#like watch labour bow to her

[thetimelordbatgirl]

...And yet people question WHY no one believes JK Rowling gives a shit about women rights in reality when she literally included not only a transphobic women's rights group here but also a group that's just focused on erasing trans people from the LGBT+ community, not women's rights at all???? Also WHY THE FUCK DOES WRITING WIZARD BOOKS GIVE SOMEONE THIS MUCH POWER- Percy Jackson is equal levels (if not more nowadays) popular to Harry Potter, yet you don't see Rick Riordon being called into places of politics for his influence on shit.

[pathologicalreid]

heyyy!!! I just wanted to say I really love your work and this is my first time sending a request so sorry if it’s not very specific 😭💕

If you’re still doing requests, I was wondering if you could do a fem reader x Spencer Reid where it’s similar to your cryptic pregnancy one, except Spencer is at home with her when she’s in labour without realising, and she’s just in a lot of pain and it all of a sudden gets worse and she’s just in the bathroom shouting for Spencer, he comes in and eventually works out what’s going on, readers sort of in denial? Maybe the ambulance doesn’t get there in time so Spencer has to help her give birth? Lots of fluff and hurt/comfort :)

Also completely fine if your not comfortable doing it, but again really love your work and hope you have a great day 💕 :)

three's a family | S.R.

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: cryptic pregnancy, traumatic birth, precipitous labor, hospitals, medical inaccuracy (its just me and google against the world), takes place after 9x7 "gatekeeper", surgery, near death experiences, periods, home birth word count: 3.16k a/n: anon i'll be so honest with u i wasn't sure if i was gonna write this but then i learned what precipitous labor was and i was like "i would not wish this on my worst enemy... i'm going to force it on y/n" BUT please keep in mind that there is a .000012 probability of this happening to you (i did the math) this is the wildest thing ive written to date i think

“I’m going to try a bath,” you murmured over to Spencer, wincing as you dragged yourself out of bed, walking at a turtle’s pace to the bathroom, hoping the warm water would soothe the cramps away.

Your period came and went as it pleased; it was just your luck that it decided to give you debilitating cramps on your one day off. Padding on the tile floor behind you, Spencer leaned against the doorframe to the bathroom, “I could run to the store and get a new heating pad.”

Sticking your hand under the tap to check the temperature, you plugged the drain once you found it to be satisfactory. You shook your head, “No, it’s fine.” Your original heating pad must’ve gotten lost somewhere in the depths of your storage closet, but you didn’t have the patience to look for it. You could manage just fine without it.

“Will you let me know if you need anything?” He asked, leaning forward to press a comforting kiss to your forehead.

Nodding, you hooked your thumbs in the waistband of your pajama pants and pulled them down, watching as Spencer pointedly flicked the bathroom fan on – something you often forgot to do.

You lasted about thirty minutes in the bath, not only was the water beginning to grow lukewarm, but if anything, your cramps were getting worse while submerged in the water. Grunting, you reached over and tugged the plug from the drain, watching as the water drained, you managed to pull yourself to a squat before you felt stuck.

Aunt Flo really had it out for you this month.

Burying your face in your hands you accepted defeat and called out for Spencer, reaching up and trying to stand again, but only succeeding in knocking over several shampoo bottles. “Spence!” You tried again, white-knuckling the edge of the bathtub as you bowed your head. A creeping feeling that this wasn’t your period was beginning to rise.

You listened as your husband made his way up the stairs, turning the corner into your room, and opening the door to the ensuite. Moving quickly, Spencer dropped to a crouch in front of you, cupping your pained face in his hands, “I don’t think this is your period, angel.”

Clamping your lips together to prevent yourself from crying out, you simply nodded in response. How awful was it that you were going to die, naked, in your bathtub?

Spencer wiped tears away from under your eyes – you hadn’t even realized you started crying. “What does it feel like, darling? What else could it be?” He asked, voice urgent but gentle as he tried to stop you from panicking.

As you shook your head, you couldn’t focus on anything else besides your breathing as another pain rose up through you. “It’s like a cramp, but with more pressure,” you said, depending on the bathtub and Spencer to keep you upright as your legs shook beneath you. “Like something’s pushing on me, kind of like I have to shit.”

Reaching behind him, Spencer dug through one of the drawers in the bathroom vanity before retrieving the handheld mirror that you used when you cut his hair. Before you could ask what he was doing, he placed the mirror at the bottom of the tub, just beneath you. “I think you’re in labor,” he announced, breaking the news to you.

“There’s no– fuck,” your voice broke off as you dropped your head onto Spencer’s shoulder, breathing through what was apparently a contraction. “I’m not pregnant,” you insisted as your symptoms started to make sense. You had been in labor all morning.

Nodding to himself, Spencer quickly kissed your cheek before standing up and making sure you were stable before stepping to the side.

You frowned as you looked up at him, “Where are you going?”

He didn’t go far, opening the linen closet and piling towels into his arms, “I’m getting towels to put in the tub beneath you, and then I’m going to call an ambulance.”

“You want me to give birth in our bathtub?” You asked, furrowing your brows quizzically before letting out a low whine as another contraction hit.

Stopping what he was doing, Spencer dropped down to you, running the flat of his palm up and down your back as he gently reminded you to breathe. “Did you want to change positions?”

Immediately, you shook your head. You already had an insurmountable task ahead of you and you saw no reason to add to that task by trying to move. “This is fine. Squatting is good, right?”

Nodding assuredly, Spencer smoothed your hair away from your face, “Gravity can help the baby descend the birth canal, and some people even say that the position can increase the pelvic diameter.”

While you were currently less concerned with the diameter of your pelvis and more concerned with feeling like your body was being split open, you continued going through the motions as he called for an ambulance, trying to explain the situation to the dispatcher.

“Have you been timing your contractions?” Spencer asked, tilting his head at you curiously as the dispatcher spoke on the phone.

Releasing a groan, you gripped the ledge of the tub, “I didn’t know they were contractions!”

Relaying that information over the phone, Spencer dropped to his knees in front of you, “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll take care of it.” He continued to reassure you, taking one look at your desperate expression before ending the call with the dispatcher.

He understood that you were vulnerable right now, and you didn’t want that broadcasted to a stranger on the phone. If you weren’t so preoccupied with remembering to breathe, you’d be more grateful. After a contraction ebbed away, Spencer stood up.

“I have to go unlock the door for the paramedics,” he told you, keeping a wary eye on you. “I’ll be right back,” he comforted you as he took one last look at you before tearing out of the bathroom.

In record speed, he returned to the bathroom as promised, “It’s bad,” you cried, the pressure on your pelvis becoming insufferable.

Crouching in front of you, Spencer studied your face before he spoke carefully, “I have to check your cervix.”

Despite his carefully chosen words, your lips still parted in shock, “You have to what?”

“I’ll use my hand to measure how dilated you are, and then… we’ll go from there,” he told you, nodding almost imperceptibly. At this point, you weren’t sure who he was trying to reassure – you or him. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you answered instantly, “indefinitely.”

You bit down on your lip as you let Spencer check you, understanding entirely why people choose to get epidurals – this was horribly uncomfortable. “On the next contraction, you need to push, okay?”

For just a moment, your breathing faltered as your scared eyes met his, “Spence, wait,” you pleaded.

Smoothing your hair back, your husband did everything he could to comfort you, “What is it, love?” He asked, his voice soft.

“I’m scared,” you confessed, voice cracking ever so slightly as tears flooded your lash line.

He leaned forward to gently kiss your lips before pulling away to press his forehead to yours, "I've got you. You're going to be fine. You're both going to be fine."

You could see his carotid pounding, and somehow the fact that he was secretly as scared as you was more comforting than the words that came from his mouth. As you pushed, you focused on everything that Spencer was saying instead of the pain. Don’t push for more than eight seconds. Remember to breathe. Your body will know what to do. I love you. I love you. I love you.

By the time Spencer was saying something about the head, your hearing had gone muffled. “You’re doing so well, baby,” you made out his voice and nodded dazedly. “You’re wonderful. I’m so proud of you – just a little more,” he cajoled.

Taking a moment to breathe, your ears and eyes focused as shaky breaths filled your lungs.

“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful,” he murmured, dropping a kiss on your bare shoulder as he comforted you, continuing to keep you upright.

You shook your head, sniffling as your eyes screwed shut, “You’re perfect. Don’t stop. Keep talking,” you begged, needing something to focus on other than the pain.

“There’s about a point zero four percent chance of you getting pregnant and not finding out until you’re in labor,” he told you, hoping that the information would help you wrap your head around what was happening to you. “One to three in one hundred people have a precipitous labor,” he continued to speak as you pushed, and you wondered what the odds of you squeezing his hand so hard that you did damage were.

Against your better judgment, you looked down to check your progress, “Holy fuck,” you said breathlessly. You weren’t entirely clueless, you knew that once you got past the shoulders the remaining pushes would be easier. You also found yourself grateful that Spencer knew what he was doing – this was, after all, the second baby he had delivered.

You bore down, determined to get the baby out while Spencer untangled your hands, bringing his own down to catch the baby. Out of breath, you panted heavily as you started to feel lightheaded. “Done,” Spencer said quickly, “it’s done. I have him.”

Carefully, Spencer held the baby along the length of his forearm, rubbing the tiny newborn’s back. “Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered under his breath, and it dawned on you that the baby wasn’t crying.

At the realization, your legs finally gave out from beneath you, watching with wide eyes as Spencer tried to clear your son’s lungs. White hot tears streamed down your face as you whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You took a gasping breath as you silently pleaded for a cry, “I didn’t know,” you sobbed, guilt building a pit in your stomach.

With bleary eyes, you looked on as the baby finally spluttered and let out a wail. “There you go,” Spencer cooed softly, his own voice stiff with emotion as he cradled the baby and handed him off to you.

You were still sobbing as you held the baby to your chest, “I’m so sorry,” you continued to babble, watching as Spencer briefly disappeared into the bedroom before returning with a blanket and wrapping it around the both of you. While holding the baby, your vision started to blur around the edges.

Watching you intently, Spencer cupped your face in his hands, “I love you.”

Nodding, your face crumpled before you responded, “I love you too.”

When the paramedics announced themselves, Spencer called out for them, not wanting to leave your side. The two of you focused your attention on the wriggling baby in your arms.

He was premature – too little to stay with you in the recovery room. The NICU doctor had estimated that he was born at approximately 32 weeks, meaning he’d likely need to spend a few weeks in intensive care. “I want to see him,” you said insistently, looking over as Spencer as he fussed over you.

“You just had abdominal surgery,” Spencer responded simply, as if that was meant to clarify everything for you. He continued fluffing your pillow, which wasn’t entirely productive considering you were lying on the pillow.

As it turned out, you had experienced what was called a precipitous birth, or a rapid birth. It tended to be dangerous, and the fact that you did it in your bathtub only heightened that danger. You reached your arm out for Spencer, “c’mere,” you muttered, trying to get him to stop fretting. “Did you listen to anything that the doctor just said?”

Spencer nodded in understanding, “Lots of rest, no physical exertion, IV medication for now-“

“Did you hear the part where he said I was going to be okay?” You asked, raising your eyebrows at him curiously, you watched as he took your hand in his and sat on the edge of your bed. “I’m going to be fine,” your voice was determined, you had a few small incisions on your abdomen from the surgery to repair a tear in your uterus. “Thank you for looking after me,” you whispered.

Your husband gently smoothed your hair back from your face, “I should’ve noticed it sooner.”

Using all of your strength, you squeezed his hand comfortingly, “You were incredible,” you assured him. “If it weren’t for you, neither of us would’ve made it.”

He shook his head, “Don’t say that.”

Raising your eyebrows, you cocked your head to the side, “It’s true. I couldn’t have done it on my own, I’m so, so thankful for you, my love.” 

You had passed out in the ambulance as a direct result of blood loss, so you were brought to a trauma bay as soon as you made it to the hospital. Once they were in the ER, the baby was taken to the NICU, leaving Spencer with a lot of decisions to make.

When you woke up in the recovery room, the first thing you did was ask about the baby.

Spencer, of course, had been up to see him. The nurses claimed he seemed like a fighter, and Spencer knew the survival odds of a 32-weeker, so he turned his attention to you. Every other option had already failed, so the next option was a laparoscopy. Your husband admitted that while it seemed extreme, the very last choice was a hysterectomy, and he didn’t want to make that decision.

Furrowing your brows, “When can I see the baby?” You asked, not entirely sure how to refer to the infant just yet. It wasn’t until then that you realized you needed to name him at some point – your son.

“Once your blood pressure goes up,” Spencer told you with an authoritative tone. “You lost a lot of blood in the ambulance, but the blood transfusions will bring your blood pressure back up.”

Tilting your head to the side, you glared at your husband, “And is this rule from a doctor with a medical degree or a doctor whose name is on my marriage certificate?”

In response, Spencer shrugged, sitting in the beige armchair at the side of your bed, “That’s a secret I’ll never tell.”

You rolled your eyes dismissively, “Will you go see him?”

He leaned over the edge of your bed, taking your hand in his. “I can, will you be alright on your own?”

Nodding almost imperceptibly, you squeezed his hand affectionately, “I just don’t want him to be alone.” You whispered as tears pricked your eyes, you took your free hand and waved at your face, “god, what’s wrong with me?”

“A sudden drop of estrogen and progesterone immediately following birth causes mood swings. Nothing is wrong with you, your body is acting naturally,” Spencer explained patiently, dropping a gentle kiss on your lips.

You sighed before melting back into your pillows, “At least something about this feels natural,” you responded. Your brain felt like a spinning top, while your body felt like you were being weighed down by an elephant in a commercial for COPD medication.

The fact that the NICU nurse informed you that your son had a ninety-five percent chance of living a completely normal life did nothing to calm your nerves. He’d have to stay in the NICU for a few weeks and you tried to convince yourself that the extra time to prepare for him to come home would be good for you, but the idea of leaving him alone at the hospital – save for a small army of doctors and nurses – put a pit of dread in your chest.

Spencer had the forethought to warn you about the tubes and wires that he was hooked up to, ranging from oxygen to a feeding tube. “He’s been undergoing red light therapy to be treated for jaundice, but you can hold him for a while if you want to,” the nurse told you, leading the both of you through the NICU as Spencer steered your wheelchair through the hospital.

Your breathing hitched when you finally saw him, this tiny stowaway that had been growing inside of you for the last several months, and he was just so little. While you were still in your own room, you had convinced yourself that you’d hold him, but now you weren’t so convinced.

According to the sign in his room, he weighed three pounds and ten ounces and was sixteen inches long. He was sound asleep in an incubator, a small hat on top of his head, “Spence,” you breathed.

Behind you, your husband placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, “I know.”

“Did you want to hold him?” The nurse asked you gently, looking over at one of the machines that he was hooked up to.

Genuinely, you didn’t know. “Is… is that okay?” You asked, wiping your sweaty palms on the blanket draped across your legs.

The nurse gave you a knowing look, “Even better than okay, it’ll be good for him to have that kind of contact from both of his parents.”

Frowning, you watched as it took two nurses to break him out of his acrylic prison before they carefully placed him on your chest, making sure you were okay before they stepped back. Your movements were stiff at first, you had never held a baby this small before, but you eventually remembered to breathe and gently cooed at the baby in your arms.

Spencer crouched down next to you and started to ask the nurse a bunch of questions that he had likely been holding in for hours, but you just kept your eyes on the sleeping baby. He was too small to open his eyes, but everyone assured you that he’d get there.

The nurse stepped out to give you some privacy, leaving the door open just in case you needed something, “This doesn’t seem quite as difficult while I’m holding him.” You knew there was a steep learning curve ahead, but with a newborn on your chest, the pit in your heart dissipated.

“That’s called oxytocin,” Spencer said, sitting in a chair, eyes fixated on the infant in your arms.

Humming, you skimmed the pad of your thumb across your son’s tiny back, “He looks like you,” you observed quietly, they had the same nose.

Your husband smiled softly, “You can’t possibly tell which parent he takes after yet,” he informed you.

“And yet, I know he looks like you,” you insisted softly, and Spencer didn’t push back. “You look like your daddy,” you whispered to the baby, “he was the first one to hold you, you know?” You looked over at Spencer, “he’s been my superhero for four years, and now he gets to be yours too.”

[laurasimonsdaughter]

A farrier and her son were closing down the forge late at night, when the sound of hooves approached from up the road. They looked out across the yard and watched, with growing discomfort, how a hooded figure on a blood bay horse came riding towards them. Steed and rider halted at the gate, and the farrier hesitantly lifted her hand as the stranger spoke, in a voice as searing as fire:

“I am expected in the next town and my horse needs shodding.”

Neither master nor apprentice dared to lift up their eyes.

“Yes, sir,” the farrier answered and the figure dismounted.

The bay was a formidable animal, but it followed its master’s orders. The farrier worked the metal while her son worked the forge and she shaped the horseshoes exactly to the horse’s feet. But when it came to the shoeing, the nails that her son put in her hand were barely half the length of what was needed. She held them, and hesitated, and nailed the irons in place.

“What is your fee?” the stranger asked, once more taking the reigns of his steed.

“No fee, my lord,” the farrier replied. “An honour to serve you.”

The hooded rider went away and mother and son stayed behind, too frightened to speak. But barely had they gathered their courage and turned their backs to the road, or a second rider approached them.

He too was hooded, and his horse was black as night.

“One of my fellows went before me and I follow where he goes,” the rider spoke with a voice as dry as the cracked earth. “But my horse needs shodding.”

Once again the farrier worked the metal while her son worked the forge, one again she affixed the horseshoes with nails too short by half. She would take no fee for their labour, and the stranger rode off into the night.

No sooner had the sound of pounding hooves faded from their hearing, or a third set of hooves could be heard coming nearer.

This rider rode a white horse and his words dripped with the thickness of his voice.

“My horse needs shodding, for two of my fellows have gone before me and where they go I am close at hand.”

Barely a word was spoken. They shod the stranger's horse exactly like the others, and watched him gallop away. Then the farrier took her son’s hand, stood in the yard, and waited.

Slowly, at a steady pace, a fourth figure came down the road and halted at their gate. His hood and cloak were black, he carried a scythe at his side, and sat astride a pale horse.

“Three of my fellows have gone down this road, and whatever their destination they choose must be my own. If I am to go where they are going, my horse will need shoeing.”

“Of course, sir,” the farrier replied, but her son spoke up:

“But must you?”

The figure bowed his cowled head and cosigned his horse to the farrier’s care.

Again she carefully trimmed the hooves, again she expertly shaped the horseshoes, but when her son handed her the nails she shook her head. He faltered and she shook her head again. He gave her the proper nails and they finished their work.

“Thank you,” the stranger nodded. “What is your fee?”

“Whatever you deem our services are worth, my lord.”

The stranger held his horse by the reigns and for a long time he looked thoughtfully down the road where the three had gone before him. Then he looked at the mother and son, standing stiffly side by side.

He held out a thin hand and gave them each a single coin, one just like the other, before mounting his horse, and turning back in the direction from which he had come, riding at the same unhurried pace.

The farrier and her son watched him until he was out of sight and out of hearing. They stood there, until dawn broke, and the dark was chased away. Only then did they did they dare to lock the gate and go to the house, where the rest of family still slept soundly.

The two coins were placed in salt and buried underneath the doorstep. And for as long as that house stood, no one who was born under its roof was carried out of it before their time.

[just-some-user-hunny]

Balerion bonded to bastard! Reader

~ In this Scenario, Balerion is still alive and breathing- albeit barely, and with little enthusiasm. He'd remain still in the sand, seafoam lapping at his scales, yet he feels little reason to move. He's old. Ancient, and tired. The rise and fall of his breath is gradual and laboured- slow like the moving tide. Ever since Viserys drew his last breath, Balerion felt as cold as the sea. His days of glory and war are memories grown old, and he is tired. He feels like sleeping forever now, listening to the faint call of seagulls and the noise of crashing tides.

~ Bastard! princess reader captures glimpses of him from her windows view, watching the old beast wither and fade upon the beach like he were a memory fizzling away into the seafoam. At first glimpse through the rain speckled glass pane- she had mistaken him for a large mountain of black rock.

~ now she's frightened, but, intrigued. She is still a child, a scared and desperate one, so she hatches a plan to reach the beach and perhaps ask the dragon nicely if he'd take her back home. (Besides, dragons do look scary, but Caraxes was nice to her. Maybe he'll be nice too?)

~ like a slippery little mouse, one day she escapes during dinnertime. Fueled to seek out the dragon after a one-sided argument with Daemon across the table. Whilst the servants and knights searched the castle grounds for her, she finds herself on the coastline, and beelines towards the mountain of a dragon, Balarion. She doesn't know who he is, all that he's a dragon. Dragons have wings. They can fly. He could take her home, away from these mad people.

~ her courage burns like a wavering candle, tears streaming down her face in distraught and desperation. The sounds of dragons roaring in the dragon pit fizzle her blood, she can hear the troubled songs of Caraxes and syrax in the distance, and it stirs her on to waken the sleeping dragon. Despite her little trembling hands and accelerated heartbeat.

~ Balarion is awoken- disturbed at the sound of a sobbing child. It is such an odd and peculiar sound to his ears, it startles him enough to raise his heavy head from the sand and look down upon a child he has never seen before. Inhaling deeply, he also doesn't recognise their scent. But there is some trace of dragon blood within her.

~ "excuse me, can you take me home? I need to go home, my mummy is there!". She proclaims as loudly as she can. As clearly as her choked up voice allows her.

~ Balarion feels himself grow soft at the sight of the little child- as soft as a dragon can be.

~ He blinks slowly at her, gently lowering his head to move closer. The sudden bravery of a mere child to approach him intrigues him greatly, and a rejuvenation overtakes his body. Suddenly his aching body doesn't feel so tired anymore- his stiffly folded wings that once enveloped the moon, suddenly feel spry and strong.

~ like a mountain unearthing itself from the earth, his massive body groaned and shuddered like a rolling thunderstorm- lifting from the cold evening sand and bubbling salty seafoam. The little girl stumbles backwards clumsily, afraid that maybe she has just prodded a sleeping angry beast, but she is met with no fire or teeth. this large, monstrously large dragon, is bowing his head to her. Like a mighty stag would do for a little fawn.

~ anxious- and brimming with excitement, her hands clasp upon the rough black scales of the sides of his neck. She climbs higher and higher, until she finds herself clambering onto the back of the beast, where an ancient and worn saddle remains. Roughly woven rope that has seen better days, and a simple leather seat awaits before her- and she climbs on.

~ her whole world seems to tilt and shift, like the earth was moving right beneath her feet as Balarion rises with a steady and heavy rumble. The stars are glittering above in the skies, and the cool evening air laps at the waves till they form foamy hills of white upon the dark sapphire waters. her heart is beating loudly and wildly in her chest now, her blood fizzling like lightning, and she stares across the ocean with determination soaring inside her. she's on the dragon now, and he seems eager to fly.

~ grappling the worn thick reins between her small hands, she recalls a word that the pale haired man called out to his crimson scaled dragon before he took off into the sky. The word is foreign, and doesn't quite suit the roll of her tongue. But she speaks it, a command that holds no hesitation.

~ "Sōvēs!".

~ Bastard! Princess had risen high into the sky, clutching for dear life upon the reigns that were held so tight in her hands, her knuckles had turned pale. The wind rushed and soared, and her ears felt like they had popped as they ascended higher and higher across the sea. Balerions' wings were unsheathed like the night sky as they beat against the wind, and although his body was aching and old, he was not brittle or weak.

Salt air rushed over her face like a splash of icy water as they flew over the ocean, and she watched the castle grow smaller and smaller as the wind carried them away.

~ they flew and flew, but Balarion grew weary from the sudden flight, and turned back towards the shoreline. Bastard! princess was at a loss of what to do- for her own stomach was churning at the realisation that she didn't know where she was trying to go. The old dragon seemed to also sense that, and made the decision for the both of them to head back towards the cold stone castle.

~ Awaiting upon the shoreline, was a small army of armoured men, and the white haired man, who wore an astounded expression. His eyes wide, and jaw slack in what could only be described as euphoric horror. The king, Viserys, despite his weak and brittle body, had ordered to be escorted outside to see with his very own eyes as to what was happening. They had heard the uproar of Balerions' wings from within the castle, Daemon had at once thought a sudden hurricane had hit amidst his search for the little girl he had stolen away, haste in his step as Rhaenyra attempted to sternly reason with him - until the unmistakable shrill deep noise of rumbling dragon-song erupted in the distance like thunder. Both adults stilled- their expressions still and astounded.

~ it was until the sudden and panicked cry of a knight that confirmed everyones hesitant thoughts.n

~ "Balerion the black dread has arisen! And the princess is with him!"

~ that was all Daemon needed to hear before he bounded for the exit. With haste.

~ Balerion had returned to the beach, just as the knights had suspected. They fell speechless at the sight of such a large and imposing dragon land back upon the sandy coastline, his energy low, but not gone.

~ Viserys was in utter disbelief, and excitement. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. He had believed he would be the last rider of Balerion the black dread- the last targaryen to mount the beast that once was ridden by Aegon the conqueror, and many other infamous names.

~ The princess's little head of hair and frightful eyes peered down from her towering view upon the dragons back- eyeing the army of knights. Balerion grumbled a growl so low and frightening, it rattled the knights bones in their bodies. Their braced weapons could only serve as emotional support against such a beast.

~ "Dohaeras! Balerion!" Viserys roared in his deep and broken voice, his command did not hold as much power as it used to- but Balerion acknowledged it with an absentminded glance.

~ Eventually, through carefully worded coos and reassurances from young frightened handmaids that beckoned towards the bastard princess- she yielded. Wordlessly, Balarion lowered his head and allowed her to clamber down. Right into the shaking arms of a young woman in servants cloth, who had stood so close to the dragon, she felt her skin take heat and sweat profusely. The frightened and frustrated little girl was exhausted, and hungry. She has eaten very little earlier, picking at breadcrumbs like a little bird, and sipping only a little water. Her head lolled helplessly into the crook of the maiden's neck, weak and tired. the anxious woman backed away quickly.

~ Half asleep, and very upset, the little princess was placed into Rhaenyras' awaiting out-stretched arms. Her own little boys gathered around her like lambs as she petted the girl's back to comfort her. She fell limp, and asleep not too long after, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

~ Balerion watched them closely as they took his new little rider back up to the castle, even following as close as he could reach whilst still on the sand.

~ Viserys was white faced and trembling, a wry smile on his face, whilst Daemon was left expressionless. His palm cradled at the handle of his sword, troubled.

~ "The black dread yielded to her word Daemon- I had not thought that was possible". Viserys muttered.

~ "Neither did I". Daemon uttered back. His voice was even, and calm, yet his eyes held a thousand yard stare.

~ This was not supposed to happen. She was so young- and now with the black dread within her command? There was no saying of what may happen.

To be continued...

[papaya-twinks]

omgomgomg you asked for more perv!lando ideas and omg imagine she riding a cute little plushie he got her and making it all dirty bc it felt so good but she didn’t know why🥺 and he’s so smug/proud and asks her to show him/do it again ahdhdjjeejenw

Warnings: smut, 18+, innocent!reader

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader

You were lying on the bed, scrolling aimlessly through the instagram, the large, strawberry pink teddy bear Lando had bought you beside you. It was about the size of your torso, warm and plush. Lando had given it to you as gift, for nothing in particular, but because he knew you’d like the bows and the baby pink colour. 

Whilst you scrolled, the bear slipped down along the bed, eventually landing with its fluffy body against your stomach. You didn’t notice or do anything as you watched the videos, lying on your stomach, slightly to the side. You huffed softly, adjusting your position as a gasp left your throat, the bear’s leg brushing against your core. So maybe you were ovulating. 

Not your period just yet, but you were sensitive, and the bear against your body was adding to the frustration. You didn’t usually have sex, in fact, you’d had it once or twice, and masturbating wasn’t your cliche either, but right now no one would know, anyways. You chewed on your lip slightly as you rolled your hips against the bear, trying to ignore the guilt of it. Lando had got it for you as a present.

It felt good, though. And, almost as if the timing was personal and purposeful, the doorbell rang. The sound made you squeak, eyes wide as you scrambled off the plushie, running to open the door. “Lando, hi,” you said, cheeks still bright red from moments ago as you scratched your neck. 

“You…good?” he raised an eyebrow at your flustered state, walking into your apartment like it was second nature. “Yeah, fine,” you said breathily, rubbing your arm as you followed him upstairs. Shit. “That’s the plush I got you,” he grinned, not quite noticing the…wet patch on the leg of it. “Y/N,” he raised an eyebrow, seeing the spot as you blushed. 

“So…you were having fun, then?” he turned to you, your cheeks on fire now. “I…” you trailed off, unsure what to say. “Show me,” Lando’s voice was demanding in some ways as he tilting your chin up, eyes on you. “Go on,”. He pushed you a little closer to the plushie, your eyes wide. Lando had been your best friend for years, and you’d do anything for him. 

“Okay,” you mumbled, eyes wide as he lifted you up by your waist, placing you onto the plushie. His eyes were trained on your skirt as you moved slowly across the plushie, your eyes rolling slightly. “Quicker,” he said, his voice laboured slightly as his shorts a bit. You did what Lando told you,moving quicker as his hands came to his clothes. 

Your eyes widened as he pulled his shorts down, his cock springing hard against his abdomen, his hand pumping his length slowly as he walked towards you. Your body was moving against the bear, your core feeling like heaven as Lando stood in front of you, his hand caressing the back of your head. 

You turned your head up to face him as he pressed his thumb to the corner of your lip. Instinctively, you opened your mouth, letting him dip his finger inside, your tongue immediately welcoming him as he pressed to the roof of your mouth, his other hand stroking his member. 

He moved his finger out of your mouth, your body still rocking against the bear as Lando tapped his cock to your cheek, your lips parting obediently. He grinned at your reaction, sliding the tip of his cock into your mouth. Yes, he was your best friend, but somehow, it didn’t feel…wrong. Your eyes widened as he pressed his tip against the back of your throat, gagging slightly round him. 

He pulled you off of him gently, his finger tapping your cheek again before he pushed in, slowly moving his hips in and out of your mouth, your hand moving off of the bear to the base of his cock, holding the parts you couldn’t reach. You felt the knot tighten in your stomach as you stopped rolling against the bear, bouncing instead. 

Lando’s cheeks were flushed red as you bobbed your head up and down his length, a groan leaving his lips as you felt him coming to his high too. Your eyes widened as he held your head still, his cum shooting in thick ropes down your throat, warm and sticky. You coughed a few times as he pulled you off gently, a small wet patch against the bear’s leg. 

“Someone had fun,” he commented, his hands tangling in your hair as he pressed a kiss to your head. 

[writingsofwesteros]

#Dragon Belongs To Drone

Omg I absolutely adore this anon au! I was wondering if you could make a little mini drabble about them. If not it’s ok, I understand! Xxxx

It would be about the princess giving birth to their last baby and they’re finally blessed with a little boy, a mini aegon <3. I can just imagine with the way all the babies are close to their parents, especially their papa, they’re are there with them in birthing room all bursting with excitement waiting for their new baby. Meanwhile, their poor papa is stressed never getting use to labor process.

At least now that that’s their last baby they can go back to their paramours;). They love sharing their bed with their baby’s but they miss their pre-kids sex era!!!

AN:Hi I hope you like it x

Even after all this time, Aegon still became nervous. The idea of his wife in the birthing bed nearly overwhelmed him with fear. He remembered the first time; the Prince remembered his mother’s stories of how his father did not come into the room and Aegon thought that was normal. He had only made such a mistake once. The lovers he and the Princess shared had taken him to one side all those years ago to explain it all. Gods, he had been stupid but he had learnt from his lessons, which is what brought him to his wife’s side. Gently, he reached for her hand; those big eyes of his full of worry. “This is your fault.” The Princess whined; arching in pain as the labours only continued.

“I know,” Aegon hummed and pressed a soft kiss to her hand as he bowed his head. The Gods of his mother came to mind as he silently prayed; not that he would ever admit such a thing. He wished he could take her pain away. The words of the maids surrounding them fell on deaf ears as Aegon watched over his love. "But you're strong. You've always been strong." He kissed her damp forehead, feeling the heat of her struggle. “Your grace, please…” A soft frown of confusion came over his face before realising they were asking for more space and he as ever was crowding. He bowed but those bright eyes of his never left his darling Princess. His hands move behind his back, tearing at those nails. Aegon thought that habit had left him years ago. 

His heart was pounding in his ears; deafening him to the wines of pain escaping his wife. The birthing was lasting longer than usual, which only brought more worry onto Aegon. The sharp, new cry entering the room had Aegon’s attention as he moved to stand; it was only then that he realised he had even sat down. “Oh..it’s a boy.” The maid gasped out as Aegon nearly stumbled forward; his body not moving quickly enough for him. “A boy?” The Prince whispered out; shock was evident in his tone as he stepped forward. The Princess slowly regained her strength as the nurses steadied her. She was soon leaning against the headboard; catching her breath.

The soft crying of the babe continued to fill the chambers as Aegon only watched on in awe. His wife was as strong as ever and their sweet daughters had followed her in that. Gods, what would his son find in him? There was nothing of worth, Aegon knew that. “My husband should hold him,” The Princess whispered out breathlessly. The Prince hardly had a moment to shake his head in disagreement before the soft, familiar weight of a babe was in his arms. It took him longer than needed to duck his head; his bright eyes finally seeing his boy for the first time. Aegon gently stroked the top of the babe’s head as he noticed the bright locks just like his own. 

"He looks just like you," the Princess murmured, her voice filled with a mix of exhaustion and pride. Aegon could only nod, too overcome with emotion to speak. The babe's crying began to quiet, as if he, too, was recognizing the safety and warmth of his father's embrace. His little fist gripped at Aegon’s finger so tightly. "He's perfect," he finally whispered, his voice thick with emotion. Unlike himself, the Prince thought as his self loathing began to return to him. Aegon was in his own world, gently rocking the new babe in his arms and he could not stop the soft smile tugging on his lips. The Princess could only watch on with complete softness and love in her eyes.

It seemed the new addition to the family would be well used to the loudness of his sisters as the large, wooden door slammed opened. Loudly, it moved against the marble wall and Aegon watched as his young son hardly stirred in his hold. “We have a brother?” Aegon’s youngest girl called out; voice full of excitement as the little patter of feet continued into the room. His eldest, a bright-eyed girl with her mother’s fierce spirit, approached first, peering at the baby with wide eyes. “He’s so tiny,” she whispered in awe, reaching out a tentative finger to touch her brother’s hand. Aegon slowly lowered his son as he introduced him. A soft smile came over his face as he noted his middle girl had raced to her mother’s side; face full of worry. 

Aegon slowly guided his eldest towards the large chair; the soft summer air moving into the chambers now as the peaceful moment only continued. “Do you want to hold him?” He gently asked; staring down at his son once more as the Princess settled in bed. Her daughter softly sat at her side and took her hand; playing with her fingers like her father did. “Yes please, father..” She hummed happily; moving herself to rest against the chair as Aegon slowly lowered his babe onto her lap. His hand rested behind the boy’s head as the Prince continued to hover. “I can do it.” Aegon chuckled at his daughter’s eagerness and stepped away. His eyes never leave the sight in front of him.

Looking over his shoulder once more, Aegon began to make his way towards the bed. His hand reached for the goblet of water without thought. Gently, the Prince squeezed his wife’s hand as he fought against the worry inside him with his daughters in the room. He could not let them notice the stress rising. “I am well, my love.” As ever, it seemed she could read him just as she could the very first day they met. “Mama is strong.” He chuckled at his daughter’s words as Aegon lent in and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “Just like you.” She only giggled out; burrowing into his neck before wrapping her arms around his waist. He reached for his wife and softly brushed a lock of her hair from out of her face.

“Father, will we have another brother?” He heard his oldest call from the other side of the room; the babe in her arms fussing quietly. “Oh, that is for your mother to decide.” Aegon chuckled as he settled beside his wife in the bed; bringing his daughter into his lap to wrap his arms around her.

[insomniakisses]

We should call her Aemma

Character: Alicent Hightower (HOTD)

Reader Type: Alpha Reader, G!n

Warnings/Notes: fluff, mentions of birth and babies, v!serys. Reader has a dick.

“Princess!” Danielle your maid comes bursting into your chambers bowing and muttering an apology when she sees ur half dressed form.

“S-sorry princess..” you can see the blush and chuckle, quickly finishing dressing before smirking down at her. “Yes dani? What is it?”

“The Queen, Alicent, her grace, shes had her pup!”

The second the news hits your ears you don’t even take the time to reply before your rushing to her chambers. Its a short walk really, having roomed so close to her. Your barging in the room in no time shooting her a soft loving smile, as you make your way to her and the pup.

Turning to the door you watch as your father, the king, walks in. “Another daughter your grace!” The maesters state and he simply nods barely glancing at the pup or his wife. “The pup is healthy?” He asks leaving as soon as the maesters confirm. Excusing himself to his “duties”.

The maids and maesters clear the room per Alicent’s request and the second you guys are alone you press your lips to her head. “You did so well my love,” you coo staring down at the pup smiling as she reaches for you making soft noises.

“Was the labour hard?” You ask, voice soft as you pick up the wet cloth running it across her skin softly in an attempt to sooth her. Eliciting a sigh from her in relief and you make a mental note to help her bathe properly later.

“It was fine” she waves off and ypu roll your eyes leaning to kiss her softly. Staying to place a few kisses on her lips. “My love, you pushes a whole baby out of you. You are aloud to complain”

She smiles then, admitting it was maybe not such an easy process. Confessing to you what hurts. You spend the next few hours talking with her and holding the pup as she sleeps.

Its during one of these moments that Viserys decided to come in once more. “Ive decided the name,” he announces and your face scrunches at his lack of care to consult the woman that just pushed the child out.

“We Should call her Aemma.” The second he utters the words your mouth falls open. Oh he did not! You loved your mother, of course, but to name your second wives daughter after your first wife that YOU killed chasing a son? Hell no.

“My king I’m not sure-“

You cut alicent off, voice hard and demanding. “Father! I actually already picked a name for her, since rhaenyra always chose names before and even chose mine.”

You see him waver like he is about to decline, he wanted aemma after all the pup looked so much like her. And its then that it hits him, HOW can it look like her unless…

“Fine.” He sighs nodding as he leaves muttering something about visiting rhaenyra and her boys.

“Thank you” she mutters barely above a whisper and you shake your head “No, thank you” for blessing me with this pup and she flushes saying “I regret that she looks more Hightower than Targaryen. It wasn’t my intention I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

You coo softly, “I do not, and its not your fault you can’t control what she looks like.” Moving to pull her into your arms as you stare down at the pup you smile. “Besides, now i get to be reminded of the woman I love whenever I see our pup”.

A/n: Little Drabble to get back i ti the writing swing.

[flowerandblood]

The Impossible Choice (51)

[ Aemond • Targaryen x Baratheon! • female ]

[ warnings: angst, trauma, mention of rape ]

[description: Aemond comes to Storm’s End to choose his future consort. However, Lord Borros Baratheon presents him with only four of his five daughters. Being attached to his youngest child, he does not want to marry her. The prince, however, thwarts his and her plans with his decision. This is slow burn, with a lot of dark angst and sexual tension. (Anon Request)]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Previous and next chapters: Masterlist

______

He had never seen his wife like this before – pale, shaken, her hands clasped on her lap, her head bowed in thought, her eyes wide open. Even when he hadn't spoken to her in the first weeks of their marriage, even before their first wedding night, she hadn't looked so shattered and broken like she was now.

"Are you feeling well?" He asked uncertainly, and she sighed heavily, burying her face in her hands, resting her elbows on the table.

"No. This is some sort of nightmare." She mumbled, sorrow, sadness and weariness in her voice.

He thought that now that she was expecting his offspring she shouldn't be worrying about such things, looking at these humiliating scenes.

Both he and she had suffered enough in recent times and he felt he should spare her that.

"Let's go to our chamber. You shouldn't upset yourself in your condition." He said softly and she looked at him, surprised.

He saw her hesitate for a moment, and then she sighed quietly and nodded.

They both stood up – he let her go ahead, placing his hand on her back – his gesture of reassurance that he was beside her, that he would not let any harm befall her.

Never.

And then he heard his brother's voice directed at them, slightly amused, feigning surprise and disapproval.

"Brother, sister, are you leaving us already?"

They both stopped, glancing at them – his brother seemed exceptionally pleased with himself, a grin on his face, sure at the thought that he was going to fuck that stupid idiot in his bed tonight.

He wondered how to congratulate him on such a success, and then he noticed the look Floris directed at his wife, superiority and mockery in her eyes.

"My wife, who is expecting my child, felt worse. She needs to rest." He said with emphasis that his wife was expecting his heir.

He saw how surprised Floris took a quick look at her sister's lower abdomen and pressed her lips together seeing that indeed, it was slightly rounded.

Good for you, you little whore, he thought.

He was sure that Floris, in her empty head, was already planning to torment his wife with questions about why she hadn't given him an offspring yet.

"Aren't you going to congratulate me, sister?" His wife hummed, and a big, wide grin stretched across his face, not reaching his eye.

The satisfaction and pride he felt when he heard her use his own words was indescribable to him, as were the faces of his brother and her sister.

He could feel them burning with shame at the fire of his wife's words and watched it with delight.

He wondered if she had learned this by watching him, or if she had always been like this, only he didn't know it.

Floris swallowed hard, knowing she couldn't leave the question unanswered.

"Congratulations, dear sister. May the labour be easy." She muttered.

He found with satisfaction that there was no trace of her earlier confidence.

He raised an eyebrow as he saw his wife approach her unhurriedly. She placed her hand on her shoulder and leaned towards her with a warm smile, as if to give her some sisterly advice.

"I am sure that you too will soon live to see your child, sweet sister. From the righteous bed, I reckon." She said it so calmly and softly that it was only a moment before he burst into uncontrollable, mocking laughter, filled with delight at the embarrassed faces of Aegon and Floris.

He thought she had crushed.

His wife moved with a light, joyful step towards the entrance and he moved behind her throwing his brother a smile over his shoulder, a smirk full of mockery.

Stick your cock inside her if you want, he thought.

He didn't give a shit.

When they returned to their shared chamber his wife immediately asked her servant to help her undress. She sighed with relief when she was left in just her nightgown, her hair loose, wavy by being tied up all day. She lay down on their bed, looking at him with a dreamy smile. He got up from his chair and approached her slowly.

He pulled off his boots and his tunic, staying in just his shirt and black breeches, then took his eyepatch off his head. He hissed and clutched at his sapphire, his head bursting with pain.

"May I?" He asked, looking at her, asking her permission, and she nodded quickly.

When he removed the precious stone from his eye socket she did not even flinch – she just leaned towards the table standing next to the bed and took a small bowl of ointment from it.

He lay down beside her on his back and let her lean over him. She didn't even ask him what he needed – she could see that the inside of his eye socket was all red. She sighed heavily seeing this, her finger covered in ointment began spreading it over his skin.

He swallowed quietly feeling instant relief.

"Why are you wearing your sapphire when you have an eyepatch? You're causing yourself pain." She said with sincere worry and displeasure, focused on her task.

He did not listen to her, instead his large hand rose and squeezed lightly on her soft breast hidden behind the transparent material.

"– wait a moment –" She said with amusement, but without taking his hand away, allowing him to continue with his activity.

He thought about how soon her breasts would be full of milk, plump and soft. He thought of how he would be able to taste her in a new, completely unfamiliar way before, and felt his manhood pulsate hard in his breeches.

Despite his desire, he decided he would let himself and her rest after a hard day – the truth was that the commotion with Floris and Aegon pleased him, for it diverted his thoughts from Daeron, from his burning body.

From the thought that his little brother had died because of him.

He hadn't felt it so much at first, simply being in shock, unable to come to terms with what had happened, but now the knowledge of his death hit him harder and harder.

He didn't know how he was supposed to live on with this thought, where to hide from it, so he simply cuddled his face into his wife's chest, allowing himself to be locked in her embrace.

He was ashamed, and he would never say it out loud, but he needed her to quiet the whispers in his head, the stabbing pain in his heart that refused to go away – the touch of her hand, her fingers combing through his hair, stroking his head soothed and calmed him, made him stop thinking about anything and just fall asleep.

He wake up in the middle of the night with his name on his lips, rising up on his elbows, breathing loudly, feeling that his whole body was unbearably hot. His wife touched his shoulder, his cheek, already knowing what she was facing, what he was confronting and for what reason.

It happened again, again and again.

"I killed him. I cut his throat. Where is his body now?" He muttered, looking at her horrified as if he could not believe that he could really have committed such a monstrosity, that he had killed his little brother.

His wife shook her head.

"My beloved, it was a dream." She whispered, and for a moment he was relieved to think that Daeron was alive.

"Your brother fell from the sky with his dragon." She explained, seeing the look on his face, his baseless hope that the reality was different to what he would have wanted.

He would then cover his face and burst into loud, uncontrollable sobs, her small hands trying to embrace his whole body, shield him from this pain, comfort him.

He only calmed down when she hugged him to her chest, when she stroked his cheek whispering that his brother was no longer suffering, that he was safe in the heavens with his father, that no one in this world could hurt him anymore.

That her father was surely also watching over him as he had watched over his own son.

This vision, a vision of the heavens that he himself was not sure he believed in, a vision that he would still see him, that his brother was watching over him, reassured him.

He would then come back to his senses and calm down, wiping his face, embarrassed by his state, apologising to her, explaining that he didn't know what was happening to him, that he would pull himself together.

"You're suppressing it too much inside and your body can't cope anymore. You have to let all the grief and sadness flow out of you because otherwise this poison is running through your veins and killing you from the inside." She whispered, kissing his temple, and he tightened his eye, stroking her hand that embraced him, the hand of his beloved wife, the only person he trusted, to whom he could tell all this.

"I'm afraid I won't be a good father. I won't be able to show this child what I feel even if I want to." He said helplessly, and she sighed quietly, stroking his cheek and shoulder reassuringly, letting him lie on top of her in a semi-sitting position.

"No one is born a good parent, only becomes one. Our father rarely spoke of his feelings, but he showed them with his gestures. Just as he showed them to you." She said calmly, he felt a warmth in his lower abdomen when she said 'our father' about Borros, as if she recognised that in fact, what her father had done for him was in some way his show of fatherly love, his acceptance of him.

He swallowed loudly and slid his head down, hugging her abdomen, placing a kiss on it through the thin material.

"Gods, what a joy you are in these cruel moments for me and your mother." He whispered softly, feeling her hand on his hair, stroking his head tenderly.

He truly believed that their child in her womb had felt and heard his words.

He watched from the sidelines as his wife struggled to accept the news that, despite her initially platonic intentions, Floris had finally ended up in Aegon's bed. He wasn't surprised – he knew they were both desperate to prove to everyone around them that they could be happy and fulfilled, even if it was just for show.

It was pathetic, but he had begun to worry when Aegon had said that his wife's father's body would leave King's Landing in Ser Criston's care, and that Floris Baratheon would remain in King's Landing as a lady of the court.

"Does our sister know of this and has she consented to it?" He hissed, clenching his hand into a fist, the other members of the Small Council also looked at the king in disbelief. Alicent shook her head, he knew she had made Floris drink moon tea.

She was not going to let Aegon have his white-haired bastards running around the Red Keep to the humiliation of the whole family.

"Aegon. End this at last. You are causing a scandal with your behaviour and breaking any good manners. The Great Sept has also expressed its indignation on this matter, and I do not understand why you remain deaf to my requests." She said with desperation, he had never seen her so pale before.

She was tired.

His brother did not speak for a long time, looking ahead in thought. He didn't like the concentration on his face – he knew his brother was thinking hard about something and it didn't bode well. Everyone waited in suspense for his words.

"I realise that my behaviour has caused outrage and opposition from the lords. That I harm the good name of House Baratheon, to whom, after all, we owe so much, and the good name of my brother's wife." He said calmly. He looked at him breathing unevenly sensing that something was coming – he could feel the cold sweat on the back of his neck.

Something was wrong.

"I have decided to put an end to this contemptible action on my part and marry her as my second wife in the tradition of old Valyria, as my namesake predecessor, Aegon the Conqueror, did." He concluded, finally lifting his head, meeting stares full of disbelief.

He heard this silence around him.

A silence full of tension.

He hid his face in his hands resting his elbows on the table thinking that his brother was a moron, an idiot, a fool and would destroy them all. His mother looked at him on the verge of a nervous breakdown, leaning back in her chair, shaking her head.

"Aegon. You already have a wife. The wife you couldn't take care of, your sister, and who will remain your only wife until you die." She said with emphasis on the last words, desperation and rage in her throat. Otto stared at the table with his lips clenched and laughed under his breath.

"You are a fool, Aegon. A hollow child, hungry for kind words, who only wears the crown of Aegon the Conqueror. If you think anyone at this table will allow you to take a second wife, you are sorely mistaken." He said sharply, somehow wanting to turn his words into a joke, as if he had simply pulled another stunt that everyone must forgive him for.

He saw the look on Aegon's face, however, and knew that his brother had foreseen this turn of events. He turned to one of the guards standing by the door.

"Please escort my grandfather out and lock him in his chamber until I change my mind −"

"− Aegon −" Their mother began, but he continued.

"− as from today, he is no longer the Hand of the King." He communicated dryly, wiping the table with his hand as if he had just shaken some fleck off. Otto lurched away, but the second guard moved to the first's aid, his grandfather looking at him with rage.

"What are you doing? Have you completely lost your mind?!" He hissed through clenched lips. Aegon looked at him dispassionately.

"Be glad you are alive, grandfather. For such words concerning the King and his future wife, anyone else would lose their head." He said with emphasis on the last words. The guards led Otto out of the room despite their mother's objections.

The door closed behind them, everyone sat in suspense.

"Does anyone else wish to be led out of here and stripped of their function? To insult their King?" He asked, looking around at the faces of those gathered. "Very well, then −"

He stood up suddenly, interrupting him − Aegon threw him a surprised look. His brother's lips tightened when he saw that his younger brother had taken his sapphire ball from the table and approached him with an unhurried step. He looked down at him, placing it in front of him.

Aegon looked at him as if he expected him to spit at him.

"You are making a great mistake, brother." He said, turning and walking out of the hall, paying no attention to the pleading voice of his mother.

He walked down the corridor towards a chamber he seemed to have not been in for ages, though he did not know why. When he walked inside, Helaena was sitting on the floor with her children, arranging some sort of construction with them. She lifted her dreamy gaze to him and smiled, rising slowly from her knees.

He wasn't sure when they last spoke, did he ever ask how she was feeling and if it was hard for her.

Although he felt sorry for her, he couldn't show it to her.

He wasn't as supportive of her as Royce had been of his wife.

"Do you know about what our brother decided?" He asked dispassionately.

His sister nodded at her servant, who grabbed her children's hands and led them into a second, separate room, closing the door behind her. Helaena walked to the window, fiddling involuntarily with the rings on her fingers as was always her habit.

"Yes. He asked my permission." She said finally.

"How could you say yes?" He asked in disbelief, stepping closer to her. She looked at him as if she did not understand his question.

"He said he wouldn't do it if I objected, but that when he married her he would be happy at last. That he had never experienced such a feeling." She whispered, looking down at her hands, the skin near her nails was red, just like their mother's.

Their expression of stress, panic and terror.

"If she becomes his wife and bears him children out of wedlock, I'm sure she'll slit my nephews' throats while they sleep." He said grabbing her shoulders, wanting to shake her, to make her realise how serious the situation was.

"Uprisings will break out, people will turn against him. He will destroy everything Daeron died for, all the advantage we gained. He will give Rhaenyra a gift she could never even dream of."

Helaena looked away and shuddered heavily at the sound of their brother's name. She did not look at him, clearly confused and undecided.

"He… changed while you were in Harrenhal. He doesn't drink as much anymore. He visits our children, we ate suppers together. He doesn't force me to do anything, we even converse sometimes, I…" She said and did not finish, her voice breaking off, her body was trembling all over.

"I'm afraid that if I refuse him, he will turn into what he was again."

He hugged her to himself and she burst into such a loud sob that he was surprised. For so many years it had seemed to him that his sister had endured it all meekly and silently, that she paid no price for it, that she was simply pretending not to see what her brother was doing.

He didn't ask her if Aegon was hurting her, if he was causing her pain, because that was more comfortable for him, because he didn't want to fall asleep with the thought that perhaps his brother had just took his sister against her will.

Now, however, he wanted to be there for her, to take Royce's example and show her that her fate had never been indifferent to him.

"Aegon will only listen to you. For the sake of the kingdom, for the sake of all of us, you must go to him and convince him that he does not want this wedding at all. Otherwise it will destroy us all from the inside. I promise I will never let him hurt you again." He whispered, pressing his forehead against her shoulder, and she wept loudly in his embrace.

He knew she would do the right thing.

What happened next depended on her success.

He thought that the face he had seen in his dreams was not Daeron, but Aegon.

And that it would become a reality if his brother chose wrong.

____

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[anarchyincarnate]

Rest now, Love

C/W; Mentions of overstimulation, Bathtub sex, Virgin!Thoma, attempted murder in the beginning, slight rushed ending. (This is Anarchyincarnate's blog after all)

You watched as the decayed remains of a sinner compiled into a small mound onto the tatami floor under you. The woman was on trial for combining illegal substances into your meal of the day, though thankfully you didn't eaten the tainted concoction. Ayaka wasn't as lucky, however.

You rushed to the princesses aid after seeing the girl coughed violently post-finishing half of her plate, with Ayato looking at you in concern. The commissioner ordered all servants to gather into the main hall, while Thoma assisted the weakened Ayaka into another room, her arm slinging onto his shoulder.

Ayato was furious beyond belief and his cold glare was on full display, no longer he bare the snarky and coy facade. The scent of blood wafted through the air, as thick gold fog began to spread from your bloody palm. Having digged your pointed nails into your soft flesh, you released your power into the surrounding area, rendering everyone speechless.

"I will create a bargain for you all, confess your wrongdoing now, or forever hold your silence." You remarked, eye twitching in anger. Your power is harmful to humans in large doses, so it's clear either one confess or all of them suffer. Vision holders are surprisingly more durable than normal citizens, as such Ayato merely leaned back against a pillar.

Eventually a man caved in and bowed down, pressing his forehead onto the floor. "My highness, lady Yumeno had boasted to herself earlier that it'll be a matter of time until your reign comes to an end. This is preposterous of her so please, Punish her for her crime." He said, taking in deep breaths between each word as his lungs hurt due to the toxic air.

Yumeno who heard it was taken aback, she had made sure no one was around her when she assured herself a moment before. She stepped back, glancing towards the main door, looking for a chance to escape.

"Sieze her." Ayato's voice cut through the thick atmosphere, and with a snap of his fingers, his shuumatsuban workers held onto Yumeno's body rendering her immobile.

You took a step forward towards the girl, raising her chin with your index finger. "A pity such beauty had gone to waste." You chided, before you felt something pierce your abdomen.

Looking down, you saw a bloodstain that spread out amongst your white dress shirt. The end of a dagger was imbedded into your side, with Yumeno's purple nails letting go of it.

She smirked, and made a run for the door. Her escape hadn't gone far as a grotesque, and monstrous form with numerous mouths and eyes grew out of your right arm, it's teeth embedded into Yumeno's back and rib cage.

"What a fool." You mumbled before transfering your decaying power into said arm, effectively withering her body into dust.

Those who were present thankfully had closed their eyes under Ayato's command, saving you from further questioning. You reformed your arm to its original state, and pulled the dagger out of you as the damaged area began to heal.

Ayato walked towards you, dismissing the servants and placing your still bloodied hand into his gloved ones. 

"Kamisato, let's see how your sister is faring. We shouldn't waste anymore time." You muttered, waving off his concern. The two of you walked towards the ward, where Thoma is waiting.

The blonde had finished wiping Ayaka's blood that dripped onto her chin as the latter slumbered peacefully. Thoma perked up hearing the door closed, turning around to see you and his master walk in.

"How is she?" Ayato's tone was laced with concern after seeing her in such condition. Thoma got up from his chair and allowed you to take a closer look at Ayaka's body.

"Arsenic. A common poison from Fontaine." You deduced after noticing her laboured breathing. "It's likely to be non fatal, though I recommend you give her this medication when she wakes up." You grabbed a small bottle of pills in the cupboard above you.

The commissioner nodded, and smiled, thankful for your help. Thoma glanced down and noticed the golden blood still dripping down your hand. "My lord, we must-" "Prepare a warm bath for me along with clean clothes, I'll be waiting here with Ayato." You cut him off, sitting down onto a small sofa beside the bed, while Ayato sat by his sister's side.

"U-Understood, sir." Thoma bowed and left you both to do his task. You took out a book of your choice, and began to read it's content. Ayato smiled seeing a familiar sakura bookmark dangle from the books spine.

Your ears heard the familiar slide screen door opening, and Thoma walked in. "It's ready, sir."

Bidding Ayato farewell, you closed your book and placed it on the sofa. Thoma lead you both through the mansion, and opened the bathroom door for you.

There were dendrobium petals scattered in the tub, along with your favourite toiletries. You began to undo your clothing, dropping the fabric onto the flooring below. Thoma, being the respectful man he is, turned his head away from your body, a faint redness staining his cheeks.

The sound of water splashing brought his gaze back to you as he sat on the tub's edge. He removed his gloves before placing his hands onto your head. The man poured some shampoo onto his palms before rubbing the liquid through your beautiful locks.

You sighed softly, liking the tender touch his hands brought. Closing your eyes for a brief moment, your mind wandered into the past. The laugh of your sibling as they splashes water onto you while you bathe them brought a smile to your face. Opening them back up, you noticed Thoma's fixated gaze on you.

"Is something the matter, Thoma?" You asked him, only for the blonde to shook his head with a smile. "Not at all, Your honor."

There was a comfortable silence, something you didn't have back then.

"Would you like me to join you?" He suddenly proposed. After some thought, you nodded and made room for him infront of you. Without a moment to waste, Thoma shed himself of his clothes and slowly dipped his feet into the warm water.

The water sloshed and dripped down the tub. It was a bit cramped, so Thoma managed to sit on your lap with his legs on either side of yours.

"Ah, sorry." He bashfully said, while you thought nothing of it. Thoma was tempted to pull away, but you brought him with you when you leaned back against the edge.

The blonde noticed your closed eyes as you embraced him, resting your hands onto his back. Imagery of his fantasies with you began to pop up in his mind, making the man more and more red when the fantasy turned... Lewd.

'W-What am I thinking?! This is Your honor I'm thinking about!' He thought to himself.

'But then again... They are right there, ah I can smell the mint and amakumo fruit shampoo... Has their lips always looked so...delectable?'

Without a second thought, Thoma pressed his lips against theirs, savouring the strawberry lip balm coating it. You opened your eyes halfway, and hummed at the sight. Returning the kiss wasn't what Thoma imagined, but it was welcomed nonetheless.

Parting your lips from his, the blonde quickly kissed you again, slightly moaning when you deepened it by sliding your tongue in. The water swayed as Thoma began to grind his cock onto your abdomen, liking the friction it made.

"To think my cutest little acolyte shared some rather... Scandalous imagery of his god," You teased, enjoying the sight of Thoma's red ears.

"Your honor... Forgive me of my sinful mind-" "Nonsense, I enjoyed the sight." You shared one last kiss before running your fingers down his hips and into the crevice of his ass. 

Thoma felt a rush course through his veins as your finger went into him, wiggling around trying to find his sweet spot. You noticed the way his back suddenly arched when you pressed onto a spot. Found it.

"Do you like it?" You asked innocently. The man nodded, and grinded his ass back against your finger. Adding another one in, Thoma let out a moan.

"Be careful now, we wouldn't want to broadcast your sinful behaviour to the others, right?" You chuckled seeing his eyes widened at the slightly loud sound he let out.

You added a third one in, and it was enough for Thoma to spray his cum onto your abdomen. The blonde felt embarrassed seeing himself cum that quickly, which was a given since he was still technically a virgin.

He believed an old proverb that read, "Only the purest virgins are capable to enrapturing the creators heart, one must save themselves should the creator took interest in them." Making him and many others save themselves upon discovering your arrival a few months back.

You undid his tie and places it onto the floor, combing his hair with your unoccupied hand. After a bit, you slide your fingers out, and held onto the fat of his cheeks.

"This will hurt, alot. But I promise it'll be okay." You assured the nervous blonde, who took a deep breath and nodded. Slowly and carefully, you pushed Thoma's hips down and letting his hole take your cock in. Thoma's hands that were once on your shoulders tugged onto your locks of hair, sucking in a sharp breath.

Halfway down, you stopped, letting him adjust to your size. You may be aloof at times, but you've always made sure your acolytes are comfortable during these sessions.

The man calmed himself down, giving you the green light. His hips were pushed down even more until his ass met your thighs.

"Are you alright?" You worriedly asked him as he was shaking. He nodded vigorously, and got himself comfortable resting his head on your shoulder.

You began to move slowly but even then you managed to brought him into another orgasm. Despite your hesitance to continue, he wanted more.

He let go of your hair, and placed his hands onto your shoulder. Raising his hips until only your tip remained in, before slamming them down until his ass met your thighs again.

Thoma repeated these movements over and over, arching his back like a bridge and water overflowing the tub and spilled onto the floor. You didn't mind his enthusiasm and began to help him out.

Eventually after a bit, he stopped as you emptied the fourth load into him. By now, the water was a murky colour and you chuckled.

"Thank you, dear. You've truly helped me relax." You kissed him one last time before pulling out of him. Truth be told, you were under alot of stress from managing the entirety of Teyvat, so having Thoma relieve that stress of yours really made you happy.

"I-I'm glad I could be of service, my lord..." And with that, he fell asleep on your shoulder. Using your powers you lifted the boy up while you unclogged the drain of the tub. Wrapping Thoma with a clean towel while you changed into new clothes, before you made your way to his bedroom, oblivious to the jealous stares Ayato casted upon your back.

[kinghe]

Mariner's Rinds 3.6k words | Wriothesley/Neuvillette tags: sexual content, dubious consent, dom/sub undertones

Happy birthday to my dearest @denimecho, my sweet cheese. My good time boy. This is fic based on his beautiful Wriollette artwork.

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The Fortress of Meriopode: the imposing stronghold in abyssal drink, a long-standing and lone custodian. The principle of such a being meant protection for those of the outside world or a cautionary tale. Thus, the wonders of the institution were unknown to the general public and untouched by the hand of the judicial court. Insofar as it involved the affairs of the underground, it was Wriothesley’s domain. Except the Iudex stood at the threshold of his office, looking as discrepant in all his glory as he always did.

“Well,” Wriothesley said with raised brow, “this is a surprise.”

"Hello," Neuvillette stepped forward like a haze, slow and uninterrupted. 

“Hello?" Wriothesley smiled, clearly pleased, "make no mistake, I welcome you with open arms, I just can't help but notice there was no prior notice of your arrival.” He set his teacup down, “aren’t you usually very proper with such things?”

He slots his fingers in the space between Neuvillette’s neck and jaw, cold like ice, smooth like leather, and watches the way his head tilts back against Wriothesley’s shoulder in consequence. Silence. It makes the roaring in his ears sound like discomforted static and his own breathing, laboured, rolls out in sharp intervals. 

He feels Neuvillette’s heartbeat, slow, stilted, irregular, through the membrane of his own.  

“I apologise. My arrival was sudden, even to me." Neuvillette said, his voice at once cutting and balming, “I do recognise the disruption my presence here may entail. My stay won't be long.” Not a single hair out of place. Noble, and immaculate.

“Nonsense. My doors are always open to you. As a matter of fact, I feel as though I’m always asking you to stay, only to meet with your insistent departures. Please,” he gestured to the seat by his desk. “Really though, this is quite peculiar. Have you come to chide me?”

“I cannot imagine what for.”

The quiet stretched and Wriothesley replied with a mildly amused, “neither can I.”

"...In truth, my duties required me nearby, though matters were resolved quite… efficiently, to say the least. I daresay my presence was not needed.”

“Ah, the reconstitution meetings, is it?  You had to oversee that?”

Neuvillette nodded. 

“The council is ruthless.” Wriothesley chuckled despite himself. By natural inclination, Neuvillette remained the highest authority of Fontaine but the nobility would always be the first to bow to it and simultaneously undermine it.

“If I had known the gravity of their cases, I would have scheduled our times accordingly. I’m not suggesting their concerns should be disregarded, however I believe Imena to be capable on her lonesome for the time being.” He paused, as though reliving the brunt of insipid chatter, but whatever bitterness Wriothesley was searching for showed no trace. “Nevertheless, I had a great deal of time on my hands, and since my visit to Qiaoying Village, I confess I’ve made a habit of, as one would say, ‘loitering.’ As of late.”

“Oh?”

So the observer has abdicated.

“Before I knew it,” Neuvillette added, “I found myself here.”

Neuvillette’s eyes are hidden behind grey tresses but Wriothesley imagines the slits dilating, darkening. Then he imagines hardly anything. The column of Neuvillette’s neck is submerged by a faint red, giving the appearance of having drunk too much liquor. It's a hard catch in the dark yet drastic on Neuvillette's flesh; he finds it brings him down to physicality, and further into Wriothesley's handling.

He grabs Neuvillette’s wrists, holds them up and the colour travels to his ears. Wriothesley traces it with fervour. 

“Aha, how quaint. I imagine it is nothing short of a spectacle for the folk to see you out and about.”

Neuvillette looked hesitant, but Wriothesley was patient. “Regardless, I wished to ask: does your invitation for tea have an expiration date?”

“Course not, Monsieur Neuvillette.” The smile on Wriothesley’s face was unreserved, stretching easy on his face. “Way ahead of you.”

The room is warm, warm - his steel ice office has never been so humid. Neuvillette’s skin is jumping under his touch, pulling him in: teasing him out.

The tea he poured was a hearty homage to Neuvillette’s new ventures. Liyue’s specialty was herbal and demure, best suited for night, just as one was on his last ream of paperwork. Wriothesley watched with no obstacle as the mug pressed red into Neuvillette’s white palms. 

“I am not disrupting your duties, am I?”

“No no, you came at the perfect time. ” Wriothesley waved, “what is this I’m hearing about loitering?”

“Well, it is still quite rare that I do. My duties occupy me for the majority of the day, and I have a sense that my workload will double in the near future. However,” Neuvillette said, a semblance of a frown twisting the corner of his lips, “it has come to my attention that it may prove worthwhile.”

“And what are your findings?”

“That remains to be seen, I’m afraid.” The corners of his eyes and lips rounded, becoming softer, more malleable. Those features were best blessed under the night sky, and Wriothesley’s office was kept dim for a reason.

He is clinically, accurately precise when he wants to be, but finds that its never what he wants, with Neuvillette. He can’t help but shove him into book cases, bend him over desks, pin him against limestone. Now, to the thrum of frenzy, his palm splayed on the small of Neuvillette’s back forces an arch too bowed to be painless.

For a brief moment, the intensity of his own stare was not known to him and when he came to, he almost startled. He considered winding up the gramophone but stopped himself; Neuvillette at his most serene was in the quiet. 

“It’s a good look on you.” He said, voice ahead of mind.

“Do you think so?”

Wriothesley cast his eyes away and to the far corner of his office, on a cabinet closest to the doors. It was crowned by a legal codex. He jerked his thumb in the direction of it.

“How else would this trophy of mine get to me?”

Neuvillette took a long sip of his tea, staring at the structure with bemusement. “Is it wise to have it on display like this?”

“Absolutely,” Wriothesley said, “not.” He flashed the Iudex a smile. “Its home is in the storage room, as promised. I just like taking it out sometimes.”

“That is peculiar. For what reason?”

“Of course, it reminds me…

His hunger feels like it will never be quelled. It’s been there since his creation, merely dormant. Suppressed. Deactivated. A sigh escapes Neuvillette, quiet and like a song, and Wriothesley reconsiders.

“…of my appreciation of you. Our connection if you will,”

Some part of him knows his touch is audacious, that he's treating Neuvillette too lightly, as if he were an object. As if he were a thing Wriothesley owns. But his hands are made to be on Neuvillette’s body, and he grips his shoulder, his hip, and Neuvillette stills under it. Neuvillette stays where Wriothesley puts him.

“-and the code that I must dutifully live by.”

Wriothesley clenches his jaw, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as he reminds himself: be gentle, be gentle. He shapes his consciousness back into its automated material and concentrates, until he doesn’t, and then he does what he likes. He grips Neuvillette’s hardened thigh, the tips of his fingers tracing the thin skin of the inside.

Neuvillette stared.

“And, of course, I had to have Clorinde bear witness to my earnings.”

Neuvillette gave a slow nod. “I hope it satisfied her expectations.” 

“Oh, she was very impressed by the craftsmanship.” Wriothesley rose from his seat, and moved towards the slab of stone. He picked it up with tenderness, stroked a thumb over the engraving with a fond eye. “In fact, I, myself, have started to segue into a great fondness for the arts. Finally, a fitting citizen of this country, no?”

“I highly doubt it deserves this calibre of praise." Neuvillette disagreed. "Please remember, it was conceived merely in jest.”

“Even your jokes are pristine, then.”

“I do not know what to say to that.”

Wriothesley chuckled. 

Once more, he reassessed the situation; Neuvillette, Chief Justice of Fontaine, sitting in his office, finally having some tea. He would appreciate the absurdity of it all if the man himself weren’t such a distracting contrast amongst his belongings. Timeless and stoic, unbound by teacups and velvet settees.

“Now, Monsieur Neuvillette,” Wriothesley crossed his arms, lax against his chair. “I must say, I do not hate engaging in pleasantries with you. However, it also stands that I have not yet known you to involve yourself and it makes me uneasy on how to proceed.”

“I... apologise. You are right; I was, and am, unfamiliar to the need. This a first attempt of sorts.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of those recently. Oh, let me refill that. ‘Scuse me.” 

Neuvillette reached out for the pot but Wriothesley, steeled by reflex, grabbed his wrist before he could intervene. Not unkindly. A beat, and Neuvillette’s arm went lax in Wriothesley's hold, and he grabbed the pot himself. The kettle on his worktable was the only household appliance in his office, filling the office with a muted hum.

Neuvillette is sturdy, solid and damp, and letting out a breath as a strong grip claws the meat of his breast. The curve of Neuvillette’s neck lies bare as his hair slips before his shoulders, and his steady exhales become the symphony of the evening.

Neuvillette holds himself up where Wriothesley places him, always. Idle where Wriothesley mouths at the mound of his neck and shoulder, going easily when shoved. Wriothesley pushes in and there’s a solid thump of a fist, green veins protruding from Neuvillette's pale forearms. 

He pulls him closer, pushes him back. He guides the ancient entity forward so his forearms presses into book spines as Wriothesley violates him again and again.

Wriothesley places a grip on the back of Neuvillette’s neck, perhaps to tame if he thrashes, but he is still, so still. A monument that stands solid through the passage of time, purely and painfully ornamental.

Neuvillette eventually said, “it seems to have become a curiosity of mine.”

“Very well, then.” Wriothesley smiled and switched the kettle on, “take the reins.”

Neuvillette’s lips worked around words that were silent, and then stopped moving altogether.

The articulation of those lips had been embedded in Wriothesley’s wiring the moment they delivered his verdict. When he spoke, motion was minimum, the cadence of his voice a soft imprint against ego: at once, nullifying and devastating. But if Neuvillette was careless, then call Wriothesley naive. The entity’s biggest crimes were his scarcity and fortitude.

“The process of reconstruction has posed significant challenges.” Neuvillette said after pause. The same low timbre from twenty years ago. “As you know, the termination of the Oratrice means the ease of this transition is my priority. I would like to know where you stand in all of this.”

Wriothesley laughed, “Ah, it has become work-related again. But that’s okay. I won’t be surprised when the shock dissipates and we find ourselves swamped down here too. People have already started to notice the state we’re in. You’ve read my reports, haven’t you? We are at the cusp of an interim.”

“I indeed have. It provided great clarification.”

Neuvillette's warmth all around him, a suffocation and a vice that promises to sever but Wriothesley yanks the tail of his coat out of the way and kicks his legs apart. And then takes him again. Raises him higher, higher, until Neuvillette is searching for better purchase. A grunt leaves his throat, thrust out with how hard Wriothesley’s muscles flex and then strain, and further ripples through his skin.

“And I’ve read your proposal. I stand by it.”

“I am grateful to hear that,” Neuvillette said, though the corner of his lips creased. “Fontaine has never been without an Archon. It seems I’ve misunderstood the effects of such a phenomenon.”

“This is not really a commonplace thing, though...”

“That much is irrefutable. As it stands, I have been faced with a series of novelties I may not be equipped to deal with.”

“You’re worried?”

“I would only like to enact what is best for Fontaine,” Neuvillette explained, and Wriothesley was once again reminded of a sorrowful form of a man barred of its features, staring down at him from a high throne. “It is not my capability per se, but my status that may destabilise the prospect of moderation. I am not asking for reassurance, rather, it is in that line of thinking that calls for perspectives outside of my own.”

Wriothesley hummed, pouring the tea with mechanical tenderness. “So that’s what this is about. You’ve seen the movement, haven’t you?” I thought I took care of that.

“It would be arrogant to assume there would not be any to resent my state of being.”

“Sure,” Wriothesley said, “If you ask me, it’ll be some time before it becomes an issue. Any semblance of visibility or violence right now is scoured by the loss of Focalors, and those who carry these sentiments lack the manpower and the influence. Trust me on this.”

Neuvillette spent a long time digging into his irises. Then he placed his tea back on the table. “I see now that it was reckless of me to have left.”

“You, reckless? Why, that’s not in your dictionary,” Wriothesley’s grim smile was concealed by his teacup, but Neuvillette caught onto details far faster than formalities anyway. “I actually think it best to lay low just as you are. Have a full-blown holiday, even. No one is better suited for this than you.”

His other hand plants over Neuvillette’s stomach as he forces the man back against him, the muscles tensing hard under his palm, and a shaky inhale wanes as soon as it starts. Neuvillette’s hands find Wriothesley’s wrists; all else is insufficient in holding him up. Neuvillette is — cold and tight and addictive. 

He peels back layer by layer, smoothing hands over skin, until he finds him raw and pink and ripened.

“Why do you say that?”

“The people here have grown accustomed to its idols. They are used to performance and machinations. I’m assuming you don’t intend to pick up where Miss Furina left off?”

Neuvillette blinked. “Of course not.”

“I hope I'm not overstepping my bounds with this, however you, as a public figure, are not defined by archaic concepts such as ‘justice,’” Wriothesley jerked his chin, “but duty. In you, people see the vision already, and they will see that things will not be returning to the status quo. In fact, your transparency is what the nation needs right now, so give them that as you are.” He paused, and shrugged, “or don’t. They’ve already had their sweethearts.”

“I see your point, Your Grace.” Neuvillette murmured, chin in hand. “I… will not pretend to comprehend the dynamics of human relations. Despite my efforts to understand, each time I feel I’ve gained insight, a new facet eludes me." He looked troubled. "I’d initially hoped to salvage this with contributions. Gifts. Though it appears that those around me have emphasized the significance of my departure, instead. Needless to say, your advice has been highly valuable."

His palms drag heavy over Neuvillette’s hips to the back of a firm, thick thigh. He can feel Neuvillette brace himself when he forces his leg up in a firm hold, and the closeness presses him deeper inside. He’s a machine running on the fumes of Neuvillette’s wreckage. He’s a nexus of unstable energy contained by the wet clasp of Neuvillette, who remains untainted by mortal devices. 

The thick expanse of a shoulder so regal, so close to him, and Wriothesley sinks his teeth into it as his vision spots. 

“You do better than you think.” Wriothesley said with a small smirk, “and you’ll have to tell me more about Liyue some time.”

“Very well.” Neuvillette said. “I’ll have a detailed review for you at a later date. Perhaps I’ll squeeze in another visit before we next meet.”

"You do that." Wriothesley hummed, scratching the side of his head, “still, though. To think a day would come where the overworld and the underworld would find a middle ground.” 

The tendency to believe punishment started in Meriopode will never stop being a point of focus for him. It was as deeply amusing as Neuvillette's antics. There was a short pause where Neuvillette studied his face.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Wriothesley smiled. He grabbed Neuvillette’s cup, refilling it. “Up there resembles down here with each passing day, is all I’m saying.”

The wrinkles that appeared when Neuvillette furrowed his brow were also decorative, an adaptation of warm blood. His scrutiny never failed to thrill Wriothesley because it reduced the entity into somewhat of a reflection, laying the groundwork to be scrutinised in the same manner. Here, it wouldn’t surprise him had Neuvillette taken his leave, appeased with their exchange. Instead, Neuvillette followed him. 

“No more performances, I believe, is what you mean?”

“Everything is a performance,” Wriothesley said, offering Neuvillette’s teacup when the man leaned in close. He let the cold air stagnate around him, hindered only by Neuvillette’s breath. Except you. He let go of the cup. Neuvillette lingered, fingers secured around it. 

He watched Neuvillette indulge himself in another sip, exhaling, and the sound sliced the silence into thick slivers. It encased the room like fog, like condensation, and Wriothesley’s palms tingled and his throat went dry.

Wriothesley forces parts of himself deep inside him. They shudder in unison, Wriothesley gasping, chasing for breath. He folds Neuvillette over, draping over him like second skin with his forehead pressed against the damp back of a strong, noble shoulder.

“It’s good,” Neuvillette murmured, and the world started spinning again.

It rushes into a geyser of a memory; nails against skin, the pulse of his throat, the feeling like hurtling liberation and abandonment, before Neuvillette can button himself back up and wash it away. A phantom of the fragment of solidity Wriothesley can mould him into, when he was under his hands.

“Now that is a compliment indeed, coming from you.”

“Please. Your discernment in matters of tea far surpasses mine. When you brew it…” Neuvillette trailed off, perhaps scanning Wriothesley in his entirety. It was always a breathless thing to have the Iudex’s full attention. “When you are the one brewing it, I have complete confidence in its quality.”

“Is that a fact?” Wriothesley said, pleased as day.

"Do you know me as one to lie?”

“Point taken. Have you lied once in the past millennium?”

“I must have, statistically, but put on the spot like that, it is a challenge to recall.”

“Doesn’t count." He pointed out, "omission doesn’t count, either. Oh, and that was a rhetorical question, by the way.”

“I… see. In that case,” Neuvillette cast him an unreadable look, “the amount of lies you’ve told is sufficient for both our lifetimes.”

"Why, Iudex Neuvillette!" Wriothesley grasped his own chest. “You’re really getting the hang of things, aren’t you?”

The gentle clink of fine china, the notes of Neuvillette’s quiet tones, the submergence of a glass bottle under the sea. The tea was starting to grow cold. The better part of an hour he had kept the Chief Justice locked in his hollow underwater. A free spirit made tangible, like picking up water with the sole equipment of one’s hands. The sentiment settled into his palms and fingers like a desperate ache.

“This was pleasant, Duke Wriothesley. You have my thanks in accommodating me tonight.” Neuvillette folded his hands atop his knee. “As a token of my appreciation, please allow for our next meeting to be in my office. Though I do not hold a candle to your tea-making, it would be my honour to prepare the refreshments."

“Well, if you insist! Perhaps I shall.”

He waits for Neuvillette to say something. Anything.

The doors were too loud when they screeched open. Wriothesley had half a mind to fix that later. “Our next tea party aside, might one hope for your presence more often down here, considering the circumstances?”

Neuvillette fixed his eyes on him. “That may be a likelier thing. Nevertheless, this was an unusual deviation that I do not foresee becoming a regular occurrence. My responsibilities remain unchanged.”

“Unchanged,” Wriothesley echoed, pausing. “That’s an interesting word to use in this climate of events. To think you may inspire unrest among the people here; would you not consider my own appearances to yield the same result? This place is my foundation, but this does not mean anything to new faces.”

He said quietly, "Wriothesley."

And there were a lot of new faces, though the number was not privy to Neuvillette. Wriothesley’s eyes were intent, and he took care not to slip a bit of himself outside, “it is the next chapter, dear Iudex. I am but an authority, just like you.”

Neuvillette’s face remained unchanged, though a long sigh escaped silently through the nose. His fingers twitched, imperceptible if Wriothesley was not so attuned to his movements. “Yes, I… you are not wrong. I will take it into consideration." And then short and swift, "I bid you goodnight.”

Nothing. Everything.

The door swung closed with an echo that resonated deep within his chambers. Wriothesley settled back in his seat, his fingers coiling together as he rested his chin.

Neuvillette leaves in silence, his pristine coat flowing behind him.

[microcosme11]

She never forgot Napoleon's haughty voice

The Comtesse de Boigne was an émigrée. She later had a famous salon in Paris. These memoirs were only published many years after her death while her relatives waited for most of the people in it to die.

I have often seen the Emperor Napoleon at the theatre, or driving in a carriage, but only twice in a room. The town of Paris gave a ball on the occasion of the marriage of the Princess of Baden. [...]

The Empress, the princesses, their ladies, and their chamberlains, all in full dress, entered in the train of the Emperor, and took up their position upon a platform prepared beforehand. After watching the performance of a kind of ballet, the Emperor came down alone and went round the room, speaking exclusively to the ladies. He wore his imperial dress (which he almost immediately afterwards abandoned): the waistcoat and white satin knee breeches, the white shoes with gold rosettes, a coat of red velvet cut straight in the style of Francis I, with gold embroidery upon all the seams, the sword sparkling with diamonds above the coat, orders and stars also of diamonds, and a cap with the feathers held up by a diamond buckle. The costume was well designed, but was utterly unsuited for him on account of his small size, his corpulence, and clumsiness of movement. Perhaps it was prejudice on my part, but the Emperor seemed to me frightful, and looked like a mock king. I was standing between two women unknown to me. He asked the first her name, and she replied that she was the daughter of Foacier.

"Ah!" he said, and passed on.

According to his custom, he also asked my name, which I told him.

"You live at Beauregard?"

"Yes, Sire."

"It is a beautiful spot, and your husband employs much labour there; I am grateful to him for the service he does to the country, as I am to all who employ workmen. He has been in the English army?"

I thought it shorter to answer, "Yes," but he continued:

"That is to. say, not entirely. He is a Savoyard, is he not?"

"Yes, Sire."

"But you are French, entirely French, and we therefore claim you, for you are not one of those rights easily surrendered."

I bowed.

"How old are you?"

I told him.

"And frank into the bargain. You look much younger."

I bowed again. He stepped back half a pace, and then came up to me, speaking lower in a confidential tone:

"You have no children? I know that is not your fault, but you should make better arrangements. Believe me, I am giving you good advice."

I remained stupefied; he looked at me for a moment with a gracious smile, and went on to my neighbour.

"Your name?"

"A daughter of Foacier."

"Another daughter of Foacier!" and he continued his promenade.

I cannot express the deep aristocratic disdain with which the phrase "Another daughter of Foacier!" left the imperial lips. Neither the name nor the persons have ever come before me since that time, but it has remained in my memory with the inflection of that voice which I then heard for the first and last time.

Memoires of the comtesse de Boigne by Louise-Eleonore-Charlotte-Adelaide d'Osmond de Boigne, 1781-1866. Published 1907.

archive.org

[janeeyreofmanderley]

Beginnings and Endings

"Your son has returned after great deeds."

Denethor had always appreciated irony. It suited his quiet understated, and sometimes a bit mean, yes ,he was aware of that sense of humor. And while he deeply hated himself for feeling that way, he still couldn't help noticing the tragic and bitter irony that accompanied the moment.

So did Imrahil he was sure.

With expressionless face he watched as his brother in law carried his son to him, and placed his helpless body in his arms.

For the second time.

Beginnings and endings merging together.

For it too had been Imrahil who had handed him Faramir for the first time. Finduilas' labour had again been excurciatinlgy long. Everyone said that the second child usually came more swiftly but the babe certainly followed their big brother's example and did not make things easy. Denethor, at that time Steward already in all but name because his father had become increasingly frail, had been unable to spare the time to wait near his wife's bedroom and be as close as possible during the birth. So he and Imrahil had agreed to take turns, that one of them would always be close at hand to comofort her, welcome the child or ...well neither of them dared to even think that.

Denethor had been called away to deceide a pressing matter at court when the baby finally was born. Word was sent at once and Denethor hurried back to see his wife and child, when he arrived, Finduilas was just getting some help washing up, and so it was Imrahil who greeted him with a tired smile, relief written plain on his face, as he bowed before Denethor and handed him a small bundle.

"Your son has arrived after great travail."

-and added grinning "and trust me you will find there is NOTHING wrong with his lungs".

Denethor had eagerly taken the little boy from his uncle's arms and then for the first time beheld his second son, little Faramir, who looked at him with wide open eyes and a curious gaze.

Now his son would never open his eyes again. Then tiny hands had closed around his finger, holding on tight with a strength that never failed to amaze him. Now his son's had lay limply in his own.

Denethor looked out of the window where the battle was raging, feeling a curious disinterst towards the dramativ events unfolding outside. The world was ending. So be it. But he would not be slaughtered for sport but meet an end of his own making.

He called for the guards and as they carried the stretcher with his dying son out of the house he noticed one last irony, as they passed a now disused room which had once been the nursery and Faramir's first room.

The day of Faramir's birth Boromir had gone missing, like he was missing now. They had all searched for quite a while till finally the nurse found him on the floor of the new, yet empty nursery which had been prepared for the expected baby. Boromir, hearing that the baby was arriving any minute now had come there, waiting for his brother( the notion that it might be a sister angrily dismissed) to arrive and determined to be the first to meet him, had snuck into the nursery and spend many hours there peering into the cradle, if the baby had yet come.

As usual, Boromir had hurried ahead and then waited for Faramir to follow suit and join him.

Looking at Faramir's grey and haggard face Denthor knew Faramir was almost there already and felt reassured that they all would soon be reuinted.

And everything would be just the way it once began

[landwriter]

oh menacing writer of the land, I bow to thee. forgive me for my intrusion, for I come to you with great reverence. might I be granted with the holy scripture of the musician!dream x professor hob au? I bring an offering of information on touring, musician life + music industry insight, should you so graciously answer my prayers 🙏

a handsome gift! the least I can offer is more twitter beef au!! most of this was written right in my tumblr drafts when I was still labouring under the delusion that was I was doing could be called "describe the fic you would write" - hob learns about The Diss Track. in his introduction to english lit class:

On Thursday morning, Hob is walking to his lecture, wearing his one sweatervest, because he can, thank you very much. Morpheus hadn't posted in over a day, and he supposes that's just the speed of the internet, and their little battle of wits is over. When he gets into the hall and sets his bag down, every single one of his students looks up at once. And several young people who - who are not even his students, he thinks.

"Right, hello class. Good to see you all here and keen on our last lecture before winter break. And welcome to the new faces as well. I can only assume you're here because of your interest in Marlowe."

"Oh my god," someone says at the back, loud enough for Hob to hear. "He's wearing the vest." He firmly reminds himself this is exactly what he wanted.

Amanda, who sits at the front and always does the readings, raises her hand. Hob calls on her in relief.

"Uh. Professor. We love Marlowe. But haven't you seen it yet?"

Hob had forgotten to silence his phone and it's started buzzing. He ignores it.

"Seen what," he says, very levelly. Smiling firmly. Not at all panicking. Ignoring his students' exchanged glances.

"The song."

"It's a diss track," says another student.

"Sorry, yeah, the diss track."

The entire lecture hall is faintly vibrating with anticipation.

"Is there swearing?" he asks, "I mean, more than I do in class. Anything particularly offensive?"

"No, professor," she says, understanding immediately.

"Well, I suspect I'll find it pretty quickly if I check my phone just now, and that only half of you are here for Marlowe anyways, so let's just put it on, shall we?"

Some kids actually cheer. "Enough of that," he says, "We're going to have a rigorous academic discussion about it afterwards." Then, because he cannot and will not help himself, he adds, "Presuming, of course, there is sufficient subject matter to engage with."

He pulls out his phone and fails utterly to hide his grin at the chorus of ooohs. Someone in the back actually shouts, "Get him, professor!"

Sure enough, the same video has been sent to him half a dozen times. He pulls it up, gets it displayed on the lecture hall's screen, and presses play.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s see what all this fuss is all about.”

He has enough professional goodwill from years of teaching to do this kind of stupid thing, and it's nice to cash it in, sometimes. He likes to be the cool professor when he can. Even in a sweatervest.

He leans back against the lectern to watch. It's not Morpheus on screen, but a woman that Hob distantly recognizes. She's gorgeous, and apparently, given the rapturous whispers behind him, also at least a little famous. She's surrounded by takeaway containers, fiddling with her phone until music starts playing. "Good job, baby brother." She takes a sip of her beer and then wipes her mouth, and grins brightly right at the camera. "This one's for you, prof," she says, laughing.

Afterwards, the entire lecture hall is silent. Hob is silent.

"Holy shit," says a student, and Hob turns around, face burning. "She murdered you."

Hob gathers himself. He feels a little dizzy. It might low blood sugar. Or love.

"Indeed. Right. Well. Certainly a lot to unpack there." His hands are a little sweaty. It's definitely love. "This isn’t a classics class, but I know some of you are classics students and would be happy to educate us, so let’s start with that parallel made right at the start between the Lotophagi - that’s the lotus-eaters from The Odyssey - and the concept of academia as an ivory tower. Who wants to talk about that?"

Five different hands shoot up. "Wow. Okay, okay," he laughs. "Tristan, start us off."

In the next 80 minutes, he hardly gets a word in edgewise. He is, absolutely gloriously, playing discussion moderator instead of lecturer. Hob knows, feels it in his gut even now, that he will look back on this as one of the best classes he’s ever held. Students are twisting around in their chairs to engage with each other.

It is, he thinks, absolutely worth a bit of murdering.

[blackknight-100]

if i could request a prompt, a ramayana au! where rama goes to valmiki’s ashram to request sita to come back (as he does in some retellings) and gets a glimpse into how she’s lived all of these years, if the unit she and luv-lush have become and feels decidedly like an outsider. thank you!

Hello there! Thank you for the prompt. I haven't read any such retelling where Rama goes to request her to come back (unless you mean the one when Sita goes back into the earth, and I don't think you mean that?) so I hope this piece works for you:

It is Lakshmana who drives his chariot all the way to Valmiki’s aashram and offers him a hug of encouragement. A short, stocky woman in a saffron angavastra and a bun at the nape of her neck notices them first. Rama introduces himself and his brother, and watches with a wretched feeling in his gut as she gives them both a strained smile, introduces herself as Isha, and invites Rama in. To Lakshmana she says sternly, though not ungraciously, “Perhaps, it would be better if you wait outside.”

Rama opens his mouth to protest, daunted by the thought of facing this alone, and perhaps even a little peeved by the insinuation that his brother had done wrong by his wife; but Lakshmana touches his arm, bows, and answers, “As you wish, devi.”

Isha ushers him past residents going about their daily tasks and introduces him only to those curious enough to ask. She settles him under an old banyan tree, fetches him a glass of water with jaggery, tells him to wait, and then disappears.

Not long after, she returns and takes him past a different section, around the back and to a thatched hut in a corner. Rama immediately discerns this is where Sita must live. There is a little garden around the track leading to the door, and the flourishing greenery bears the marks of her care. In the verandah is a straw chair, amateurly made but well loved. Isha, who had gone in, now comes out with two little boys, one in each hand, and nods at him. “You can go in,” she tells him, “but do not wander around alone. This is the women’s section.”

It is only when she and her charges are out of sight that he realizes those two must have been his sons. He has heard, of course, of the twins – Lav and Kush, but for the first time he knows their faces. The thought of it nearly brings him to his knees and it is with some difficulty that he drags himself in.

Janaki, as he sees her now, is much changed. No longer is she the delightful princess he met so long ago. She is thin, her face gaunt from the labour of raising her children so far from the family that was supposed to aid her. And yet she still shines brighter than the Sun that fathered the Raghu clan, and if Rama ever harboured notions of getting over his love and loss, he now knows he was sorely mistaken.

“Sita,” he murmurs, and how broken a sound it is! What use is his kingship if he cannot have what he wants with all his heart? This is the woman he has waged a war for, the one who has borne his children, and the one who he has forsaken.

“Rama,” she murmurs back, and he can hear the suppressed tears trying to burst out. But this Sita is not the blushing girl he wedded in Mithila. This Sita has lived through the humiliation of an Agni-Pariksha, has endured the ignominy of being forsaken. Sorrow has brightened the fire in her eyes, misery has pressed her lips close together. She now stands straight and tall, assured in her ability to walk through horrors untold. This Sita will not be won over by lifting a bow.

“Please,” Rama says – and what a day, that Ayodhya’s king has come to beg – “please, come back. Come home with me.”

“And then?” she asks.

“I will fix everything,” Rama promises. There is a desperation in him that he can no longer suppress. He cannot hold her eye, and he cannot look away. All around him are traces of a hard life he has not lived – three straw mats propped on the wall, an earthen pitcher draped with a moist white cloth, utensils stacked neatly on a rack. “Come home, Sita,” he pleads, and weeps.

Sita’s hands are rough on his face, marred with callouses. She draws him close to her, and he leans onwards, shuddering like a man dying as her lips touch his forehead in benediction.

“I love you,” she tells him, and it is like pressing down on a much-loved bruise, painful and intoxicating all at once. “I have loved you all my life, and I will continue doing so forever. But I cannot go back.”

Rama’s voice is a whisper when he speaks, a prayer at the temple of her soul. “Why?”

Sita laughs. It is not the same resonant sound as before, bright as a bell. This laugh is a softer tinkle, tinged with the memory of what is, and what has been. “Do I not get an apology?” she teases.

Rama opens his mouth, a hundred protestations and regrets bubbling up even as shame colours his cheeks.

Sita shakes her head. “Where is your dharma, scion of Raghu? What will the people say?”

“The people miss you,” Rama says, and Sita scoffs.

“Bharat can be King,” Rama bursts out, unable to bear the harshness of that sound. “He has done this before. I will… we will go away together. Sitey, we will make something for ourselves, I…”

There is a scuffling sound, and Sita lets go of his face. Clutching his arm, she hauls him to his feet and steps outside. The loss of her touch stings, like someone has poured ice-cold water over him and he follows her blindly, seeking that relief again.

“Maa!” It is all the warning they have before the twins dash around the corner, all muddy clothes and twigs tangled in their hair. A calf prances in right after them, mooing out to the whole world.

Sita frowns like a switch has been flipped. She gives them both a severe look. “Where is Isha? And which of you freed him?”

“I don’t know. I saw him and he was getting bored,” Lav (or was it Kush?) pouts. “And we were bored too.”

Beside him, his twin draws a line in the mud with his toes, giggling. Sita stares at it for a long while.

“Maa! Bhaiyya poked me,” the first boy complains, and Rama feels a rush of relief knowing he had not guessed wrong.

“I didn’t,” Kush protests.

Sita places a hand on each of their shoulders, herds them to the calf. “Go, return him. It is bad manners to let loose animals in the aashram.”

Lav clutches the edge of her pallu, his little lips wobbling. “I wasn’t trying to be bad.”

“I know,” Sita sighs and presses a kiss to each of their foreheads. Rama’s heart aches. They cannot be older than six years, Taksh is, after all, just five. They are just babies, really.

Kush tugs his brother’s arm. “Come,” he says, side-eying Rama. Lav quietens down and follows him.

Sita watches him watch them go. “Do you think they would be better off in the Palace?” she asks eventually.

“Not if you aren’t there,” he replies. And it is true, he thinks bitterly.

Sita twists her fingers, pulls her pallu closer. “I will think on it,” she promises, and Rama holds those words close to his heart.

“I must go now,” he says, although he wants to do anything but. Sita does not seem particularly offended though. “I will see you off,” she offers, and he thinks it’s better she has the time to reflect on everything.

Outside, Lakshmana is sitting on a rock, talking softly with Lav and Kush. The calf is sprawled across the ground with its head on his knee, making soft, contented noises from all the petting. He stands when he notices them, and the boys let out identical shrieks of alarm.

“We’re going!” Kush yells, dragging the poor creature away.

Beside him, Sita rolls her eyes. “Go faster.”

They wait till the children are gone before approaching, and Lakshmana bows down to touch her feet.

Rama watches with a foreign pang in his chest as his brother apologizes profusely to his wife, and Sita, ever-loving, pats his shoulders and forgives him with a hug. Lakshmana volunteers information about her parents and sisters and she listens with the rapture of a chataka witnessing the year’s first rains, and Rama barely manages not to be jealous.

They leave much later with well-meaning goodbyes, and Lakshmana extracts a second invitation to the aashram. When Rama gets on to the chariot, all he knows is failure and loss.

But Lakshmana does not drive them home. He leads the horses half a mile into the jungle and swings around to look at him. “You are upset,” he says. It is not a question.

“I messed up,” Rama tells him bitterly. It is hard to conceal his resentment now that the whole world is against him. He had sent away his wife to please his people, against the wishes of all his family. And now the same citizens of Ayodhya denounce and scorn him, and his brothers look to him warily, as if to guard his sisters-in-law from a similar fate. Dasaratha had chosen his wife over his people and paid for it, and now Rama pays for the contrary. What is, then, the right answer?

“Did you apologize or explain?” Lakshmana asks.

Rama bites his lip, barely refrains from losing his temper. How is this my fault? he wants to ask. Have I not suffered as well?

Lakshmana touches his arm, gives him a compassionate look. “When we had the boys,” he begins, and Rama has to smile at the thought of them, “we – Urmila and I – fought a lot. One of those times, it was my fault. I will not tell you want happened, and I hope you will not ask, because you will be very angry, but suffice to say it was bad.”

Rama sits down, blinks at him, interested now. “And then?”

Lakshmana gives him a sheepish smile. “I was too bull-headed to accept that it was my fault. But Urmila came up and said that she was sorry for acting the way she did, and that she could see my point. I was, as you can understand, mortified.”

“Huh,” Rama says, surprised. This is not how fights between Sita’s sister and Sumitra’s oldest usually end.

“Anyway, I told her that no, it was my fault, and she should not have to step back when she had been correct. And then, bhaiyya, Urmila told me something really important. She said when we fight someone we love, we should step back for a moment, and apologize even if we weren’t wrong, so we could initiate a conversation about what happened and how to prevent it.”

“…oh,” Rama says, for lack of a better response. “That is… very mature.”

His brother nods sagely. “There is never a dull moment with Janak’s daughter. But you see what I’m trying to say?” “Yes,” Rama breathes, pieces falling into place. “Let’s go back, I will tell her! Lakshmana!”

But Lakshmana merely settles back in, shakes his head. “Not today,” he advises. “Let her have some time to see what she wants. Too long we have tried to mold her into what she should have been, instead of appreciating what she was. We will come back another day.”

Rama doesn’t want to go, not to that empty Palace in Ayodhya that is no longer home. But he takes his brother’s words to heart and listens. After all, if he cannot trust Lakshmana, he can trust no one.

[ladysansalannister]

The Garden of Proserpine

“Here, where the world is quiet;

Here, where all trouble seems

Dead winds' and spent waves' riot

In doubtful dreams of dreams;

I watch the green field growing

For reaping folk and sowing,

For harvest-time and mowing,

A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,

And men that laugh and weep;

Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap:

I am weary of days and hours,

Blown buds of barren flowers,

Desires and dreams and powers

And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,

And far from eye or ear

Wan waves and wet winds labour,

Weak ships and spirits steer;

They drive adrift, and whither

They wot not who make thither;

But no such winds blow hither,

And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,

No heather-flower or vine,

But bloomless buds of poppies,

Green grapes of Proserpine,

Pale beds of blowing rushes

Where no leaf blooms or blushes

Save this whereout she crushes

For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,

In fruitless fields of corn,

They bow themselves and slumber

All night till light is born;

And like a soul belated,

In hell and heaven unmated,

By cloud and mist abated

Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,

He too with death shall dwell,

Nor wake with wings in heaven,

Nor weep for pains in hell;

Though one were fair as roses,

His beauty clouds and closes;

And well though love reposes,

In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,

Crowned with calm leaves, she stands

Who gathers all things mortal

With cold immortal hands;

Her languid lips are sweeter

Than love's who fears to greet her

To men that mix and meet her

From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other,

She waits for all men born;

Forgets the earth her mother,

The life of fruits and corn;

And spring and seed and swallow

Take wing for her and follow

Where summer song rings hollow

And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,

The old loves with wearier wings;

And all dead years draw thither,

And all disastrous things;

Dead dreams of days forsaken,

Blind buds that snows have shaken,

Wild leaves that winds have taken,

Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow,

And joy was never sure;

To-day will die to-morrow;

Time stoops to no man's lure;

And love, grown faint and fretful,

With lips but half regretful

Sighs, and with eyes forgetful

Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,

From hope and fear set free,

We thank with brief thanksgiving

Whatever gods may be

That no life lives for ever;

That dead men rise up never;

That even the weariest river

Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,

Nor any change of light:

Nor sound of waters shaken,

Nor any sound or sight:

Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,

Nor days nor things diurnal;

Only the sleep eternal

In an eternal night.”

—Alergnon Charles Swinburne

[mrsarnasdelicious]

House Full of Heathens

Slightly Fix it and Very Poly. Reader x Sihtirc, Reader x Finan, Reader x Osferth, Reader x Leofric, Sithric x Uthred, Sithric x Finan, Sithric x Osferth, Finan x Osferth.

Ch 1: No Oaths

You have found yourself in the company of Skorpa of the White Horse, though you are not sure how. They are a fragtag band, only fortunate enough that the people of Cornwalum are no fighters. There is no silver in the plunder and the livestock is skinny. No worthy sacrifice for Loki or Tyr.

Skorpa does not know who you are. That your father is Harald Finehair, a great King among Danes. Nor does he know you ran away to escape that life. To be free and anonymous.

You have half a mind to leave Skorpa behind and strike out on your own. Find a comely man to fuck and a nice fat bull to dedicate to Loki.

This opportunity is presented in the guise of Uhtred Ragnarson. His ragtag band of Saxons strikes a deal with Skorpa, though you know Skorpa is lying, you see it in those piss coloured eyes. Fucker. You have no time to warn Uhtred of the deceit, though. Things escalate quite quickly. And before you know it, King Peredur is dead. His silver is ripe for the taking. Sadly, there are no comely men to be found., only Peredur’s shadow queen. And she is looking at Uhtred like his cock is made of gold.

And of course, Skorpa makes off with the silver. You don’t follow him out of Peredur’s timber keep. You have long since had your fill of his band of poxy whoresons.

“Oi, Uhtred, one of Skorpa’s men is still here.” Says a tall man, who is in Uhtred’s company. You take off your helmet, throwing it at his feet. Uhtred looks up from Iseuld and begins to laugh. “That, Leofric, is no man. This is a Shield Maiden.” He says. The man gapes at you. You smirk at him. “Yes, Leofric, I am no man.” You purr. “But! The Battlefield is no place for a maiden!” Leofric protests. “Don’t you know some of the fiercest warriors are women.” Says Uhtred. Leofric opens his mouth, but Iseuld shakes her head.

“Come, I will help you to the rest of the silver.” She says, The men follow her out of the keep.

The men dig up the dungheap with their hands and the last of their dignity. You and Iseuld stand by and watch. “The gods have it in for this one.” You say. “Utred?” Asks Iseuld. You nod. “They will test him, time and again. They will reward him for his labours, but gods will he have to fight. Especially with Kings.” You say. Iseuld nods. “Are you a seer?” She asks. You shake your head. “I am sometimes given dreams. I had dreams of Uhtred and his companions. I dreamt of glory and I dreamt of death. And maybe those death’s don’t have to come to pass.” You reply

The silver is swiftly divided and you approach Uhtred. “Son of Ragnar, my sword is yours.” You tell him firmly. He gives you an up and down. A small smirk tugs at his lips. “I will gladly accept. What is your name?” He asks. “I am called Y/N.” You reply, extending your arm. He clasps you by the elbow. “Just Y/N?” Leofric asks. “Y/N Haraldsdottir.” You reply. “Harald? You mean Harald Finehair?” Uhtred furrows his brow at you. You nod in answer. “Is that someone I should know?” Leofric asks. “He is one of the greater Dane Kings.” Uhtred replies.

Leofric bodily turns to you. “Princess.” He gives you a stiff bow. You burst out laughing. The Saxon looks at you, obviously startled. He casts his gaze to Uhtred, utterly nonplussed. “Something I said.” He mutters. Uhtred smiles widely. “I think this shield maiden has not been named heir to her father’s realm. This is not uncommon, even for sons.” Uhtred replies. “I am not a princess.” You add. “Very well, not a Princess.” Leofric concedes.

You ride out with Uhtred’s little band. Back to Wessex. For them at least. You have not yet been in Wessex before. It is just heading into the next adventure.

Uhtred parts from the group. To do what, you cannot quite make out. “Stay with Leofric.” He says to you, before he leaves. You have half a mind to just leave and find another useless band of Danes. You swore Uhtred no oaths. But you stay with Leofric anyway. He smiles so charmingly and he has a sharp sense of humour. You decide you quite like him.

You ride beside him on the trek back to Winchester. It is a hard ride and by the time you arrive, you feel like your arse is made of wood, but at least you got somewhere substantial.

“You go find yourself an inn or an alehouse. I will come find you and tell Uhtred where you are.” Leofric says. “Where will you go?” You ask. Leofric looks down and chuckles gently. “I am going to have to see the King.” He says. “Find me after that?” You smirk up at him. Leofric ponders on the answer for a little while. But then he grins widely. “If you have yourself a room at an inn, I will.” He says. “I got silver enough for it.” You answer. “So you do.” Leofric agrees.

He takes his leave and you are left to your own devices for a few hours. You explore Winchester on your own, wandering the narrow streets and take in the houses and people and the animals in the streets.

There is a cart selling meat pies, and you buy one. You enjoy the rich flavours as you walk and eat your pie. Then you find yourself an ale house to have a pint. And Leofric finds you there.

“There you are.” Says the Saxon. You look up from your drink. “I’ve been looking for you for a good while now.” He sits down beside you. “I have been trying to enjoy the piss water you Saxons call ale.” You retort. “That is called ale because Alfred wants people to be able to work come morning.” Leofric gestures to the barmaid. She nods and pours him a pint, too. “It sucks. I’d rather have water next time, but clean water is likely not an option in a place like this.” You reply. Leofric nods and pulls some silver from a pouch at his hip.

“You Saxons are so dirty.” You say. Leofric looks at you, mildly disgruntled. “There is shit in these streets, I have seen you bathe only a handful of times and by the gods, clean water is harder to come by than gold.” You tell him. Leofric scoffs, but he can’t tell you you are wrong. “So that means you won’t take me to bed?” He asked with a sly smirk. You ponder on a reply for a while. You know he has no opportunity to wash. He’ll smell of horse and sweat. His mouth will taste of ale and old blood, but so will yours. You suppose you’ll just not suck his cock.

“I’ll find an inn.” You say, draining your ale and getting up. Leofric follows your example. He throws a few more coins on the table, for the barmaid. “Come, I know a good place.” He says. “A clean place?” You ask, with a wicked smirk. “Woman, you sure are something.” Leofric scoffs. But he takes you by the hand and leads you from the alehouse to a three story, timber built inn. It is a very good looking building, less run down than the alehouse.

“Is this to m’lady’s liking?” Leofric asks. You look up at him and smile. “Yes it is. Also, I am not a lady. I am a shield maiden.” You tell him. “I doubt you are a maiden. I won’t be the first man you hump.” He sounds very convinced. You chuckle and pull some silver from your coin pouch. “My pay.” You tell him. “Very well.” Leofric agrees.

It takes you only a handful of minutes to be given a key to a room and head upstairs.

Once the door shuts behind you, Leofric shoves you against its wooden surface. His eyes are dark and full of desire. “Go on then, take me.” You hiss. Leofric chuckles and cups your face with his huge hand. He does smell of horse, but not as bad as you expected. You close your eyes and hear Leofric make an approving little sound. Then he leans in to kiss you slowly. It is almost experimental. Not like he does not know how to kiss, but like he is trying to find out what you will like best.

You wind your arms around his neck and kiss him back greedily. Leofric groans loudly. He is not expecting you to be so forward. But you are a Dane, not a Saxon. You know how to please a man for true. And this most certainly does not include meekly doing as you are told.

You start shoving him backwards, to the bed. Leofric grunts against your mouth, but puts up no fight. It is not easy, Leofric is absolutely huge, but slowly you manage to shove him to the bed. Leofric falls down on the bed, looking up at you. He grins and pulls you down on top of him. “Come here.” He growls. “Gladly.” You murmur.

You renew the kiss, bracketing his hips with your legs. Leofric groans and his hands slide to your ass. He grabs wickedly at your leather clad flesh. You moan into his mouth. You begin to rock your pelvis against his. Leofric swears against your lips and tries to keep you still. But you won’t let him hold you back. You will ride him! You will show this Saxon how Danes do things properly. You lick into his mouth, letting him know you are fully going to assert yourself. It does not matter that he is bigger. You have a lot of underhanded tricks up your sleeve. Leofric groans, not at all of a mind to complain. His tongue flicks out at yours and he tugs at your tunic. He is not taking this slow. You don’t want him to take it slow. It has been a while since you last had a man.

You break the kiss to sit upright and pull your tunic over your head. Your leather armour has been discarded hours before. Leofric licks his lips and gazes up at you. His fingers bunch in the cloth of your light undershirt. “Take this off.” He growls. You smirk and shake your head. “I hear no please, Saxon.” You cooe. “I don’t have to beg you, Dane.” Leofric growls. He helps you out of your undershirt. Once it is off, his hands go to your breasts right away. His palms are warm and his fingers calloused. You lean into his touch.

Leofric massages your breasts and pulls at your nipples. You close your eyes and revel in his ministrations. Soft, sweet moans pour from your lips.

And then he starts to grind up at you. He is hard in his breeches. You press back down on him. Leofric groans deeply and his hand slips down to the rim of your own breeches. His thumb trails slowly from your navel to your lacings. You shudder a little at how tender the ministration is. But then Leofric makes quick work of the laces of your breeches. “Take this off.” He growls. He’s quite demanding in his tone. “Ask nicely.” You purr. But Leofric shakes his head, beginning to tug down your breeches, as far as he can manage. This bares the better part of your arse and your womanhood.

“I smell you.” Leofric growls, grabbing you firmly by the arse. He growls and digs his fingers into your flesh.

You slide off of him to wriggle out of your breeches.

Leofric hurriedly sheds his clothes as well.

And then he is on you. His large body eclipses yours as he kisses you greedily. You moan against your lips, dragging your nails up his back. Leofric groans in answer. He presses his cock down against your folds. You roll your pelvis up at him. Leofric bites back a groan and grinds back down on you. “Gods.” You hiss into his mouth. “You want it?” Leofric growls. “Yes, hump me.” You whisper.

You don’t have to tell him twice.

He lines himself up and pushes into you. You moan loudly. Leofric adds a wordless moan to yours. You tilt your pelvis a little, to give him a better angle. “Go ahead, hump me.” You encourage him. A thing you won’t have to tell him twice, of course. Leofric pounds into you as though he hasn’t had a woman in weeks. And this might be the truth of it, though you have no way to make sure, bar ask him. And know better than to ask a man about when he last had sex.

Leofric presses his face into the nape of your neck. “You feel so good.” He growls against your skin. He slams his pelvis against your, over and over again, without holding back. The sounds rising from it are obscene. You moan and claw at his back. “Feisty little heathen.” Leofric murmurs. He nips at the lobe of your ear. You moan and rock your hips into his thrusts.

And then you judge he’s had his fun. It is your turn.

You grab him by the shoulders and topple him over. Leofric grunts, not expecting you to be this strong. Shoving down onto the bed, you straddle him. Your folds press down on his cock, which is wet from your cunt. Leofric groans darkly, squirming below you. He is not accustomed to a woman on top, it would seem. “Don’t struggle, I won’t hurt you.” You tell him. “You could not hurt me even if you tried, Little Heathen.” Leofric chuckles dryly. You reach out to grab his throat, quick as a snake. Leofric’s breath hitches. “I am a shieldmaiden, Saxon. I can hurt you.” You hiss. You press your fingertips into his skin. Leofric grabs your wrist, trying to get you to leave off. He is strong, but you are no meek little girl. You resist him. But with your free hand, you line up his cock with your wet core. “God, you are something else.” Leofric rasps. “I know.” You affirm, sinking down on him.

You ride him, your fingers still at his throat.

Leofric groans and tries to trash below you. But you know by now how to keep an unruly mount in check. “Make me cum.” You hiss at him. “Wh-what?” Leofric gasps. You finally let his throat go and instead taking his hand. You bring his fingers to your clit. “You know how to give a woman pleasure, don’t you Saxon?” You purr. “Of course I do.” Leofric huffs. “Then do it.” You order. Leofric rubs his thumb at your clit. You moan and roll your pelvis into his touch. “That is what you like, huh?” Leofric rumbles. “Any woman does, as you keep your touches gentle.” You reply.

He keeps rubbing you. And you keep riding him.

Your muscles tense and your inner walls clench down on Leofric’s cock. Leofric groans loudly and his ministrations begin to falter. “N-not yet.” You whimper. “I ca-can’t.” He grunts. “Just a little more.” You hiss.

You are so close.

“A little more.” You order. “My God, woman-” Leofric snarls. “Make me cum, Saxon.” You tell him firmly. “You will be the death of me.” Leofric growls. But he obliges. He keeps rubbing unsteadily at your clit. But it is enough. The tension inside you peaks and your core clings onto his cock. Lightning blazes down your spine and sets you ablaze. “Oh Gods.” You moan. Wetly, all tension gushes from you and your inner walls contract on Leofric’s cock. “Christ!” Leofric grunts. He bucks his pelvis up at you. He spends himself deep inside you. “Goddamn.” He groans. You smile down on him. “Well done, Saxon.” You smirk.

Slowly you get off him.

You lay down next to him, panting slightly. “Not bad, for an unwashed Saxon.” You smirk at him. Leofric chuckles hoarsely. “Not bad yourself, you heathen.” He replies. “It is always better with a Dane.” You tease. Leofric scoffs in reply. “You are awfully full of yourself.” He says. “I know myself well.” You reply with a wicked smirk. You roll over and kiss him fiercely. Leofric groans and pulls you close. He is not truly cross with you. He is just bruised in his pride.

The next morning you wake up with your face pressed against Leofric’s bicep. He is snoring lightly.

You decide to let him sleep and slip out of bed. You put your clothes and boots back on and head out. First to make your water and then to get yourself some breakfast. Your mind is barely on Leofric. He is not your future. He is Saxon and you are Dane. You need a fellow Dane to grow with, not a man like Leofric, as much as you enjoy him, for now.

You break your fast in the inn’s common room, on your own. You notice how people are looking at you. They know you are different, they know you are not of their god. And that makes you bad. Horseshit, of course. There are plenty of Gods to go around and worshipping some over others says nothing about someone as a person. It says only anything about which Gods they look to for strength, hope and comfort.

You try to ignore the whispers and the looks. You have better things to do than to get into a discussion with Christians today. Winchester is a big settlement and you have exploring to do. You gotta learn the secrets of this place, partly for the hell of it and partly because secrets give you a power over the people who might want to harm you here.