what feels like too short an interval, you hear Taishiro's slipper-clad feet approaching the office once again. You look up and take him in. He is wearing a simple t-shirt and loose cotton pants, of a size more suited to his current form. He lifts one arm up over his head and his shoulder pops, allowing him to utter a distinctly masculine grunt. The shirt hugs his powerful shoulders and stretches over his abdomen in a way that you find very difficult to look away from. Oblivious, Taishiro approaches, warm eyes gleaming at the spread you've set out for him.

"Well now. You've outdone yourself. You know just what I need, dontcha?"

You hope the shaky laugh you utter doesn't give you away, but then the laugh turns to a yawn and you lift your hand to your mouth in surprise, eyes watering. Taishiro chuckles, but he hasn't touched the food yet and his gaze suddenly holds something warmer, something you hope you're not reading too much into. He reaches across the table and pushes a plate towards you.

"You must be tired too."

"Oh, come on. I've only been here in the office all day. It's just late, that's all."

"Late enough that the rest of the team have gone home hours ago. Now eat what's on your plate."

You pause, chewing on an onigiri.

"Don't worry, I'll just... stay over at the office. We do have the sofa here."

He stares at you, the seriousness of his gaze catching you off guard.

"You're telling me you've slept on the couch before?"

"Um ... "

"That's not okay! If I'd known you'd stayed over when we were out on missions, I would've given you the key to my place. It's only a block from here."

The idea of sleeping in Taishiro's bed, surrounded by sheets that smell of him, on the mattress with the dip in the centre that his body would make, almost shuts your mind down. Luckily, you have the wit to respond.

"You don't have to do that! It's only been ... once or twice, anyway - "

"Once or twice too often. Seriously, I ain't gonna let you sleep on that couch again, princess. Just say the word when you're ready to go and I'll take you over."

Arguing is futile. As accommodating as this man is to each and every request, whether from client or friend, he draws a solid, unwavering line when it comes to certain things. And he won't, absolutely won't, have you take the train home at this time. He even offers to sleep here in the office, if that makes you more comfortable, an option you hastily refuse.

Soon enough, you've both finished the food (the bulk of it having been savoured by Taishiro) and your fingers are tapping against your thigh with the anxiety that has now infested your body as you put on your coat and head out into the street with him. Taishiro has always been a walking furnace, the pleasant heat from his tall form distinct whenever he stands close to you. Proximity to him has never been an issue. His bulk, in his fully fat-protected body, is always taking up space in the office, brushing against you every time he moves past.

His confidence and the manner in which he wore his own skin, with pride and certainty, makes him all the more attractive. Taishiro always welcomes other people into his space, into his protective warmth, and you are lucky enough to fall into that category. He obviously found your spluttering reactions hilarious every time he spread his arms and asked you to 'ride the Fat Taxi'.

As you neared his place, a decent-sized apartment with modest furnishings in a high rise not far from the office, you noticed that he'd fallen uncharacteristically silent.

"Taishiro?"

"Yup?"

"You don't have to have me over, really. I understand if you just want your space and ...  rest after that mission."

He was looking at you now, but your eyes were fixed on the street ahead.

"Told you before. It's no issue at all. You'll be safe at my place, and that's what counts. Plus, I know you. You don't even want to go near the train station. You don't like the cold. Come on now. I know you want that hot cocoa and good ol' fleece blanket."

He wiggled his fingers in what was obviously supposed to be gesture of entrapment. You'd never seen anything less threatening and a laugh burst from your throat.

"Fine. I do want that fleece blanket."

The elevator ride up to his apartment was a strange reversal of roles. Taishiro was the one who now seemed a little on edge, while you were humming slightly, imagining the hot shower and comforting softness of the blankets that awaited you. It was just him. Just Taishiro. Just the man you'd already spent so much your time with. You could handle this. Nothing to worry about.

He unlocked and held the door open for you, hitching up his pants slightly. The fabric was still loose on him, even after the snacks you'd provided. You entered and immediately sighed at the warmth which greeted you. Taishiro came in, toeing off his shoes in the entryway.

"Make yourself at home. There's towels in that cupboard, middle shelf, if you need them. The bathroom is that way."

It was common knowledge that Taishiro preferred to wash off the grime of his missions at the agency showers instead of his own bathroom. You supposed that it was something to do with the desire of many heroes to create a separation between the peace of home and the slog of hero work. All the same, you couldn't help but admire the relaxing, muted colors and panel work in the bathroom, the tub huge enough to accommodate someone of Taishiro's height and bulk, with space left over.

Locking the door behind you, you unzipped the small carry bag you always packed in case of having to stay overnight at the agency. It contained a simple silk shift and shorts, a change of underwear and some toiletries. Outside, you could hear Taishiro moving around in the lounge and kitchen, pots and pans clanking. He dropped something with a loud clatter and you heard him mumbling softly.

You ran a bath, scrubbed yourself clean and got into the tub, thinking carefully over his behaviour since you had arrived. There was something different than usual. If you didn't know any better, you'd say he was nervous. Surely not? How many times had the two of you worked long hours together, spending almost every day enmeshed in each other's company when he was at the office? All the same...

Standing, you dried yourself off and dressed in your sleep clothes. Suddenly feeling a little self conscious at how much the sheer shirt and shorts revealed, you slung your cardigan over them, slowly opening the door and heading out.

The scent of burning came from the kitchen. Worried, you hurried over. Taishiro was very proficient at cooking, so it was surprising for you to see him like this, waving his hands through the smoke that permeated the air, coughing slightly. The blackened remains of what looked like pancakes lay curled and shriveled at the bottom of a pan. Taishiro looked up to meet your concerned gaze and froze, one large hand coming up to sheepishly scratch the back of his head.

"Ahhh ... sorry about this. I was just ... making pancakes and ... yeah. I guess I wasn't watching them closely enough, ya know?"

You stepped slowly towards him, as if approaching a skittish animal. You'd never had this issue with him before.

"Are you okay? Was it ... something that happened on the mission today? You seem out of sorts."

Placing a hand on his arm, all earlier hesitation forgotten in the warmth you felt for this man, you couldn't help how your body gravitated to be closer to him. He had always been the one to surround everyone with his reassuring presence, his natural charisma buoying up your spirits. Surely, this was one thing you could offer him in return.

"Why don't you go sit, Taishiro. I can handle the pancakes."

For once, you were met with silence as Taishiro looked down at your hand. His gaze travelled along your wrist, lingering on the button-down front of your cardigan, held together over the shift beneath. There was a gentle fire burning in that glance that you could in no way explain through platonic means. The warmth of his regard was removed from your person as quickly as it had arrived. You plucked away your hand from his arm and his shoulders sagged a little.

"It ain't that. The mission went well. I just - I'm - "

He raised a hand and swept it back through his hair, tousling the golden strands even further, before turning to you.

"Ah, it doesn't matter. It's 3 am and you ain't even in bed yet. That's a crime."

"Not until you talk to me."

Determination was straightening your posture, allowing you to look him in the eye without any of the usual nerves that plagued you in his presence.

"I - c'mon sweetheart." The word rolled out differently on his tongue, wrapped in the sort of hushed intimacy reserved for lovers. "I can't ... don't want you to feel uncomfortable or anything- "

"You could never make me feel uncomfortable."

"Well ... it's just that ... I've never had you over before. Like this, I mean. It's just a little ... you know."

Oh. Oh.

The simple fact that he felt this way, that the implication of being alone with you at his apartment carried the same weight for him as it did for you ...

Something in your expression must have changed because he was hastily waving his hands and attempting some form of what he must have thought of as damage control.

"I mean, it ain't every day that you come over here. And sure, I'm a pro-hero and all, but ... " he paused to chuckle ruefully, "I guess I'm just like the average guy when it comes to having a ... lovely lady like you over. I just ... was wondering if being here was okay for you. I wasn't being pushy or anything, I just wanted you to be safe."

"Taishiro."

Your voice was soft, some part of the slow, steady creep of passion you kept hidden from him on a daily basis filtering through. You couldn't help yourself.

"Taishiro, I was ... also a little nervous to come over here. Not because I don't trust you. I trust you with my life. You know that. It's more... to do with the same reason you're ... feeling the way you are now."

There. You'd gone and said it. You'd finally let him know some small part of what you felt for him. He was staring at you with his mouth slightly open. Something about how ridiculous this situation was, two grown adults behaving like hormonal teenagers simply because they were under the same roof and feeling attraction to one another, snapped you back to some form of reality.

You covered your mouth and looked down. Taishiro raised an eyebrow.

"Are you giggling?"

"What? I don't giggle."

"Oh yeah you do. When you think nobody's looking."

"So you're watching that closely?"

He glanced down at the pan and prodded at the burnt remains of the pancake. He was also smiling now.

"Ahh ... okay, yeah. Most times. Can't help it."

"I see. Now do you want help with those pancakes or not?"

"On one condition."

"What's that?"

"That thin little sweater you have on ain't gonna do the job in this cold. I got some warmer stuff in my closet. Go choose something and then you can help me."

Seeing that he had finally regained a semblance of his usual hearty confidence, you smiled and did as he asked. You'd never seen the interior of Taishiro's bedroom before. The decor was simple, with plenty of room to accommodate him moving around. The bed looked custom made, reinforced and sturdy, a huge mattress cushioning the top.

Hastily looking away, you approached the built-in closet against the right wall and opened one of the doors. It took you a while to find a suitable sized sweater, and when you did, it was obvious that even the smallest size he had would be very, very large on you. At least you'd be warmer. Shrugging, you slipped off your cardigan and had just taken the sweater from where it hung, when Taishiro entered the bedroom.

"Hey, you want syrup and cinnamon with your pancakes or just - "

He stopped dead, eyes widening slightly at the sight of you. If you'd been alone in your own home, your choice of sleepwear would never have raised any issues. Suddenly, you were very conscious of just how sheer the material was, how you'd forgone a bra in the desire for comfort, how the shorts were little better than underwear, now that you really thought about it.

It wasn't as if your body was anything special to look at, at least, in your view. You considered yourself average in most aspects, definitely on the curvy side. Your work clothes were always modest enough to never draw attention. Taishiro, however, was looking at you as if you'd somehow covered yourself in syrup in lieu of the pancakes. Your breathing accelerated a little, and with the way he was watching the rise and fall of your chest, it would probably be very hard for him to miss it.

He swallowed thickly and turned his head.

"Uh, sorry. Didn't know you were still looking for the ... ah ... "

"The sweater."

"Yeah. That. Found one?"

"I did."

You waved the garment around and he must have seen it in his peripheral vision, because he nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets, as if not quite sure what to do with them.

"Okay. Well, when you're ready, the pancakes are done. Come and get yours."

Hurriedly pulling the sweater over your head, you followed him into the living room. Although you weren't particularly hungry, you wanted to keep him him company while he ate, at the very least. Taishiro was now pouring steaming milk into a mug, before stirring and handing you the cocoa.

"One sugar. Just how ya like it."

You didn't know whether it was the encounter you'd just had with him in the bedroom, but somehow, everything he said now seemed laced with innuendo. It didn't help that his warm, deep voice was huskier than usual, that his honey-brown eyes were helplessly tracing the shape of your legs when he thought you were looking away.

You shifted in your seat as your own growing arousal threatened to unseat your composure. You ate the pancakes he placed in front of you and wondered what it would feel like to cover those thick fingers of his in syrup and slowly take them into your mouth with him watching. Your knees brushed against his under the table and you thought of how easy it would be to straddle him, the plush flesh of his stomach cushioning your abdomen. You took a sip of your cocoa and wondered whether he'd taste as rich. You thought of his skin, the soft growth of barely visible stubble on his jaw, the wide and generous mouth, those heavy, powerful hips and how they might undulate between your trembling thighs.

Taishiro has always been so open, so free with his emotions, and now that same transparency is doing little to hide just how much he wants you when he catches your eye across the table. He takes another bite, as if making an effort to tear his gaze away.

"Are these any good? I kinda rushed them."

"They're wonderful. Your batter is always the best."

If it had been a normal day at the office, your comment would have passed unnoticed. Under these circumstances, though, with this tension growing in the air between you both, Taishiro choked slightly. You felt a rush of embarrassed heat cross the bridge of your nose. He cleared his throat.

"Ahh, err, thanks. It's ... just pretty basic. My batter gets the job done."

He was just making it worse. With a sense of impending horror, you felt your nervous giggle coming on. It slipped out of you in a short, staccato burst and Taishiro looked up, surprised, before his own lips quirked upward in amusement. His belly started to shake slightly with repressed amusement. Seeing that contagious smile of his pushed you over the edge. Your shoulders began to heave and you leaned back in your chair and tried to breathe evenly as Taishiro's chuckles grew louder as well. Before long, you were both helpless with laughter.

Wiping your eyes on a nearby serviette you regard him with fondness. This sweetest of all men. He clears his throat and pushes aside his empty plate.

"You don't look so tired anymore. Did my pancakes liven you up?"

"Kind of. They've fooled my body into thinking it doesn't need sleep."

"Lucky tomorrow is a day off, then. The guys from Trackstar's agency will cover the regular shifts and call us in if anything goes wrong. Feel free to sleep in."

"I can't do that, Taishiro. I don't want to inconvenience you," you remind him, gently.

He looks disappointed for a second, before his beautiful countenance brightens once more.

"Hey, come to think of it, there's a farmer's market I wanted to check out on the city limits. Think you'd want to come along?"

"Oh? I'd love that! I haven't been to a farmer's market in ages."

"Then stay here a bit longer. We can just leave together tomorrow."

You don't miss the slightly pleading note in his voice. It softens you in ways that only he can achieve.

"Okay, sure. That's a good idea."

Face as excited as a child with a new toy at this news, Taishiro stands and collects your plate and his.

"Right, off to bed with you."

You hesitate, and he scratches his chin, as if having anticipated your question.

"I have a guest room, just down the hall. I made up the bed while you were in the bathroom."

"Oh, thanks. I'll... head off to bed then."

"Er, yeah. Have a good sleep!"

Hurriedly turning away from each other, you both head in opposite directions. The guest bedroom is smaller, but no less comfortable. You slowly crawl between the covers and realise that he'd thrown the fleece blanket he'd spoken about over the duvet. You take the warm material between your fingers and stroke it gently. A rush of uncontrolled feelings, of all the desire and affection you have for this man, comes flooding through you.

It is at that moment, of course, that a soft knock on the door interrupts your thoughts. You call for him to enter and he does, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly in pleasure when he sees you tucked away, sitting comfortably under the covers. He places a glass of water on the bedside table.

"Just leaving this here in case you get thirsty. It gets cold up here at night. Wouldn't want you freezing your toes off in the kitchen."

He's about to leave, when you capture his large hand hesitantly in your own. He stills immediately, glancing down to where your fingers wrap around his.

"Thank you, Taishiro. For letting me stay here."

He remains like this for a minute, facing away from you, as if fully aware of just how much his expression would betray him. He raises your hand to his lips, slowly, pressing a soft kiss to the top of it.

"Anytime, sweetheart. You can come over ... whenever you feel like."

He doesn't, however, relinquish his grasp on you. You raise your other hand and trace your fingers with infinite softness over his larger knuckles, the surface scarred from old injuries and trauma. He shivers slightly under the contact and you close your eyes before placing that hand against your cheek.

These same palms that slammed a runaway vehicle to a dead stop last week. The same fists that punched a hole through a cement wall to get to the people trapped in a flooded basement. These same hands that protected from stray bullets, that ruffled the hair of his shy intern, that pushed extra sweets into your lunch box when you weren't looking. You had no adequate words for what he made you feel, for how his very presence tugged at some place deep inside of you, creating a void that could never be appeased until you were close to him.

Taishiro's unsteady breathing was loud in the small room, which had suddenly become unaccountably warmer. Before you could fully process what was happening, your body was being tugged gently, but firmly closer to his, your chin  being tilted up until his warm breath washed over you. You opened your eyes and felt a delicious, heavy heat settle in your abdomen when you saw how he wasn't bothering, in the slightest, to conceal how much he wanted you.

His gaze wandered languidly over your face, scorching where it travelled, and then he was leaning forward, mouth capturing yours, his sudden intake of breath echoed by yours. His kiss was like basking in afternoon sunshine, deliciously warm and comforting, hungry as he always was, eager and slightly clumsy. His hands were now on either side of your waist, just beneath your breasts, thumbs stroking dangerously upward. Your arms were coming up as he deepened the kiss, wrapping around his wide neck, fingers tangling in his soft, soft hair.

Taishiro pulled away, breathing hard, unconsciously licking his lips to retain some of your taste. His grip on your body tightened briefly, asking a tentative question, the answer to which pooled like molten honey down there, where you wanted to feel him most. You nodded wordlessly and your breath was briefly snatched away as he tugged at the duvet and looped one arm beneath your knees, lifting you effortlessly out of the bed. The soft, intimate ache of desire in his voice, what had been lingering under the surface all evening, was now laid bare as he pressed his lips against your ear.

"C'mon angel. I'll get you real warm tonight."

[damneddamsy]

renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part v)

-> (18+, sexual themes, mdni)

Celebratory feasts with the royalty had always been nasty business. Like all the others before, the temper of the sons intermixed with the impulsivity of the daughters, would be documented in blood and destruction. This particularly small gathering of families was one hosted to commemorate the union of Prince Aemond and Princess Aemma, improvised quite similar to their secret wedding. It wasn't short of inordinate food and drink, the table replenished to make up for the wedding feast that never occurred.

Aemma was a mire of misery, plagued with a terrible headache as a result of insomnia, and barely focused on the brewing consternation between the families. The Hightowers had sharpened their aims on her. Aemond, on the furthest end of the table, had crises of his to take notice.

Halaena did; she squeezed Aemma's thigh to get her attention. "You're too fragile. Retire for the night."

Aemma bared an appreciative smile and laid her hand atop Helaena's. "Thank you, Hel, but it would be impolite. Especially with the grandsire in attendance."

A weakened King Viserys raised his shivering glass in a toast, his words an effortful rasp. The room quietened to heed his word.

"A toast to a true Targaryen wedding in secrecy, my good Hand tells me. My son, Prince Aemond, to my granddaughter... Aemma." Her name was a pained whisper. "As spirited as the woman she was named after. Congratulations."

The table lifted their glasses with mumbles of half-hearted 'congratulations'. Jace and Luke remained frozen, staring daggers into their plates. It was Daemon who exclaimed a loud 'hear, hear!' for everyone else. Aemma sent him a grateful smile.

Aemond offered up the slightest of nods and sipped from his glass, finally glancing at Aemma. Awareness flickered in his eyes when he saw the way she restlessly cupped her neck. They were seated too far apart for him to reach across and comfort her.

Aemma, upon her turn, dutifully flourished a convincing smile. Her voice came out clearer than she expected. "Your blessing warms our hearts, Your Grace. We are much obliged," she said on behalf of her and Aemond.

"Yes," the king breathed heavily, "let us hope your union will bridge the rift in the House of the Dragon."

Aemond cleared his throat and carelessly raised his glass, heedless of the fact that the king was yet to conclude his toast. Aemma watched him, curious rather than shocked.

"I'd like to raise a toast," he announced then met her gaze. "To my sworn friend, now wife. Aemma, I'd relinquish life itself for your ideals. Perhaps it is only an appropriate time to inform everyone that in nine days, my wife and I are to voyage across the Narrow Sea and start a new life on our own."

Daemon was the first to react. He downed his whole cup. Then it was a rush of brief, confused reactions. Alicent had settled back on her chair, gritting her teeth. Rhaenyra was speechless, watching Aemma's face guardedly. When she was presented with a favourable joy, she returned a little smile. Jace and Luke were intently eyeing their mother's response in disbelief. Aegon, somewhat proud of the iron balls on his little brother, sipped his glass silently. Helaena listlessly played with her spoon.

"Unexpected," the king sighed, almost pained.

"And what of yours and the princess' commitments to the realm?" Otto regarded, the most conscientious on his part.

Aemond was anything but contrite. "Find another second prince to finesse and another princess to breed."

"Aemond," Alicent cautioned. "That sort of talk is unfit for—"

"Our decision is final," he mentioned, loud enough to suppress his mother's voice. "The plans have been laid, pacts have been struck. My wife has but one condition—to seek her mother and His Grace's blessing on our safe travels."

The king gasped out, nodding through a tremor. "Aemma."

Aemma leaned toward him with an accepting bow of her head. "Grandsire."

"I see... no reason to restrict this decision. Does your mother, your future queen, agree to this?"

Aemma expectantly glanced at Rhaenyra whose expression remained unsullied. She had asked for so much from her mother, this seemed like a steep ask. To be apart from her for who knows how long. But her mother had promised her once to allow her to follow her heart and live as she pleased. She only hoped the princess remembered her oath.

"Prince Aemond," Rhaenyra called instead, flitting her prudent eyes to him. "This is all rather sudden. I have to ask: why the hurry?"

Aemond simply stared back. "I dislike idling."

"I can understand the haste in taking my daughter to wife. I will accredit it to the thrills of youth and passion. But this," she tapped her finger lightly on the table and tilted her head, "this seems like subterfuge. A dire one. Do you mean to stymie my heir's ascent to the throne under the veil of expedition?"

Jace made a scoffing noise out of his nose, smirking to himself. His mother had finally struck gold.

Aemond's jaw flexed. "'The basest of accusations."

"Still a conceivable one."

Aemma interfered, pressing down on the bridge of her nose, attempting to restrain an explosive headache. "Might I suggest we confer this in private? This is a festive gathering, certainly no place to—"

"No, Aemma. I must speak this for all to hear. They all question our precocity to accomplish this," Aemond said through his teeth then glanced back at her mother. "I swear this to you upon my devout esteem for your daughter. If she is ever to be installed as heir and the time of her reign arrives, I will ensure she acts in good conscience. I will stand with her, queen or not."

Rhaenyra's unblinking stare outmatched Aemond's, who had to look away to attend to Aemma's exclaim.

"You owe no explanations," Aemma said to Aemond, bewildered. Then she addressed the table, her tolerance slipping. "This is not a court session. There is no justice to be offered. All we ask is support. Support from our families, do you not understand?"

"You ask us to offer support in making yourself scarce from orders of the court?" Alicent finally spoke up, her tone adamant. "As prince and princess of the realm, your regiment is necessary to the throne. Abscond all you wish, your place remains here."

"Then we will abdicate," Aemond declared abruptly.

"Aemond, please," Aemma tried to calm him.

"Are you mad?" Rhaenyra hawked at him, grated to a passive growl. "Surrender my daughter's birthright!"

"Cease this insolence," Otto shouted at all of them.

His Grace bashed his staff to the ground to silence the table. "Again with the dissension! One night of..."

The sounds were tuned out, and Aemma rested an elbow on the table and stroked her forehead. The discomfort was almost unbearable now. Her stomach rolled and the world shifted beneath her.

She felt a cold hand on her cheek followed by Helaena's quiet voice. "Come. Let us leave now."

Aemma didn't even have the strength to nod or thank her. As she wobbled to her feet, with Helaena's hand secure around her forearm, in their periphery, Daemon and Aemond's chair dragged out in unison.

"Send for a maester," Aemond commanded first.

Daemon had halfway crossed the floor to Aemma. "Allow me."

"I'll take her," Helaena cautiously declared to all, her voice final. She repeated it to herself while their audience drew in a breath. "I'll take her."

X

It was Princess Helaena who forbade anyone from entering the princess' chambers that night and the day after, except for the maester with his concoctions and the servants with their timely meals. The timid princess proved to be as inflexible as her brother and Her Grace when need be. Even Princess Rhaenyra stepped aside to her orders.

No one heard or knew what occurred during those hours between the two princesses, but it was said to be the last moments of respite that they would share as the eldest daughters of two distraught bloodlines. There was a time when Princess Helaena's daughter, Jahaera, had joined them inside, hanging in the air as a sweet reminder of their childhood.

Prince Aemond, increasingly aggravated, patrolled his wife's doors to receive his sister the next night, ready to make an entrance inside. He would not have any more of this detachment.

Helaena placed a restrictive hand on his shoulder. "She needs to rest."

He desperately tried to see between the cracks in the heavy doors. "What is the meaning of this, sister? It has been a day. I'm being driven to the edge."

"It seems that it has been days since our Aemma has had a proper night's rest," she divulged, leading him across the door towards the balcony that opened into the sprawling floors of the Holdfast. "Everything has transpired so quickly. Unbeknownst to her, anxiety plagues her mind. I can share her worries a bit."

Aemond swallowed hard. "Of our journey?"

"No. Of that both of us are confident," Helaena murmured, her mind miles away. "It's her brothers. Caught in the crossfire. You know how that feels."

Immediate anger spiked in him. "Mad cunts," he hissed. "You'd think I've degraded their sister, the way they see it."

"Take yourselves and leave in peace," she said, preoccupied with her thoughts. She finally looked at him, her eyes beseeching. "Don't stop, no matter how much it entices you to stay. We have given this malice to more."

"Helaena." It was strange for him to say his sister's name, almost a gentle consolation. He knew of his sister's mind and her vulnerabilities in marriage. "You're the only family I'll be leaving behind."

She flashed him a smile. "Strangely, I believe that. There lies greatness ahead of you, little brother. And my life is here; in beasts and bone." She tilted her head to Aemma's door. "Go and see. Try not to wake her."

Her room reeked of the stables as he silently entered, so different from the tasteful lavender Aemond had come to crave, and surely enough, Seasmoke the direwolf was loyally relaxed at the foot of the bed. His sister must've brought him in secretly to put Aemma's mind at rest with an old companion. Aemond scratched the whining wolf's ears, who skipped off the carpet to rub at his waist for some praise. He had once been clueless about accepting attachment from a beast other than his dragon, but Seasmoke had grown on him.

"Good boy, Seasmoke. Sȳrī gaomagon," Aemond appreciated in a whisper. At least the beast had provided some semblance of comfort in his name. (Well done.)

"Demās, lykirī," he instructed. Seasmoke complied, perching back on his hind legs. (Sit, calm down.)

Seasmoke had become impressive, both in height, speed and strength. During their years in the Keep, Aemma and Aemond raised the wolf to be a loyal friend, their living toy of sorts. After Aemma departed and bestowed him to Aemond, he trained a vicious watchdog out of the animal, under the request of the Kingsguard, a fearsome hound that would stand for battle as a dragon. Now that Aemma had returned, Seasmoke must've regressed to what he had once been, what he truly was, just meant to comfort a lonely soul.

Behind them, Aemma slumbered calmly, hiding her eyes away from him. Merely some years ago he had laid beside her, on an evening like this, neither of them mortally wounded, vowing to write to each other every day, sharing a relentless embrace.

Tempted to her bare bedside, Aemond undid the buckles to his sword and dagger, and shed his overcoat and shoes, but hesitated with his eyepatch. He inhaled a shaky breath. This girl had persevered against her family for him, she had weathered a storm to wed him; a wayward eye wasn't going to send her screaming. He was determined when he skimmed it over his head and tucked the straps into his pocket.

He pushed the curtains aside and sank in next to her, mindful of her slumber. Aemma appeared just the same as when she was awake, implying that she lacked the deceit in her to conceal her emotions from everyone. What you see is what you get. Guileless, untamed, and real.

Unable to withhold himself, he entwined his fingers between hers, until he could feel their wedding scars unite once again, and brought it to his chest safely. He rolled onto his back and let his vision go black. Nothing weighed him down, held him back, or restricted him. It could've been moments or even hours, he had never felt such leisure. This was what awaited the rest of his life.

X

"So that is the infamous sapphire. Like Symeon Star-Eyes?" Aemma's velvety dulcet woke him.

He snapped his head toward a moonlit Aemma, who was fascinated and well-rested. She lay on her belly, silvery hair mussed from sleep, a pillow under her chest and arms while letting her hand rest with him. She looked like a painting, with the waving curtains behind her and the sky's reflection on her warm skin.

He stroked a finger from her cheek to her chin. "How's your head?"

"Intact," she jested.

"I see."

"Can you?"

He pinched her chin. "So much wit in such a little girl."

She giggled. "Not so little anymore, my friend."

He brought the back of her hand to his lips, hiding a softened grin. He'd forgotten he had written to her about the sapphire in his eye. It was absurd to think this bothered him now.

"You remembered my letter," he said, his voice thick from sleep.

"I remember every letter," she corrected. "My favourite stories of the warrior prince and his vicious dragon." She mimicked the soar of Vhagar's wings with a quiet 'whish'. "Soaring into the clouds. I used to read it and imagine myself instead. Quieted so many of my troubled nights."

He reached out to stroke a hand at her scar. "Because of this."

She dropped her head into the pillow to muffle a groan. "It ruins everything. As if bleeding every moon doesn't suffice, I've to experience an arrow through my head all the time."

He grunted his exertion to lean over and kissed her tousled hair. "You poor lamb."

She sourly jerked her hand out of his. He chuckled at this and pushed a few more kisses into her hair.

"Next moon, I'll have an antidote ready for your use."

She lifted her head, curious. "Since when do you dabble in potions?"

"No potions." He stroked her, all the way from her waist to her insteps. "Me."

She snorted. "What might you do? Vex me to distraction?"

"I have my secret ways."

Swayed by the surreal feel of her underneath him, he began to spread his kisses over the arc of her neck, the wing of her shoulder, down the lune of her spine, all while his sneaking fingers gathered up the soft linen of her nightgown to stroke her even softer thigh. Aemma twisted a little to witness him press a kiss at the dimple between her hips. Grinning, he sloped up to catch her in a kiss, taking her by surprise.

When he felt her thighs clench under his touch, he impatiently pulled away and flipped her on her back until she was all splayed out for him.

"It's about time I peeked at my stakes, hmm?" And then Aemma watched him bend between her legs for said stakes. 

"Aemond," she tried to mutter through the nervous lump in her throat.

"Ssh, my love. Trust in me."

His singular eye was deep-set, way too intense for words while the other glimmered dimly under the candle lights. So, unreadably intense. When she brushed a hand through his hair, he sank his teeth into the soft skin of her inner thigh and pulled. A slow moan came rumbling out of her.

His sinful motives started with his fingers climbing upwards on her thighs, lips following close behind. Her blasted nerves couldn't see him without turning every shade of red, but her audacity was gratefully more persuasive. 

She watched him through parted, gasping lips as he propped her knees on his shoulder, long fingers drawing back the hem of her nightdress until it was bunched around her abdomen. Obscene, she thought as he kissed her, right there, right through the material of her underwear, his tongue giving it a taste. A nice, long taste.

They locked eyes while he still tasted her slowly; delectably. Again, her own tongue went dead and her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

"Fuck," she dragged out a hiss. She palmed her mouth, shocked by the expletive.

Aemma could feel his whispering chuckle—right into her sex—and the sense that his forehead met the bed linen to muffle it.

She bit on her pointer finger, sheepish. "Sorry."

"No, please," he laughed deeply, "I enjoyed that."

Every part of her stiffened when she felt him nudge her again, her hands gripping at his hair. His plush hair, the strength of his nape, and then his flexing jaw. She didn't feel her underwear leaving her, but he was right there, within reach, his hands perching her knees in position. 

"Jaes," he murmured, "just beautiful. All this for me." (Gods.)

She raised her head once again to have a look and instantly wished she hadn't.

"I've dreamed of this..." he drew out in a reverie.

Aemond indulged, sucked, licked, and bit at her like a king on a feast. She moved his rumpled hair out of the way to see him there—slow, soft, loving thrusts into me and his single violet eye half-closed in heady bliss. Just tasting, savouring, remembering. And she felt it at her core, skin prickling up at the sensation. 

She clawed her hands up his hair, giving out the most pretentious cry for more. His hands went from wild to desperate; smoothing the inside of her thighs, sliding under her dress to caress her breasts, brushing up her neck. The noises he was making with his mouth on her; it was an explicit, incessant reminder of something tense. Something that would not stop edging.

She was about as close as 'fuck' is to a vulgarism when he pressured that immaculate, mind-blowing, soaked-up spot. So soft, so searing, so good. She inhaled an inhuman breath, toes flexing in the air as his suck-eat pulsations increased—and the slow climb was the best part. She knew she was coming up onto something wonderful.

She hoped he heard how soundly she was making love to his name for him. "Oh, please. Please, gods—"

She didn't get to finish that. His hand glided across her breasts, and her neck, and curled around it. She let her head hang back when he made the most luxurious sound she had ever heard him give out as he pushed two of his long fingers into her mouth. 

Impulsively, she circled his wrist—there was nothing more than she wanted to be filled. She wanted Aemond everywhere she could physically feel, even mentally if possible, and she made love to his fingers as best she could.

"So fucking good, Aemma," she heard his quiet, hot and heavy growl, muffled with a mouthful of her. "So good..."

The broad, rugged muscles on his shoulder put on a show for her under his shirt, crumpling and rippling, adding to his speeding-up tongue. Another hot flush of red charged up her body.

Then his tongue brought over fellow fingers, and they barely had work cut out for them. She was way too compressed and close to care, and she gave out a wordless cry as he pushed those long, thick fingers in at a speed she couldn't place a term on because that would be immoral. Deep, fast strokes and the size of his fingers were, she hoped, comparable to other parts of him. She sucked back a moan that bubbled to her lips. 

And that was the end-all, be-all. Aemond came onto his stakes, and Aemma went bursting apart. In the vigour of her world focalizing on that single spot between her legs, she crushed Aemond deeper into her, her fingers tight fists in his hair and her mouth agape in a choked scream. Behind her eyes, there were specks of little floating suns, a need to hold him even tighter, and the colours started to drain from around her. 

The first thing Aemma saw when radiance returned was the flushed, compelling, beaming, smiling face of the man who owned all of her. The upsurges of pure pleasure did not wane and she wallowed in it. She listened to him come up for air, kissing his way up again, rolling his tongue around her belly button, and momentarily intensifying her climax. 

"I've never seen someone look as enchanting as you did, moments ago," he whispered into her ear, burying his face into her neck.

She blinked, attempting to find the pace of her breathing. "That was..." she drawled with an unchecked hum.

"Not the end," he finished for her, rising on his knees. "Just a taste of what's to come."

Aemond was hypnotic, aglow and leering as he peeled off his shirt, wrists crossing at his abdomen. And it made every wicked something in her head want to come true. Her eyes gradually mapped down from his broad shoulders, her trembling fingers tracing at his rigid muscles, the jagged streaks of combat bruises, hungrily lapping up past his weathered, masculine strength, and the ultimate V muscle that was almost an arrow pointing straight to his...

He chuckled softly, catching her wandering hand. He stroked the base of her fingers, knuckles, and joints, conducting them with tiny lightning strikes.

"Always so curious."

She managed a mischievous smirk. "Then come here and indulge my curiosities."

"Gladly, dearest."

And his hands began to roam everywhere, as if stricken by her command. Strong, pinching, teasing, feeling, tracing, heading from north to south on her body. Resting his arms on either side of her head, grinning like the devil, his fingers slowly traced down her arms, that minute touch resonating in her sex.

"You amaze me," he murmured.

Despite all that teasing, she felt him. Her eyes snapped open to his, dark, wide and studying her. It was a simple bump, poising against her, tough and ready. He rested his forehead against hers.

He moved in; slowly, gently reverently. There was resistance, a whole lot from her, bringing forth a subdued, mellow pain. Since she had never done this before, she placed this as the pain of familiarizing—her body slowly climatizing to the feel. The feel of him, the weight of him, his wickedly strong muscles moulding against her. His energy was intense and unfathomable compared to her weak knees and lead tongue. 

"Aemma," he called to make sure.

Just then, she flexed harder around him. His light eyes blazed like reams of fire.

"Too afraid, are you?" she challenged.

"Never," he laughed under his breath.

It couldn't all be coincidences, with the timing and his body, because they were flawless. He was welcome as he pushed on further, gaining his fill of her. His face strained, forehead wrinkling, eyes briefly flickering shut. She took all the credit for making that happen. She accepted him gladly, adding a small inherent squeeze, and flashing her dark eyes at his. 

What should she be telling him? Could she ask him how he was feeling? If he was okay? Was she okay?

His grin was monumental. "You have taken me so well, my love."

She was utterly derailed. He felt so good. It was an inaccurate term to use—he was paradisiacal. She didn't think anyone could have felt this whole even with this age-old action. He was all hers at that moment. And if she were being honest, damnably honest, he was all up inside her. She could feel him inside, so deep, a space of her that she didn't think needed to be freed before.

His hips rolled into hers at a delicate speed, laboured and painstaking. All the evidence of teasing disappeared, jaw taut with tension.

"Breathe through it, Aemma. I'm here," he guided softly.

She gulped, unable to answer. Truly, she didn't have enough air to make one. To be fair, she was stretched to capacity. She couldn't take the weight of him. Flickers of white light appeared in her vision and it wasn't until his face started to blear that she realized she wasn't breathing. She breathed noticeably louder, splitting the beautiful, magical stillness between them, trying to exhale while enduring the stings around her ribs.

"Aemma?" he asked, slightly panicked now.

So when his unease swivelled to hazy apprehension, she choked out and gripped his arms closer—"Wait, stay with me. I can do it."

He stroked a thumb at the edge of her eyes, kissing the slant of her nose. "Ssh, I'm here. Whenever you are ready. We've got the rest of our lives."

She whispered an eager plea, "I want you. I want it all."

Their eyes held for a glorious moment and engraved an intrigue between the lines as their breaths fused in the intensifying silence. Neither of them backed down, never repressing and taking it all. He was still very much inside, growing harder with every passing moment. 

She was buzzing alive, practically convulsing, as his pressures gradually climbed in speed, still so soft and careful.

Which drew a languid, roguish smile alive on his handsome, sweat-matted face. He lifted a quizzical eyebrow, moving his hips in, in, in. Circle, push, circle, push—a giddying pattern that had her reeling off the wire. 

His vast hands were around her throat, establishing dominance, guiding himself entirely into her, tongue plunging forward for a breathy kiss. Her fingers and nails ploughed into his back, nearly drawing blood, when he did. He didn't even flinch or care, bearing it all.

He pulled away from that hungry kiss, hips rolling into a more punishing, daunting rhythm—and oh. She couldn't think. He was pushing her higher and higher until she felt little sparks start to explode from the tips of her fingers, elbows and toes. But, the feeling was only getting louder. His groans were so low, so dark in her ear. 

"There's my sweet girl," he whispered silkily, hitching her knee around his hip. "You want me?"

She nodded desperately. "Yes."

"You have me. You always have," he promised.

Her gasps were timed to his moves, thrusts gaining sweet, beautiful friction. Her fingers twisted into his hair, seeking an outlet for his beautiful, unbearable pleasure. It was building, getting close to that sensation again, oh so close...

She relaxed her stiff spine, sinking into the mattress and feeling him ram right into that spot. She bit her lip to contain a ridiculously high-pitched noise, willing her eyes open into his, burning like onyx flares in the violet night.

He glanced up, eager. Ready. Prepared. His arms curled as if attempting physical exercise, resting beside her head. When a soft wheeze left her, his lips were at her ear, reassuring her, relaxing her tense muscles. His head ducked again, almost inspecting them. 

"C'mere. I have you now," he breathed out. "Eyes on me, alright? Only me."

Awestruck, excited, a bundle of nerves, she watched him. 

Powerful thighs bearing hers, Aemond pressed her hips back until she was gently propped up on the pillows, hungrily attending to his all-consuming flow and determined muscles covered in sweat. She was completely restricted now, not needing to slake her appetite, because, as he had said, he had her. He sank and sank, again and again, abdomen crunching with his power, unearthing, slamming, her sweet spot tingling, and just like that, she came apart.

All white shots of lights, ringing noises, toes curled and pointing, and his name a clement prayer on her lips. Until her black-and-white world fled back into colour, he began to move again.

He kissed a tear away from her temple before his watchful gaze began to hunt hers—for hope? Promise? Something worth it? She simply stared back, mouth twisting in sweet agony as he continued his now quickened pressures. Her name was all he could breathe or think. With every muscled laboured, thrusts more unyielding, face rigid, power intense, eyes hazed over—Aemond came. Firm and heavy, falling limp over her. 

They fell back together, utterly spent, wrung out, exhausted and essentially immortalized. Whatever the true definition for that held. Between the film of fierce pleasure and indulgence, she decided that had a hold upon heaven. Tremendous, dark heaven.

Two big, lavish, beautiful, majestic climaxes and they basked in the afterglow together. She turned her head to clutch him at his neck, grab him forward to kiss his lips sweetly. Delicately, quietly, more and more, until her breathing steadied.

Aemond stroked her nose against hers, all sated by sex. "Pleasure becomes you, my love."

Aemma sighed dreamily, tracing the hollow of his cheek. "You've made your astounding mark on me. Can we go again?"

He pulled back to stare, dumbstruck. He didn't see a trace of humour in her eyes.

"You could take the bed this time," she offered.

He scoffed in disbelief. "Amazing. I applaud your energy, dearest wife. Have you ever swung a sword before? I could do with a new sparring partner with that sort of verve."

She laughed. "You could never best me if I were your partner. I'd have you on your back in an instant."

"You have me on my back right now, darling. Rode you half to death, did I not?"

He grunted a chuckle when she playfully smacked his chest.

Aemond continued to mumble. "In all honesty, I truly did not think I would survive this with you. I expected my heart to give out because of... hmm." He rubbed at her waist, his voice still thick with desire. "These legs, these eyes, these lips, those lips—Seven hells, this is my fantasy fulfilled."

She put a hand over her face to hide a blush. "You can simply get away with saying things like that?"

When he flashed her a smirk, she shook her head dubiously and tried to close his evading mouth with her hand.

"Just as you can simply get away—with requesting to use my cock—as your—let me speak!—your toy?"

"Aemond!" she hissed.

He laughed. "Ssh. Lay closer."

He pulled her into the curve of his arm, curbing her chagrin. Aemma sank her chin into his shoulder to watch him shut his lone eye and become at ease.

He felt her fingertips glide near the blemishes in his eye socket. Her cold fingers upon the hot skin, it was paradise. He tried hard to stay still when she got too close to inflammation that continued to cause agony on certain days. She must've sensed something amiss because abruptly her touch disappeared.

"Would it make you feel less lonesome if I took my eye out for you?" she asked, tongue in cheek.

A side of his lips lifted. "Perhaps. Make it my wedding favour."

She gasped, laughing. "You brute. You like that?"

"I wouldn't dare," he calmed her, drawing her closer to him. "Then again I can make even with your brother's."

He expected her to sense the sincerity in his voice, but such was Aemma's perspective of him. The conciliant, faithful friend who respected her. He worked hard to seal up that vengeance in front of her. What doesn't concern her will not break her. Not while he lives and breathes.

True to herself, Aemma let it slide harmlessly, treating it as good fun. He heard her laugh. "Can you imagine—little Luke, running about with an eyepatch?"

He barely broke a smile. "You'll never know."

X

read part vi here!

seasmoke the direwolf, watching this go down like: mom? dad? wtf are you guys up to 👁️👄👁️

I hope you all felt their love as much as I did <3

[nerdygaymormon]

I hear so many people hating on the Olympics for showing drag queens reenacting the Last Supper. That does seem pretty blasphemous. I'm curious to hear your thoughts about that

The morning after the 2024 Paris Olympics opening ceremony, my mom expressed her disgust at drag queens recreating da Vinci’s "Last Supper" and said it’s fine if they don’t believe but they shouldn’t mock others. I had no idea what she was talking about, I watched the opening ceremonies but I missed that. She admitted she didn't notice it either but it was all over her morning news.

Tbh, I figured if she was going to be offended by anything, it would be the multi-racial ménage à trois

Or possibly the guillotined Marie Antoinette holding her head

I found online that what she was referring to is what took place on a bridge over the river Seine. There was a table with a red carpet down the middle which served as a catwalk. At the center of the table was seated a woman wearing a silver headdress, surrounded by some drag queens and dozens of dancers and artists. Models featuring fashions from France's most promising young designers walked the runway.

The specific part of the ceremony that caused the offense was a closeup of the people at the table. The tableau was reportedly based on a painting by Dutch artist Jan Harmensz van Biljert called "Feast of the Gods," painted in 1635, and is housed in the Musée Magnin in Dijon, France. In the painting, the Greek gods on Mount Olympus have a banquet to celebrate the marriage of Thetis and Peleus.

The figure seated at the center of the table is Apollo, being the sun god he has a halo of light around his head.

One thing I liked is they updated the idea of Apollo with his lute to be portrayed by French DJ Barbara Butch with her equipment. Barbara advocates for several causes, such as acceptance of obese people and lesbian rights. She says her "aim is to unite people, gather humans & share love through music for all of Us to dance & make our hearts beat at unisson! Music sounds better with all of Us!"

They also had a blue Dionysus, the Greek god of wine, fruit, vegetation, and festivities.

All that meaning wasn't explained during the broadcast and went over my head, but I guess it makes sense to have a scene in the Olympics that gives a nod to the Greek gods, where the Olympics began, and which is meant to convey celebratory festivities, and is based on a painting housed in a French museum.

Even though there was no iconography like bread, wine, or even a bag of gold coins, having a bunch of folks on one side of the table reminded some people of Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper" painting.

The ceremony’s artistic director Thomas Jolly has said it was meant to celebrate diversity and pay tribute to feasting and French gastronomy. "The idea was to create a big pagan party in link with the God of Mount Olympus — and you will never find in me, or in my work, any desire of mocking anyone," Jolly said.

My guess is that if drag queens wanted to portray the Last Supper, they're talented enough that it would've been clear that was the intent.

Even if they meant to portray the "Last Supper," that painting has been recreated in many creative ways and I've never heard anyone upset about it, but maybe in this case they're upset because there were queer people involved. They forget that it is a queer painting, having been done by one of the most famous gay men in history, with one of the characters at the table being modeled on da Vinci's own lover Salaì.

Let's say the Olympic organizers did intend for this scene to be reminiscent of the "Last Supper," I'm good with it. Jesus would invite everyone to have a seat at the table, which is a good message for the Olympics to convey, all are welcome. No person at that table would be excluded from Jesus' table, but there's a number of Christians who would exclude themselves if it meant not having to sit with queer people and others they perceive as sinners, which is ironic since Christianity teaches that we're all sinners.

In summary, I think some people misinterpreted the intention of what was presented, and a group of conservative media types promoted that misinterpretation to cause outrage because that would generate views and clicks. Most people who are angry by this weren't upset when they saw it originally aired, they are furious because they were told that they should be upset about it.

[blue--ingenue]

"Evasive Maneuvers" - Part 2

Read next part ->

Summary: You've been in love with Sebastian since the moment you knocked him on his arse on your first day. Entering your sixth year, you finally begin working up the courage to confess your feelings when he suddenly becomes the best Beater Hogwarts has seen in decades - and subsequently becomes the school's most eligible bachelor.

Author's Notes: i am so grateful for the response this fic has gotten so far :') to all my lovely readers, thank you for indulging in my brainrot <3 and as a friendly reminder, my requests are open! i reblogged a prompt list to help, but you can absolutely come up with your own and send em on in!

Sidenote: if you’d like to be added to the tag list, let me know!

Headmaster Black clears his throat from behind the podium and addresses the mass of students before him. After the sorting ceremony has been completed all four tables have gained a new gaggle of wide-eyed first years getting to know their housemates.

 

“Before we officially begin the feast, I have a few words to say,” he announced. He begrudgingly gestured for Madam Kogawa to stand. The quidditch instructor smiled smugly and threw you a conspiratorial nod. You dip your head in acknowledgement and Sebastian shoots you a quizzical look. 

“As of this year quidditch has officially been reinstated,” the headmaster declares. He responds to the ensuing uproar with a grimace you can only describe as disgusted before ordering the celebratory shouts to cease. 

“In light of the previous year’s -  excitements -  Hogwarts has been chosen to compete in the annual quidditch tournament held for all wizarding schools in Europe. Schools will compete head-to-head until only one champion team remains. Madam Kogawa will now provide information to all those who wish to try out for their house teams.”

Headmaster Black takes his seat at the center of the faculty table and drinks deeply from his wine goblet. Madam Kogawa replaces him at the podium and explains how tryouts would be held the very next day. There is collective confusion over tryouts never being held so early in the year, which she dispells by explaining that each school must submit their roster at the end of the month so that all participating schools could be put on the roster. From the front of the Slytherin table Imelda is watching with rapt attention. There’s not a doubt in your mind that she’s already calculating how much practice she can get in before the next day’s tryouts. Kogawa continues to explain that she’ll be evaluating the house teams at a series of scrimmages to determine the players that will represent Hogwarts.

“Ah, no pressure then,” you hear a voice joke across from you. Garreth Weasley’s smile broadens as you meet his eyes. You blink twice, making sure you’re seeing things correctly. It seems Sebastian wasn’t the only one of your friends who had grown over the summer. His copper-red hair is the same fiery shade it’s always been, but it seems to have grown longer and just unruly enough to be endearing. It frames his defined jaw and you notice that his shoulders and chest have filled out as well. 

You offer him a smile in kind and whisper, “Are you trying out for the team?”

He brings a hand to his mouth as though to keep prying ears from listening: “Indeed I am. It seems that my clumsiness on a broom is just what our team needs to lead them to victory.”

You give a rather unladylike snort into your pumpkin juice and quickly bring a napkin to your face. You glance around to see if anyone had seen your mishap, but the room’s attention remains on Madam Kogawa. You glance back at Garreth, intending to scold him for a spill that was entirely your fault, and are met with an expression you’ve never seen him sport before. He looks at you almost…fondly. Perhaps you’re imagining things, but you think you can see a blush highlighting the freckles splashed across his cheekbones. You clear your throat awkwardly, stomach fluttering at his look of affection, before turning your attention back to the front of the hall. You don’t notice a certain brunette staring daggers into the back of a certain red-haired Gryffindor.

-

You yawn and stretch groggily. You had trained your owl, Astra, to wake you at the crack of dawn. Being the first day of classes you knew the school would be abuzz with excitement even without quidditch trials being held today. Being careful not to wake Natty or your other roommates, you cast a soft Lumos and dress quietly. Within minutes you’ve stuffed your knapsack with parchment, quills, and inkpot, and all the textbooks you’ll need for the day. Just before leaving you grab your weathered copy of Pride and Prejudice and slip it into your charmed bag. It was Anne who had shown you the clever expansion charm that allowed you to carry a day’s worth of supplies. You had spent the first few weeks of the summer carting books to and from Feldcroft and the region’s closest libraries. Things had been tense between Sebastian and his uncle in the days leading up to Anne being cured, but once the curse had lifted the worst of the tension seemed to go with it. Solomon still held grudges about Sebastian’s use of dark magic, and Sebastian continued to feel that Solomon had given up on Anne. Things were far from perfect, but they were getting better. Once Ominis had accepted the invitation to stay at the cottage for the summer the four of you spent most of your days traveling up and down the coast. It was the first time in months, possibly years, that you had felt so carefree. 

After all that you had faced - Ranrok, Anne’s curse, the rift that had formed between Ominis and Sebastian over his use of dark magic - you’d all spent the first few weeks waiting for the other shoe to drop. As the summer days lengthened and you spent countless hours relaxing by the shore, your group of friends eased into a sense of peace. You left after a few weeks to head to London. After Fig’s passing you learned that he’d left everything to you. He had a small flat in London that contained his personal effects, books, and all the ancient magic research he and Miriam possessed. That’s where you spent the rest of your summer. Between the reading, sorting, and emotional weight the flat carried you hadn’t had time to return to Feldcroft before the start of term. 

You wandered around the castle for a bit, stopping to chat with your favorite portraits, sneaking into the kitchens for some early morning biscuits, and sharing your leftovers with the many cats you encountered in the halls. You eventually made your way to the quidditch pitch just as the house captains began calling names for tryouts. A large group of students, sorted into four lines, was waiting at the entrance. They were dressed in various states of gear; some wore full sets of polished leather pads, while others sported nothing more than a helmet. Your gaze landed on Garreth, his bright hair visible as it peaked out from beneath his cap. You were about to make your way to him when a familiar voice caught your attention. Sebastian stood at the front of the line of Slytherin students. He was chatting with another boy in your year who looked extremely nervous about getting on a broom. You strode over to him, a force between gravity and magic closing the distance until you stopped just short of him. 

“I didn’t know you played quidditch,” you interrupted. He snapped his attention to you and broke out into a roguish grin.

“You of all people should know by now that I’m full of surprises,” he said with a wink. You felt yourself blush and decided to blame it on the cold morning air if he pointed it out. His play-flirting had become incessant over the past few months. At first you thought it was genuine, but as the months dragged on and he still hadn’t shown any intention of courting you, you decided not to let your hopes up. But that didn’t stop you from indulging in a bit of flirting of your own. You meant every word, but he didn’t need to know that. You knew it wouldn’t make a difference. 

“Be careful not to fall off your broom,” you say as you wipe a smudge of dirt from his cheek. “I’d hate to see anything happen to such a pretty face.” You finish the last line simpering and batting your eyelashes, exaggerating everything for comedic effect. It takes you a moment to realize that Sebastian isn’t laughing. He’s tensed up and a pretty blush is accentuating the freckles dotting his cheeks. Confused by his sudden change in demeanor, you place a concerned hand on his arm. “Seb?”

He seems to snap out of it then and adjusts his robes. He forces out a laugh, voice slightly trembling. “I guess I’d better be careful then,” he says quietly. Before you can do more than raise an eyebrow in confusion, he’s called to enter the pitch for his tryout. You make the climb up to the spectators’ seating to watch, but by the time you make it up the many flights of stairs they’ve already moved on to the next candidate. You’re disappointed that you didn’t get to see Sebastian’s tryout, but you decide to stay for Garreth’s. You slip Pride and Prejudice out of your knapsack and flip to the scene where Elizabeth overhears Darcy disgracing her name to Bingley. 

When Garreth flies up to the center of the pitch, you shut your book and watch. He’s fast, weaving between the enchanted midair targets at breakneck speed. After he’s been evaluated for the four positions, he circles around the pitch, stopping just in front of you to give an exaggerated bow reminiscent of a knight before his princess. You laugh and place your hands over your heart, playing along. Satisfied, he returns to the grass and dismounts. You gather the rest of your things and head down to greet him and Sebastian. 

According to Madam Kogawa the roster of all four teams would be finalized and displayed before the start of classes. Glancing at your watch you realize that you have just a few minutes to interrogate Sebastian about his tryout before you learn if he made the team. You easily spot him lounging, eyes closed, against one of the boulders scattered around the grass, his robe balled up and placed behind his head like a makeshift pillow. You stop just a foot away from him and note how peaceful he looks. His dark lashes fan across his cheeks, chest gently rising and falling with each breath. The wind blows a single stray curl into his face and your arm twitches as you resist the urge to sweep it back to the rest of his locks. Even with his eyes closed he seems to sense your presence and he blinks, gazing up at you blearily.

He says your name, voice still hoarse with sleep, and you tamp down the warmth that spreads from your chest at his tone. “They’re posting the results in a few minutes,” you offer. 

“Good,” he grimaces as he rubs a hand behind his neck. “I was starting to get a bit too comfortable. Give me a hand?” he asks, reaching up to you.

You don’t see why he can’t get up himself, but you oblige. You have enough time to register how coarse and warm his hand is before you’re being pulled down and into the grass. You feel the air leave you in a soft huff as you land, but he catches your head in his lap before it can bump against the earth. 

You’re winded and breathless and it has nothing to do with your fall and everything to do with the boy cradling your head as though you’re the most precious thing in the world. You feel torn between savoring the moment and pushing down any thoughts of him returning your affections. You can’t afford to get your hopes up. But, god, he smells like parchment and woodsmoke and the scones he always sneaks from the kitchens and you want. You want what you can never have, and if someone were to cast crucio right into your heart at this moment, you’re sure you wouldn’t feel a damn thing. You freeze in place, and affectionately huff out, “You’re so childish, Seb.”

He laughs, and the movement causes you to shift closer to his chest. “And yet, you always fall for it.” And you do. God help you, you do. A sudden commotion snaps both of your gazes to the pitch entrance.

“They’ve posted the rosters!” someone exclaims. Something unreadable passes behind his eyes as he holds your gaze, and then you’re both pushing through the crowd to see the results. 

“Slytherin…Beater…yes!” he crows. You immediately turn to congratulate him, but Imelda beats you to it.

“He hit every bludger we threw at him in record time. Knew he was a Beater in the first minute,” she beams. You look back at Sebastian. So that’s why his tryout had been so short.

He crosses his arms over his chest and quirks a brow at you. “I expect to see you in Slytherin green at my first match,” he says smugly. You roll your eyes without an ounce of malice. “We’ll see,” you shoot back. Another round of cheers sounds at your back and you see Garreth pushing through the crowd toward you. 

“With how you flew, there’s no way you didn’t make the team,” you say in place of greeting. He grins. “You’re looking at the newest Gryffindor Beater,” he says proudly. 

“Congratulations!” you exclaim. He bows his head, as modest as ever despite his spectacular performance. He takes your hand and exaggeratedly places a hand over his heart.

“I vow to lead our House to victory in your name, my lady,” he decrees. You laugh at his antics, but Sebastian’s voice cuts low. 

“I suppose I’ll see you on the pitch, Weasley,” his voice dangerously close to a growl. You wonder what transpired in the last thirty seconds to shift his mood to drastically. Garreth places a chaste kiss to the back of your hand before releasing it. You snap your attention back to Sebastian, and he’s staring daggers into your fellow Gryffindor. Garreth laughs good-naturedly, seemingly unaware of the tension. “Nothing wrong with a bit of friendly competition, Sallow.” 

[baby-xemnas]

i love luzo vs lawbepo pda because luffy is truly so insane. bro would strip zoro down and obliterate him in the middle of the street if no one tries to stop him.

law will tease bepo in public to see him blush and whimper and squirm, he will hold bepos hand or kiss him sweetly or sit bepo on his lap. hes trying to get bepo riled up but no one is Actually Allowed to see bepo when hes being sweet and sexy, no one hears him moan or blush THATS all for law.

meanwhile luffy will just grab zoro wherever hes standing and go to town on him. no shame. absolutely obscene. couldnt care less if theres people around if they arent zoro they arent important. zoro tries to stop him sometimes in public but hes also absolutely the luffy enabler of all time and will let him get away with pretty much anything

strawhat/heart pirates celebratory feast for something something whatever and the heart crew are complaining about law getting all schmoopy in public with bepo again, laws sitting bepo on his thigh and whispering in his ear and from the way bepo blushes its CLEARLY something evil, but unfortunately luffy also notices and is like Oh!!!! the bears in your lap now. that means zoro should come sit on my lap too :) the straw hats start shouting and trying to stop them but the poor heart crew dont realize why until its too late . they dont complain about lawbepo anymore after that

THIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

THE TRUEST AND REALEST THIS IS THE IDEAL

zoro is cute cuz he fights it only half heartedly but hes long learned that luffy cant be stopped and he doesnt really have his heart in it)))) being luffys sole focus is awesome and zoro is a shit starter himself so he kinda gets off to shocked reactions hehe

and god so true.......sooooo true about law he is so precious about what bepo shows to others this is why he would never parade him in sexy clothes, noone is worthy, sexy bepo belongs only to me...soooo true love it

thank you so much anon for Understanding

[hopelessromantic5]

Another Merthur drabble, this one a tad happier.

It had been an innocent touch. One that Merlin, for all his worries, thought he had gotten away with.

Honestly, it wasn’t even a thought, it was an instinct.

Arthur was preparing to step out of their tent and take on four men at once, ‘a show of strength’ Uther said. This was ‘The Tournaments to end All Tournaments’.

Merlin thought it was stupid and reckless. Especially for a man, a King no less, to voluntarily throw his own son into the mix. But that was Uther, he supposed.

Still, it worried Merlin. This wouldn’t be the first time a foe disguised himself as a knight to attempt the murder of his Prince.

That won’t be happening, as far as Merlin is concerned. Over his dead body.

Arthur watches him now, as he buckles the last straps in his armor. Merlin only looking up to meet sparkling blue eyes as he hands over the Prince’s sword. Merlin knows this will not be the sword he wields, once and forever. No, that sword was lying safely at the bottom of a lake, with Freya. At least, he felt some relief in that knowing.

Still it hurt Merlin’s heart to think he could not gift it to Arthur now, when he needs its strength the most.

“What’s wrong? Not worried are you?”

Merlin snaps back into himself. “I’m only worried about the dents I’ll have to bang out of this armor later.” The raven boy rolls his eyes, continuing the show they put on. Sometimes for their own amusement, sometimes to stay afloat in a sea of hopelessness.

“It won’t take me long.” The prince replies haughtily before turning back to Merlin. “I’ll try to keep your precious metal in perfect condition.”

Merlin knows he meants something else. He knows it is an unspoken promise to come back to this tent, no matter what.

“Let me just double check-“

“Merlin.” Arthur sounds exasperated but Merlin hears the fondness hiding just behind it.

“It’s just a double check, to make sure it all in place.” Merlin placates, stepping forward once more to look over the links and plates and layers that would be keeping his future from harm. Forgive him for wanting to be sure.

He ran his hands along the front, checking each crevice for any unprotected skin or limbs. He ran his hands down the length of Arthur’s arms. His right, protected by the same plates as his chest, his sword arm. His left remained just chain and cloth. Flexibility needed for the shield. Not that he expects Arthur to keep the shield in his hand for longer than two seconds anyway.

The horns blares announcing that the next bout will begin momentarily, Merlin realizes hurriedly ducking down, checking all the straps, not too tight, not too loose.

“Alright. You’re ready.” Merlin says, not fully feeling it.

Without thinking, he brings both hands up to cradle Arthur’s face, for just a moment. He feels soft skin, a sharp jawline for only a heartbeat, breifly meeting ocean eyes, before shoving Arthur out of the tent flaps and hoping that he didn’t get killed or maimed.

Merlin doesn't realize what exactly he has done, until two days later.

Of course, Arthur is victorious, despite Merlin’s worries about Sir Theron having ill intentions.

Therefore, the celebratory feast is in his honor.

Merlin may complain and berate Arthur about his head getting too big, but in reality, there is no one else in the kingdom that deserves the honor more than the Prince. He does more work in the castle, for the citizens, and just in general, than Uther has ever done in his life. Arthur isn't yet twenty one. He is Head Knight, he trains squires and deals with grain reports to ensure they are 'done properly'. He never turns away a citizen that comes to him for help, and he will always stand up for the innocent, even if it means his own punishment.

It's a lot to put on any one man, so yeah, Merlin would say he deserves a feast. At the very least. Merlin doesn't even make any jokes about Arthur getting round at the waist, both of them knowing well that the Prince is in excellent shape.

Merlin stands behind Arthur, attending him, as he always does. And subtly listening in on he and Morgana's whispers about their guests.

It was a single second between Merlin looking toward the rest of the room filled with people, and Sir Theron standing from his place, quick as lightening, and sending a dagger sailing through the air towards Arthur's head.

Oh gods, not this again. Merlin thinks. Just before his instincts can kick in and wordlessly move the knife three inches to the left in midair, something… strange happens.

The dagger makes it about two feet from the Prince before completely disolving into…sand? Merlin wouldn't have beleived it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes.

It wasn't he that did this. At least…he didn't think so… Oh no.

Oh no oh no ohnoohnoohno. It's all that he can think as everyone in the room stands frozen, apart from the knights of camelot that jump to grab Sir Theron and throw him in the dungeons.

Even Theron himself doesn't fight it, too stunned at the fate of his terribly thought out murder scheme.

"Father, may I… be exused?"

Uther is almost in a trance looking down at the pile of sand on the high table. "Of course. Go. Rest. You did well today."

Merlin could almost scoff. The man doesn't even look his son in the eye whilst giving him the barest amount of affection that any human could possibly manage. Arthur has almost been hurt or killed more than once because of these stupid tournaments, and all Uther can say is 'You did well."

Merlin doesn't know his father, but he surely must be better than Uther could ever attempt.

Arthur makes his way out of the Great Hall, sending Merlin a look that conveys the Prince wants him to follow.

He does. Reluctantly.

Oh gods. What does he know? What is Arthur going to do? Will Merlin be dead by sunrise? Surely not…right?

They finally, painfully find themselves in Arthur's chambers and it is deadly quiet. Only the night's summer breeze entering through the open window.

Arthur turns to him, and immidiately, with one look, Merlin knows. Merlin knows that he knows. The panic starts to set in and it must show because Arthur's face softens, infentesimely.

"Merlin." He says quietly. As if berating his magical manservant for not knowing that he wouldn't kill him on the spot if he found out.

Merlin can only helplessly shrug in response as a single tear slides down his face, expression unchanging. He might not be able to stop himself from crying but he would not sob. He would not lose himself that way, not in front of Arthur.

Arthur approaches slowly. While Merlin knows that he won't harm him, he appreciates the gesture.

"I assume that wasn't you, just now." The Prince says.

Merlin gasps inaudibly.

Arthur continues, as if he hadn't heard. "I mean it was you, but it wasn't. Not just now."

Merlin slowly nods. "I don't really know what that," he gestures towards the door, the outside world, "was. But I have a…hunch." The warlock looks down at his own feet, deeply ashamed.

"So do I." Merlin's head lifts at Arthur's words and finds him smiling. Like he knows something that Merlin doesn't. Then, he takes another slow step. "Do you remember a few days ago, just before my first round of the tournament, you were looking my armor over…"

Merlin hides his flushing face behind his hands, hoping to be swallowed up by the ground. "Yes. I remember." He whispers and then inwardly groans at how emotional and damning his words were.

"Well," The smug prat was still smiling, almost laughing to himself. "When you touched me, I saw your eyes flicker just for second. I'd have missed it if I wasn't already looking. You seemed not to have noticed. But I defintitely felt…a veil go over me. Like something was now standing between me and any threat I could face." Arthur stood a foot away, not looking away from Merlin for a second since they entered the room, his manservant was getting increasingly intimidated and red.

"But…" he thought for a moment. "The tournament, how did their swords not…"

"I don't beleive they ever got close enough."

Merlin rolls his eyes, out of habit. "Yeah, yeah, you're the greatest warrior there ever was," He scoffs. "I'm telling you, you don't watch that ego, it'll outweigh you. And that's really saying something."

Merlin nearly winces after he finishes speaking but jumps when Arthur starts laughing and shaking his head. "Gods, what am I going to do with you, Merlin? You insult me, you unintentionally save my life with magic in front of the king, and you seem to give no thought for your own head attatched to your shoulders." He sighs an exasperated sigh. Suddenly he's closing the distance, reaching out his hand's to cradle Merlin's face but, unlike him, Arthur does not pull away. "Promise me that you will be careful." He whispers, staring directly into Merlin's soul, magic and all.

"I will. But I cannot promise I won't use it, if it saves your life, even if I have to-"

A fire lights behind Arthur's eyes. "What? Even if you have to what? Burn for it?"

Merlin nods, strong hands still holding him in place.

"I'm not worth that, Merlin. It is not an equal trade, my life for yours. Not even close." The Prince's ire was turning to anguish. He now knew exactly how exposed and in danger Merlin was, just for existing.

"Don't ever say that to me." Merlin says this quietly, in their bubble, but his voice holds the conviction of a king, a god. "I would die a thousand times if it meant you survived. A world without you in it is not a world I can tolerate." Merlin goes to move away but Arthur etertwines his hands behind the raven boy's neck, holding him there.

"What about my quality of life, Merlin? Don't I get a say?" Their foreheads press together, they breathe each other's air.

"No. In fact, consider every decision you'll ever need to make, already made for you."

Arthur has to laugh. Partially because he knows Merlin is right. Maybe he's always known.

[punderdome]

Infernal Jurisprudence: Chapter 6

Summary: Raphael crashes a Tiefling party.

[AO3]

Rating: SFW. Fortunately? Unfortunately?

Chapter 6: The Party

Raphael was fully confident that Tav and her companions would be successful in their goal of finding the druid.  After all, Tavara was going to bring him the Crown of Karsus, and he could hardly expect to see a few goblins and a Hobgoblin present any sort of challenge.

It was almost boring to see the lack of effort required for his prized adventurers to carve through the hordes of pathetic beasts and the Hobgoblin.  Although, the sight of the burning Tiefling chopping the Drow into unrecognizable pieces with an axe and befriending some spiders in a pit provided a modest amount of entertainment.  It was nothing quite as sweet as watching giant spiders desiccate hordes of debtors, but it was entertainment nonetheless.

To what should have been no one’s great surprise, the dubious, friendly brown bear turned out to be the missing druid in disguise.  Raphael’s investments returned to the grove and a joyful celebratory party was planned for the entire grove that very evening.  Raphael found the suggestion of a joyful celebration tedious, but he was glad the adventurers would finally stop procrastinating on finding the Absolute and retrieving his Crown.  He was finding it frustrating to watch them haggle with Zhent, meddle with Hags, and waste their time rescuing wayward counselors from burning buildings.  Finally, they would stop wasting so much time and make haste to the Shadow Cursed lands.

Raphael had grown weary of watching his adventurers via his scrying mirror.  If Tavara was going to successfully retrieve the Crown of Karsus for him, he needed to get closer to her.  Korrilla would provide additional surveillance, of course, to ensure she wasn’t in true danger, but Raphael needed to become much more active in her travels.  He, the great Raphael, needed to guide the Little Mouse, so she would retrieve his Crown and gift him the Hells.

Raphael snapped and appeared in the thinning trees by the waters of the Chionthar, the ruckus of a party apparent from the clearing where the adventurers usually set up their tents.  He could smell woodsmoke and various peasant foods cooked over a campfire.  He followed the music of multiple lutes, a flute, and a lyre that couldn’t seem to stay on key.  He emerged from the woods at Tavara’s camp, which was crowded with Tieflings imbibing in drink and feasting on campfire roasts and stuffed flatbreads.

The Tieflings didn’t seem to pay any attention to him, and Raphael wandered easily through the party, observing the festivities.  He snapped and a goblet of wine appeared in his hands.  He sipped slowly, observing the cusp of debauchery.  Several pairs of Tieflings were clearly planning imminent carnal pleasures.  One of the warriors was tracing her forked tongue over the earlobe of another Tiefling as the two of them moaned softly and the tips of her fingers were slowly slipping into the waistband of his pants.

A female Asmodeus Tiefling was alternating between her assertions that she hadn’t yet consumed enough wine, that she needed to lay down, and that she needed her tongue shoved down her paramour’s throat.  Their seductions were blunt but effective, the mortals pairing off quickly and retreating to the woods to act on their lusts.

Raphael spotted Tavara deep in discussion with the vampire spawn.  He watched the pair closely, wondering what type of discussion the two were having.  Raphael recognized immediately the way the spawn was slinking up to her and seductively running his hands over her cheeks.  Raphael squeezed the goblet of wine he was holding tightly and the glass stem snapped and fell into the dirt below, the red wine dripping over his fingers and wetting the dry earth.

His Little Mouse gently withdrew from the spawn’s embrace, she gently placed her hands on his upper arms.  Raphael watched carefully.  The spawn’s face fell, and Raphael let go of a breath he had been holding.  It would have been unfortunate if he needed to drive a stake into the vampling’s chest.

The Little Mouse moved easily through the camp to the ursine druid.  Raphael fumed as he watched his Mouse brush the hair from the druid’s face.  She offered him a goblet and held a bottle out to him, but the druid wisely declined the offer.  Raphael was imagining what the bear would look like skinned and the pelt laying on the floor of his study.

Raphael’s jaw clenched as he watched his Little Mouse approach the donkey that pretended to be a wizard.  They were entrenched in conversation as Raphael hovered, watching his Mouse and the wizard chat from afar.  The wizard motioned to touch his Little Mouse several times but his hand always recoiled and retreated back to his lap.  Tavara turned away from the donkey with a blush, her form doubled over bashfully.  His Little Mouse rose from her seat near the wizard’s tent and quickly moved through the celebration at the camp.

Raphael was pleased that any attempts by his Little Mouse to seek carnal pleasures with her companions that evening had failed.  Should his Mouse desire a romantic companion, Raphael would be happy to indulge her in the House of Hope on his silk sheets.  Tavara was far too lovely for a quick rut on the forest floor.

Tavara sat down by herself on a log by the bank of the Chionthar.  She sat under the moonlight, slowly nursing a goblet of some alchemical concoction.  Raphael approached her quietly but didn’t sit down.  The Mouse turned around to see him standing in the sand of the riverbank.

“A Little Mouse saves a grove by retrieving a bear,” Raphael mused softly.  “The rescuer of the refugees saves a bear before celebrating the evening with a bat, a donkey, and a cat.”

Tavara swallowed a slight laugh.  “Cormyrian poems again?” she challenged him gently.

“I am familiar with many styles of verse, but that style seems to be more appropriate at present.  If I recall, you preferred a verse from the Dalelands?” Raphael teased.

“I imagined if I told you I preferred Ver’yll Wenkiir’s style, his verse would start to bloom from your mouth.” The sorceress gave a quick chuckle and a half smile.

“Should you prefer Abyssal poetry, I would learn to hiss with the proper emotion,” he cooed back to her.  Raphael took a seat on the log next to the Little Mouse.

“What are you doing here?” Tavara asked.  She raised her goblet to drink, but Raphael quickly snatched the goblet from her hands and poured its contents onto the sand bank in a viscous violet pool.  The Mouse gave him an immediate indignant look.

“That was my wine!” the Little Mouse objected angrily.  “I had to pay Mol exorbitant prices for that bottle!”

“It was tainted with a hag’s rot.  I assume you have no desire to experience personally what a hag curse feels like,” Raphael raised an eyebrow.

“No, I-” Tav started.  While the Hells were prone to bouts of excess, Raphael didn’t think overconsumption of hag poisons was fitting for and of his prized investments.  The Tieflings could consume whatever they wished.

Raphael moved his hands over Tavara’s forehead to purge her from the Hag’s poison she had already consumed. 

“I may recommend against consuming unknown hag potions in the future, or paying for them for that matter,” Raphael chuckled as Tavara blushed.  He snapped and a goblet of actual red wine appeared in his hands.  He handed it to the Little Mouse, who stared down at the token of his hospitality.  “The potion you were consuming was intended to cause internal bleeding.  I imagine you prefer for your blood to reside in your veins.”

“Thank you, Raphael,” Tavara said quietly, eyeing him warily.

Raphael snapped to refill his own wine goblet.  “What new adventures are in store for my most favored clients?” he inquired.  He already knew that the Underdark would provide a safer path, though he needed Tavara’s Gith companion to turn away from the Lich Queen.  He would need to subtly pressure her to gather her strength in the Underdark before facing the wrath of the Githyanki.

“You know as well as I do that there is still an additional tenant in my head,” Tavara laughed.  She took a tentative sip of the wine in her goblet.  She took a long, pensive look at the river waters in silence.

“Why did you send Korrilla to save me from Priestess Gut?” the sorceress asked as she stared out over the flowing Chionthar.

“I know what real power looks like, and it would have been quite a shame to have that power extinguished by a disgusting goblin in a prison cell.”  Raphael laughed and took another sip of wine.

“I imagine your associate told you what kind of trouble I had gotten into.”  She cocked her eyebrow before looking at him, trying to ascertain whether he had the full story of the situation: nudity, chains, and all.

“I recommend a counterspell next time someone tries to use Sleep on you, Little Mouse,” Raphael suggested sarcastically.  Tavara rolled her eyes at him.

“I only wish my magic wasn’t weakened by the tenant in my head.”  The Little Mouse turned away from Raphael slightly.  “I feel like I’m a child drowning in my magic again.”

“Then, I recommend that you learn to swim, Little Mouse.”  The sorceress turned to him but said nothing.

Raphael stood up from the log and turned to his Little Mouse.  “I imagine you require some rest before venturing into the dark.”  He needed her to visit the Underdark before the Creche, and perhaps she would take his suggestion to heart.  Raphael snapped and the rest of the wine bottle appeared in his hand.  He gave it to his sorceress.

“Pleasant dreams, Little Mouse,” Raphael said with a grin before returning to the House of Hope in a flurry of embers.