#marble tomes

[strwpup]

god guys. I've been so obsessed with the way titmouse has built and colored and shaded places i never really knew about or had stock in but guys. the team that brought us motherfucking whitestone and vasselheim bringing us ZADASH??? REXXENTRUM???

ROSOHNA????? MOTHERFUCKING ROSOHNA????? i will not apologize for the person i become when we get titmouse's rosohna. you KNOW they are going to go apeshit with the lighting there. the lucid bastion???? the THRONE ROOM (leylas kryn animated incident every single person injured and dead because she's too fucking beautiful)????? essek's lab and tower 🥺🥺🥺 the markets 🥺🥺🥺 the marble tomes 🥺🥺🥺 THE XHORHAUS???????

like if they are having so much fun with vasselheim i cannot WAIT until we get their take on this city of perpetually night, half underground mushroom caverns, all lit by green magelight, the tree in the xhorhaus glimmering on the skyline like i KNOW i will be sobbing

[scribefindegil]

Papercraft Tome for day 2 of GirlWeek!!

[essektheylyss]

To no one's surprise, I have more thoughts on Ashton's feelings about faith and begging for divine intervention and never receiving it, because... well, look at what's in their head.

I tend to take the view that the Luxon as a divine entity does not necessarily have conscious intent in granting divine favor; it is closer to a foundational force of reality, with the rather nebulous thought that might accompany a living entity associated with that kind of force. So not inert matter, but not exhibiting the will and motivated action that the Pantheon or even the Primordials do. The Primordials are closer, in that they are active, but I think they are less willful. This isn't particularly relevant to this discussion except as evidential comparison, though, so I digress.

What this view of the Luxon results in, in practice, is the bestowing of power by seemingly random chance. The beacons are where they are, and any movement of their worship or use is in the hands of mortals who convey that—whether that's the expansion of dunamantic arcana in Aeor and possibly the larger world in the Age of Arcanum, or the missionary efforts of the Kryn Dynasty, or simply one person passing it to someone with ill intent who exploits another worker to expand its use and turn it into a weapon instead.

And what happens is that these smaller exchanges create ripple effects, and the path of this force being conveyed continues, which is how it has come to Ashton—by a series of circumstances that, when looked at individually, look like mundane random chance, but taken as a whole, are so unlikely that they seem meaningful in the end.

I think this gets to the heart of what the Luxon seems to rule—the world may be governed by chance and circumstances, but when those circumstances are accumulated—into an event, or a nation, or a life—they create not destiny but meaning.

Ashton's circumstances are a series of misfortunes that feel almost fated in how perpetual they are—when he spells out the course of his life, and says that he can count on his fingers how many genuinely good days he's experienced, the weight of that misery feels like an oppressive fate.

But within the amalgamation of that misery, they've also happened upon—one might say were bestowed with—power. This is the power that lets him decide to be a hero and decide to save his friends. And, by some accounts in Exandria, it would've been granted to them by a god, without even asking anything in return. It's not verbal, so it's not a concession or meant to be placating, which wouldn't do much in the long run—it's the means by which Ashton has been able to wield control over his own destiny.

So if there's any meaning to circumstance, maybe it means that when Ashton prayed, something already answered.

[raymuratadraws]

" I was just guessing at numbers and figures.... (...) Oh take me back to the start." @skullhaver

[galleryofart]

A View of Trajan's Forum, Rome

Artist: Sir Charles Lock Eastlake (English, 1793–1865)

Date: 1821

Medium: Oil on Canvas

Collection: Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, CT, United States

[googiesita]

MH crew ref

Along with some headcanons.

Such as Jay being El Muchacho De Los ojos Tristes... also how do you say orejón in english, wtf, big-ears!!!??

inspired by mersei and pikanyachu!!!

[wizard-legs]

hey girl I’m so sorry but they dunked your boyfriend in plaster and they’re gonna use the mold to make mass produced garden decor to sell at Lowe’s. Yeah it’s just that we put a little dunce cap on him and he bore a striking resemblance to a garden gnome.

[r0ugesun]

just thinking about grumpy!aemond x sunshine niece!reader, that's all

Intimidating uncle who only smiles for his sweet niece?? How can I refuse? :> I hope u like it anon

Synopsis: Aemond’s icy demeanor softens as his playful niece, Y/n, brings joy and warmth into his life through her persistence and tender moments.

Aemond x Niece!Reader

The vast expanse of the Red Keep stretched before them, a labyrinthine structure of ancient stone and intricate tapestries of the Targaryens rich history. Within its cold, echoing halls, moved with his customary stoic grace, his singular eye perpetually narrowed, his demeanor perpetually grave. It was a disposition well-suited to his character, a shield against the tumultuous world he inhabited. Yet, like a glimmer of sunlight piercing through storm clouds, his niece, y/n, was a stark contrast to his brooding presence.

Y/n’s laughter echoed through the halls as she flitted about, a vision of radiance and mirth. Her wit was as sharp as Valyrian steel, and her spirit as unyielding as dragonfire. She was a beacon of joy in a court often shrouded in intrigue and gloom, and though many found solace in her presence, Aemond was not among them. Or so he would have others believe.

The gardens of the Red Keep were a sanctuary for y/n, a place where she could escape the stifling formality of court life. She found Aemond there one afternoon, standing by a marble fountain, his expression as inscrutable as ever. With a mischievous smile, she approached him.

“My dear uncle, why do you always seem to be plotting the downfall of the Seven Kingdoms?” she quipped, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Aemond’s eye flicked towards her, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I find little cause for humor, niece. Unlike you, I am not so easily distracted by frivolity.”

“Frivolity?” she repeated, her tone playful. “Surely, you do not think the pursuit of happiness to be frivolous, Uncle. It is the very essence of life!”

He huffed, turning his gaze back to the fountain. “Happiness is a fleeting illusion, y/n. It is duty and strength that endure.”

“Ah, but what is duty without joy? What is strength without laughter? A kingdom built on sorrow and scowling faces is a kingdom doomed to fall” she countered, her voice gentle yet firm.

Aemond’s expression softened ever so slightly, a fleeting hint of amusement in his eye. “You are relentless, aren’t you?”

“Relentless? Perhaps. Or simply persistent in my never ending quest to make you smile” she replied with a toothy grin. “I believe there is a smile hidden somewhere beneath that scowl.”

Aemond arched an eyebrow. “You overestimate your abilities, niece.”

“And you underestimate mine, uncle” she shot back, her tone light but her words carrying a subtle challenge.

Days turned into weeks, and y/n’s persistence in engaging Aemond in conversation did not wane. She would find him in the library, poring over ancient tomes, and offer her commentary on the latest court gossip. She would join him during his solitary walks along the battlements, teasing him about the weight of his thoughts.

One evening, as they dined with the royal family, y/n’s quick wit came to the fore once more. The courtiers were discussing a recent skirmish at the border, the atmosphere laden with a slight tension. Aemond’s expression was particularly dour, his mind clearly occupied with strategic considerations.

“Uncle Aemond” y/n began, her tone deceptively innocent, “do you believe the enemy quakes in fear of your legendary glare? Perhaps we should send a portrait of you to the battlefield. It might end the war without any bloodshed.

A ripple of laughter spread around the table, even King Viserys chuckling at her jest. Aemond’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smile breaking through his stern facade.

“You have a dangerous tongue, y/n” he said quietly, though there was no malice in his voice.

“Only when it is necessary to cut through the gloom” she replied with a wink.

Despite himself, Aemond found his defenses weakening. There was something irresistible about y/n’s unwavering cheerfulness, her ability to find light in the darkest corners. She was not deterred by his gruffness, nor intimidated by his icy demeanor. Instead, she met him with a courage and joy that was both infuriating and captivating.

One evening, as the sun set over the Blackwater Bay, they found themselves alone on the roof. Y/n leaned against the balcony, her eyes reflecting the golden hues of the sunset.

“Do you ever tire of being so serious, Uncle?” she asked softly.

Aemond sighed, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “It is not a matter of choice, y/n. The burdens I bear are heavy, the responsibilities immense.”

“And yet, you bear them with such strength. But even the strongest warriors need respite” she said, turning to face him. “Allow yourself a moment of peace, Aemond. If not for your sake, then for mine.”

He looked at her then, truly looked at her, and saw the sincerity in her eyes. The walls he had built around his heart began to crack, ever so slightly. Perhaps there was wisdom in her words, a truth he had long ignored.

“Very well,” he conceded, a faint smile gracing his lips. “For your sake, I shall try.”

Y/n beamed, her joy infectious. “That is all I ask, dear Uncle.”

In that moment, he found a glimmer of happiness he had thought lost forever. As he leaned closer to her, their breaths mingling, he felt an unfamiliar but welcome warmth.

With a gentle tilt of his head, he closed the distance between them, capturing her lips in a tender kiss. The world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them.

They drew back slightly, their foreheads touching, and Aemond could not suppress a soft chuckle.

“It appears you’ve managed to disarm me with a kiss” he said, his tone lighthearted.

Y/n’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she responded, “I had hoped that a kiss would be more effective than a sword. It seems I’ve found a more persuasive weapon.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow with a playful grin. “Am I to expect a steady stream of kisses to temper my seriousness?”

“Only if it ensures that you’re less somber” her smile teasing. “But fret not, I shall reserve my attacks for the most opportune moments.”

“Special occasions, then?” he inquired with mock seriousness. “I shall need to prepare for such events.”

Y/n’s laughter was light and musical. “Indeed, but for now, simply relish this one. It appears to be quite effective.”

Aemond shook his head, still smiling. “Your talent for lightening my mood is alarming. I may have to enlist you as my personal jester.”

“And here I thought I was merely your charming niece” she retorted in faux indignation, giving him a gentle nudge.

“Charming niece and occasional troublemaker” he corrected, “but I find I am quite content with both.”

Their shared laughter filled the space between them, making the day’s burdens seem lighter.

[m00nchildthings]

ALUCARD X PREGNANT!READER

This story was based off of this one right here: https://www.tumblr.com/m00nchildthings/703854020457021440/mating-press-and-breeding-kink-with-alucard

if anything this can be read as a sequel where he managed to get you knocked up cw for pregnant reader, oral sex one sparing use of the reader being called mama, and alucard being a hovering creep towards you for carrying his child also slight pregnancy kink if you squint not even read over once bone apple teeth🧑‍🍳😙🤌

p.s. @yazzzmints @ch3rryistheg you asked and i delivered

“You’re hovering Adrian”.

“I do not hover,”

You sighed, closing the large ornate tome you had been reading and setting it on the small wooden table beside your chair. He was hovering and whether he was oblivious to it or simply choosing to be obtuse, he was doing it a hell of a lot more recently. You knew why though, you thought as you brought your hand over your swollen stomach. Seven months into your pregnancy and through every step Alucard had treated you and your unborn child like fine china perpetually teetering over a precocious edge.

“You are aware we won’t turn to ash the moment we leave your vision,” you said cheekily staring up at your dhampir lover. His eyes narrowed before he swept past you, moving to sit in the armchair beside your own. He sat there, for a moment beautiful like marble with his eyes closed, before turning to face you.

“I am very well aware of that,” he said, placing his chin in his hand as he peered at you. You hummed, turning away from him, instead choosing to focus on the crackling fireplace in front of you, pretending the warm embers floating around the wood were far more interesting than the golden haired man sitting next to you.

“Then I hope that you are also aware,” you began pausing to take a sip of the tea still hot on your side table “that fathers who hover around the pregnant wives are bound to produce children that do not enjoy their company,”

“That isn’t true,” you could see his brows furrow from your peripheral view, hiding your chuckle behind another sip of tea, you continued.

“It very well might be an old wives tale, but I have heard of children coming out fussy towards their fathers fresh out of the womb-,” you were cut off with a loud swoosh as Alucard gracefully stepped towards you settling down at his knees, hands placed on your stomach.

“You won’t dislike me right?” he directed at your stomach, brow even more wrinkled with worry “Surely they understand I am just so, eager, to meet them right darling?,”

He stared up at you now, golden eyes tense with worry, your lip wobbled as you held back your smile. Here before you on his knees was Alucard Tepes; one of the slayers of Dracula, the feared prince of the night that cut down his enemies like knives through butter- reduced to a simpering thing at the fear your child might come straight from you hating him. You relented not having the heart to tease him any longer you cradled his jaw in your hand.

“I was just teasing my love, surely our child will love you just as much as I,” immediately he relaxed, melting into the palm of your hand. His golden eyes cut up at you a small smirk tugging on his lips.

“You are cruel to do such a thing to your doting lover,” his alabaster hand gripped your wrist as he turned to lay a kiss in the fleshy part of your palm. “I treat you so sweetly and you insist on giving me heart palpitations.

“Consider it payback for what your hellspawn is doing to my body, I can barely make it from here to the door without my swollen ankles and aching spine objecting,” you said, bringing your hand away from him to stretch the intense cracking of your back emphasizing your point.

Alucard stood, staring down at you, he adored your changing body evidence of the growth of his child in you. You’d always been beautiful in his eyes, but something about knowing the swell of your stomach was from your baby growing inside of you, surely you were a goddess gifting him with the gifts of gifts. Bending down he looped his arms around your waist ignoring your grumbles of objection when he picked you up hoisting you into his arms until your knees hung over his elbows.

“Then allow me to be your legs,” you huffed rolling your eyes as Alucard toted you out of your rather comfortable reading room, you knew where he was taking you of course. The looming large ornate doors of your bedroom came into view as Alucard steadily carried you to them.

“Our bedroom,” you said flatly “I wonder what reason you could have for bringing me here Adrian,”

“I have no idea what you are implying deer,” he said, turning to press his back to the door, opening it with your combined weights. Barely holding back his impish grin (a look a great number of others refused to believe existed when you said he did so on the regular) he rushed you to your bed gently placing you on the downy mattress.

“Your feet must be killing you,” he said, gracefully moving to sit beside you and patting his lap. Begrudgingly you laid back against the comforter swinging your aching feet to his lap. He gently massaged your foot pressing his fingers into the soles of your feet soothing the pain that afflicted you. His talented hands seemed to pull all the aches from them knowing how to just work your body from months of repeated practice. A particularly forceful push into your left heel and you couldn’t hold back the moan that bubbled from your throat. Alucard smiled at you gently placing your feet on the bed beside him.

“See? So sweetly,” he said, placing his now free hand on your stomach.

“My body still aches,” you grumbled, still feeling the tension in your back

“I can help with that,”

“Your version of help is what got me into this predicament,” chuckling Alucard slowly spread your legs apart hiking your dress to just under your belly. There laid out before him nestled in a thatch of curls your cunt shined for him, already glistening with arousal. His slender fingers traced up the warm slit of your puffy lips noticing the audible hitch in your breaths

“If you don’t like my version of help then where are your undergarments,” he questioned, knuckles grazing up and down your quivering pussy

“They no longer -mmph- fit,” you moa, turning around to bury your head into the pillow.

“How lucky for me,” he murmured, just barely above a whisper as he sank down till his face was level with your heat “that my favorite snack is but a silk slip away from tongue,”

With one scathing breath his mouth was on you, pink lips pressing toward your own. His tongue wickedly lapped at you running wet circles around your throbbing clit before slipping its way into your clenching cunt. He couldn’t help the vibrating moans, near purrs that reverberated into you, as your juices flooded his taste buds. He couldn't help the way he ate at you ravaging your quim with every fiery stroke through your quivering lips. Your hands tugged at his golden locks pulling him closer and closer to your weeping cunt. How foolish, he thought as he drank up all you had to offer, why pull him close when you both know the last thought on his mind was pulling away?

Your orgasm crested, creeping up on you with each lascivious lick that toyed with your throbbing clit. It was with one particularly harsh suck that had you falling apart, melting apart like butter on warm toast your cunt creamed over your lover's tongue. Undeterred Alucard continued to viciously feast on your juices, moaning as they glossed his face. Clawed hands though gentle, held your hips in place as they began to buck so he could wrap his lips around your clit sucking on the shiny pearl undisturbed.

“A-Adrian please, s’too much I need-,” interrupting you Alucard sighed loudly, releasing your clit with an audible pop.

“You never let me have my fill,” he complained peering up at you over your swollen belly “but I know what you need,”

Rising Alucard reached for his trousers tugging the strings till his cock, heavy with a bead of precum pooling at the tip, fell free. Smiling and flashing those fangs of his wide he pulled your legs to wrap around his waist. Grabbing at his cock he lined the drooling pink head with your equally wet cunt, rubbing it between your lips and nudging at your clit. Gently he pushed inside of you, hissing as your heat slowly enveloped him till the hilt. The two of you rested there for a moment panting as your limbs tangled about each other. You whined under him, arms reaching towards him, hands making grabby motions for him. Alucard reached underneath you pulling you towards him. You both sat there, connected at your most intimate of places, your sweaty forehead resting on his cool one.

“Adrian,”

“Yes my love?”

“Fuck me.”

“Yes my love”

With a low chuffing noise, Alucard thrust up into you once, twice, three times, every one seeming to be deeper than the last. Your mouth hung agape as your lover continuously fucked up into you carving the shape of him deep into your cunt. Moans barely escaped you as every thrust seemed to steal your breath, your eyes stared into the golden ones of your lover unable to look away. Before you could process Alucard's hand gripped your ass holding you towards him as he stood on the bed, steadying his feet in the cushion and using his grip to lift you fast up and down his cock.

“Do you feel me sweet, deep, in here,” he rasped as he bounced you on his cock balls slapping on your ass. His hot breath fanned your face as he used your own weight to fuck you, one particular hard thrust had your eyes rolling back into your skull, and with a rush words escaped you.

“Fuck Adein yes! Fuck me please, I- oh god don’t stop!” you screamed nails clawing into the rolling muscles of his back.

“That’s it mama,” he hissed somehow managing to grip you closer, shifting to the balls of his feet he began to roll his hips up into you to match every bounce of your ass against his thighs “Take it, cum for me, let me feel your silk grip me,”

You don’t know whether it was his words that got you there so quickly or the orgasm he gave you prior, but with a barely audible cry you came walls gripping him tightly as you gushed around him. Alucard grit his teeth at the grip your cunt had him in, thrusting a few times before spilling inside you with a strangled cry. Alucard fell to his knees holding you close as you both bounced on the mattress. He pulled you off him holding back chuckles when you grumbled from the over sensitivity. Gently he laid you down before getting off the bed and leaving towards your bedroom bath chamber. He returned with a warm bowl of water and two warm cotton cloths.

Sitting beside you Alucard dipped the washcloth into the water wringing it before bringing it to your heaving body. Carefully he cleaned you off, wiping the spunk he left at your center. You groaned, pushing at his hands, still feeling far too sensitive. With a chuckle he dropped the now sullied rag once you were clean of him, reaching to prepare the second one he had brought and pressed the soothing cotton to your sweaty brow. Your eyes closed as you let your dhampir lover continue with his aftercare.

“Am I forgiven yet, for breeding you with my -what did you call our child- hellspawn?” he asked golden eyes trained onto your face. With a sigh you looked up at him already having forgotten the remark you had made earlier. A sly smirk tugged at your tired face.

“For the time being leonito,”

[ariadne-mouse]

Still laughing about Caleb casually telling Essek in front of the Marble Tomes that he was in training to be a Scourger, when they have one in custody right that second for attempted murder in the Dynasty. Like from Caleb's perspective he'd established his goodwill pretty loudly via the beacon and even said he was from an "inner circle" of the Empire. But I feel like "btw that inner circle was assassins" is like a next level of bold to say when there has just been an assassin attack. And Essek maybe reads Caleb's earnestness correctly because he doesn't seem alarmed and just quips "are you telling me you're a Scourger?" and easily accepts the answer of no; it came across almost more like a teasing remark than anything else. But I also can't help but wonder if Essek, secretly-working-with-the-leader-of-said-assassins-(among-others) Essek, was also playing 5D chess with himself in his head for a moment as Caleb unknowingly threw yet another wild curve ball specially formulated to incite Crisis Mode for one (1) traitor in particular

[sarahscribbles]

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞…𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟒.𝟗𝐤

𝐀𝐍: 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲'𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐜. 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞

𝐀𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

It’s the faint, purposeful thump of leather boots on stone that pulls you somewhat lethargically from the crinkled tome before you. A deep breath, a relieving stretch of tired muscles, an exhausted slump over the ornate marble table. An empty moment passes, followed blissfully by several more, and then reality crashes back around you like a peal of thunder. 

Fuck.

The roaring fire that had been dancing and crackling merrily in the grate to your right has long since turned to ash, and the library is now illuminated in a pearly glow rather than a golden glimmer. 

You’ve done it again. 

Groggily, you run your hands over your tired face, caring little that they’re likely spotted with ink stains. You had promised him this wouldn’t happen anymore. He had been vocal on how it displeased him to find you shivering in the library at absurd hours of the night, and you had promised that you would bring your studies to your chamber once the moon began to climb. 

And you had kept that promise.

Well, until tonight. 

Tonight, the High Valyrian text has kept you stubbornly in your seat. It’s complex and dense and has evaded your blossoming translation skills for the better part of the evening. You had desperately wanted to make your husband proud - you had envisioned yourself returning triumphantly to your chambers able to boast that, even with your own patchy translation skills, you had managed to untangle the seemingly endless sentences.

The gods, it seems, are not looking upon you with favour.

A fresh wave of irritation bubbles within you. The text before you feels mocking in its complexity and you’re briefly overcome with the urge to tear the delicate pages from the spine.

The burning vexation with your husband’s mother tongue, though, doesn’t stay with you long.

The heavy footsteps that had broken through your studious stupor continue to grow louder as they approach the doors, and, unsurprisingly, it takes only moments before your heart feels as though it’s trying to echo their rhythm.

Because those footsteps are familiar and they can mean only one thing. 

Aemond has come looking for you.

The knowledge of such a simple fact sends excitement surging through your blood like a bolt of lightning. In your mind's eye you can picture your husband prowling around the castle in search of you, and growing increasingly frustrated when you continue to evade him. In truth, you really hadn’t intended to displease him, but, given how you’ve quickly become the prize at the end of a hunt, it’s impossible not to eagerly anticipate your discovery. 

You’re close to giddy when the colossal doors to the library finally heave open, but you force your eyes back to the pages strewn haphazardly across the table, feigning a deep interest in the intricate text. Even when the doors ease closed and Aemond’s determined footsteps come to a gradual stop at the opposite end of the table you still don’t look up, biting back the smile that’s threatening to unfurl across your lips. 

The seconds continue to tick by, the tendentious quiet of the library only broken by the sound of your own heart pounding in your chest. Under your husband’s heavy gaze - because you can feel how intently he’s watching you - you fight the urge to fidget, to nervously tap at the table, to do anything to channel the excitement that’s furiously rushing through you. 

Of course, it’s Aemond who finally breaks the silence. 

“The hour grows late and our bed grows cold,” he says in that silken smooth voice. “Haven’t I told you how it displeases me to find you here so late? I do not relish the thought of my wife freezing to death in a library chair.” 

The excitement bubbling through you finally escapes in a loud burst of laughter. You raise your head to look at him, but your smile only grows wider at the serious expression on his handsome face. “We are far from the ice of the North, husband, and the fire has only just died. It would seem I have cheated death once more.”

Aemond’s face remains impassive, but you don’t miss how his lips quirk with the ghost of an amused smile. His eye stays trained on you as he walks the length of the table, only stopping once he’s close enough to reach out and take your hand in his. The warmth of it seeps pleasantly into your cool skin, and, with that, you know he’s caught you.

“Do you think me a fool?” he asks quietly, tracing his thumb slowly over your knuckles. 

“I do not,” you answer, suddenly now craving the warmth of his embrace.

He hums a response, then turns his attention to the array of books covering most of the marble topped table. “And what is it that is keeping my wife so infuriatingly out of my reach tonight?” He asks, picking up a book at random to scan the page. “High Valyrian? I hadn’t realised you were so inclined, my love.” 

You offer him your sweetest smile. “How else am I to whisper filth in your ear when we break bread with our neighbours? I know how tiresome you find the ceremony of Court, I only wish to make it more tolerable as any good wife would.” 

Aemond smirks and tosses the heavy tome carelessly back atop the others. “Indeed? And how far has my little scholar progressed in her endeavour?” 

“A fair amount, though some parts are proving to be more challenging than others,” you admit. 

It’s impossible to hide the tinge of shame that wraps around your words. Your husband speaks High Valyrian beautifully and with an ease that you’ve long been jealous of. Each word of the ancient language drops from his lips as naturally as rain from the skies, all while your own meager attempts have been clunky and awkward. You know Aemond would never taunt you for it, but the embarrassment and frustration still burn like dragonfire within you. 

“Mhm.” It’s the only response he offers before placing your hand back in your lap. 

With the practiced ease of a seasoned predator, your husband takes the few remaining steps to stand directly behind your chair and places two large hands upon your shoulders. “Mayhaps you need a tutor? It would be a sin to let such a brilliant mind go to waste, no?” He poses the question quietly, almost innocently, but you know him well enough to hear the not so subtle ripple of debauchery beneath every word. 

You shift slightly on the velvet cushions as a pleasant tingle gradually fizzes to life between your thighs. 

“Mayhaps I do,” you answer thoughtfully, fighting not to react when the soft pads of his thumbs begin to trace the exposed skin of your shoulders. “Who do you propose, my prince?”

It’s a ridiculous question, you know, but you’ll happily play his game tonight. Already, your need for him is burning a fiery trail beneath your skin. Tonight you’ll be his, however he wants you.

As if there were any other option.

You hear the soft rustle of clothing, feel the familiar caress of blonde hair on your shoulder, and then Aemond’s forehead is resting against your temple. “Someone who understands how to properly motivate you.” His teeth nip playfully at your earlobe, and you’re powerless to stop the breathless moan that floats like a dream from your lungs. 

Your head hits the gilded back of the chair in tandem with one hand curling around the edges of the mahogany armrest. The other tangles loosely into Aemond’s hair in an attempt to guide his lips back to your neck, the eager tilt of your head a silent plea to your husband to begin his assault. It matters little that you’re in the library, that anyone could easily push their way through those doors and catch your shameless tryst. Such is your need for Aemond you’d happily let the entire kingdom watch as he made you his. 

The tip of his regal nose traces a faint line along the sensitive skin of your neck, and you hold your breath in wait for the press of his lips on your throat, but they don’t come. Your brow furrows, followed almost instantly by a soft whine tumbling quietly into the silence of the library. All until you feel your husband’s hot breath against your cheek. 

“Translate,” Aemond murmurs softly in your ear. “Kostilus bodmagho nyke, valzȳrys.”

Your mind grasps quickly at the threads of words, hastily weaving them together in what you pray is the right answer. “Please teach me, husband.” 

“Mm, good,” he replies simply, and your reward is the feel of his lips on your neck as he sucks his mark into your skin. 

Your sharp cry of pleasure echoes through the columns of the library, and melts swiftly into a shameful moan when you feel the wet heat of your husband’s tongue against your skin. Your hand twists deeper into his hair in another desperate attempt to pull him closer, because you always need him closer. Aemond is your heaven and your hell, he’s your every sinful thought brought to life, and you’d happily drown in him if given the chance. 

“Husband, please,” you breathe out, your head now fully resting on your shoulder and eyes fluttering closed. 

You never tire of your husband’s affections, whether they be brief and fleeting or whether they have you moaning his name long into the night. Each touch of his hands or press of his lips only makes you crave him more.

You can never get enough of him, but, this time, your desperate pleas go unanswered. 

Aemond untangles himself from you before you can draw breath to object. Instantly, you miss the comforting warmth and familiar weight of him draped around your shoulders, and you turn to him with betrayal shining in your eyes. Your husband only reaches for your hand with that perpetual smirk curling on his lips. With ease, he pulls you from your nest of cushions in a twirl of skirts so he can settle back comfortably in the chair. Just as easily he tugs you forward, guiding you closer until you can go no further, until you have no choice but to straddle him and feel the heavy weight of his hands resting low on your hips. 

“Mhm. Much better,” he purrs, pressing against your hips to slide you closer. 

The scent of him wraps around you like a favourite blanket - smoke and leather and, somewhere deep underneath, the faint, sweet smell of cinnamon. 

It’s Aemond. 

It’s home.

Loosely, you drape your arms around his neck, letting your fingers idly play with errant strands of blonde hair. “I must admit that I have never known my tutors to be so familiar with their students,” you tease him, watching the smirk grow on his face. 

Aemond’s lilac eye twinkles softly at you, and then his thumb and forefinger reach out to gently pinch your chin. “I should like to think not, wife, or they may find themselves soon without their heads.”

Your fingers curl into the soft material of his jerkin as something hot and primal stirs to life in the pit of your stomach. This is no idle jest; your husband is dangerously possessive of what he perceives to be his, and if some poor soul were to get too familiar…

His possessiveness doesn’t frighten you. Rather, it makes you crave him so deeply that you feel the ache right down to your bones. You need this man like you need the air that fills your lungs, and, instinctively, you begin to rock against the thick material covering his thighs. 

Aemond chuckles low in his throat, curling his hands tightly round your hips to hold you in place. His grip is like steel - hard and unyielding - and you know that tonight your release will not be easily granted.

He studies you silently and with such intensity that you wonder if he can hear the pounding of your heart. You feel his fingers dig into your hips - a warning in itself - and then he shifts his thigh beneath you at just the right angle to brush teasingly against your aching core. 

“Aemond, please!”

He quirks an eyebrow at your plea, but, infuriatingly, makes no move to offer any relief. “Zaldrīzes,” he says quietly, holding your gaze with that beautiful lilac eye. When several moments pass and fail to say a word, that familiar smirk pulls across his face. “Mhm. Mayhaps you tire after your hours of study, wife.” He makes as though to lift you from his lap, but, at the final second, the last piece of the puzzle slots into place. 

“No!” You cry out, not the least bit ashamed at how desperate you sound. “Dragon. That’s what you said, isn’t it?” 

Aemond relaxes back against the chair, lilac eye flashing with satisfaction. “Good,” he says simply, and you feel his large hands run along the length of your back and along your shoulders until he’s cupping your head firmly between them

His lips are warm as they meet yours and the sheer force of his kiss takes you by surprise. You melt into him easily, letting your own hunger for this man guide your lips. Your fingers tangle greedily into his hair, and every inch of you screams more, more, more.  Aemond’s kiss is slow and deep and lasts nowhere near long enough. You clutch at him and swallow a whine when he finally pulls away, peering at him with desperate, pleading eyes. 

The taste of him lingers on your lips - faint traces of honeyed wine - and you want nothing more than to get drunk on him, to have so much of him it addles your senses and strikes you dumb.

You want Aemond Targaryen, more than you’ve wanted anything in your life. 

“As I said, wife, someone who knows how to motivate you.” The soft pad of his thumb traces your cheek, and you can’t help but instinctively lean into his touch. “Dārys,” he then says, letting his hand fall to rest on the curve of your shoulder. 

“King,” you answer before the last syllable leaves his tongue, so eager are you for the coming reward. 

This time, Aemond’s praise doesn’t come. Instead, his lips latch onto the sensitive skin of your jaw, kissing and sucking until the silence of the library is filled with your moans of his name. His kisses are warm and slow and, when you feel the wet press of his tongue against your pulse point, you’re shamelessly arching into him in search of more.

“Jaqiarzir,” he continues, beginning to suck another mark into your flushed skin.

Your mind is half gone to the lavender haze of lust. All you know is the softness of Aemond’s lips, the firmness of his thighs underneath you, the silky feel of his hair twisted around your fingers. Against that, everything else feels so terribly unimportant, but a gentle nip to your jaw reminds you that your husband still expects an answer. 

“Glory,” you half moan, feeling a burst of pride surge through your blood when Aemond hums against your neck. 

“Clever girl,” he murmurs, taking your chin back between his thumb and forefinger to reward you with a single slow, deep kiss.

Once again, he pulls away long before you’re ready, and his eye is filled with a quiet dare to challenge him. 

You know better. 

“You’re becoming a tease, husband,” you settle on saying, hearing the evident breathlessness in your own voice. 

“If my love would prefer a different means of instruction, then I am nothing but willing to hear so,” Aemond replies smoothly, his one eye twinkling with mirth.

You fight to keep a neutral expression, but all too easily a grin is curling across your lips. “I would not dream of questioning your methods, my prince,” you reply coyly.

His hands have returned to settle on your hips, and somehow he manages to pull you closer still. The brief friction of his breeches against your smallclothes is equal parts glorious and torturous, and is enough to pull a deep, quiet groan from your lips. You aren’t sure how long Aemond intends to play his little game, but the strings of your resolve are pulled taut and threatening to snap with each passing second. 

Something he no doubt already knows. 

“Mhm,” Aemond hums, his face unreadable. 

You feel his hands once again slide along the length of your back until they reach the high neckline of your gown. He pauses for only a heartbeat, then begins to unlace your bodice with practiced ease, expertly pulling each lace loose until the rich burgundy fabric falls soundlessly from your shoulders. 

You inhale deeply as the cool night air hits your skin, peaking your nipples and sending a trail of goose pimples along your arms. You’re in nothing more than your silk chemise and, when your eyes flick back to your husband, he’s gazing at you intently, almost as if…

“Keep going. Please,” you say softly. 

Aemond makes the same short work of your chemise until it pools loosely around your waist, and then you’re bare before him. His eye trails appreciatively over your naked breasts, a new hunger sparking within it at the sight of your naked flesh. 

As though he hasn’t seen you like this a thousand times before. 

“Gevie,” he all but whispers, taking a nipple and rolling it firmly between thumb and forefinger. 

You cry out sharply at the heady mix of pleasure and pain, of teasing and torment, and your husband smirks proudly at the response his touch elicits from you. 

“Please, Aemond, I beg you.” Your voice drips with desperation, but you no longer care. You can feel the slickness of your thighs beneath the folds of your gown, and feel the need for this man burning beneath every pore you possess. 

If he wants you to beg, you’ll fall to your knees. 

He cocks his head mockingly to the side and gives your nipple another cruel twist. “Your lesson has only started, wife. Would you give up so easily?”

A frustrated curse slips from your lips before you can swallow it, one that you know Aemond hears but chooses to ignore. You want to say yes. You want to curse this damn language to the Seven Hells and take your husband to bed, but your stubborn pride rears its insufferable head. 

“No. I want you to keep going,” you say, arching your back to press more of your breast into his hand. 

“A wise choice, my love,” Aemond murmurs, then reaches forward to trail a path of slow, wet kisses along your collarbone. When you sigh audibly in content he wraps an arm snugly around your waist to press you closer, and soon his lips are moving against your skin again. “Vhagar's kipagīros iksis hae nēdenka hae issa handsome, se zȳhon ābrazȳrys iksis se olvie fortunate riña isse se sīkuda Dārȳti.”

You hear the soft drawl of Aemond’s voice, hear every hard consonant and soft vowel, but the words of Valryian barely register in your lust addled mind. Vaguely, you note that he’s said something about Vhagar, but with with the teasing press of his lips along your collarbone and the tops of your breasts, you find that you really couldn’t care less. 

You want him to devour you right here in the library, but your husband is waiting patiently for an answer. 

“Can…can you please repeat?” you ask when your senses slowly begin to return. Aemond quickly obliges and this time you try in vain to grasp at every word. “Vhagar is…handsome and…fortunate…because of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

You know you’re wrong before the last word leaves your mouth, but, in your current state of arousal, you’re proud to have even gotten that far. 

The confirmation comes in another cruel twist of an already sensitive nipple. “Wrong,” Aemond tells you softly, driving the point home with another sharp nip to your neck.

The raw need for him is simmering in your veins and pulsing between your legs, threatening to turn you half mad unless you get your fill of him, but all you can do is roll your hips against his thigh, though it doesn’t grant you even a modicum of relief. 

Aemond is in charge tonight, and you’ll feel that euphoric release only when he allows it. 

“Seven Hells,” you groan, letting your head fall forward onto his shoulder. The cool leather is a welcome relief against your flushed skin and Aemond allows you a moment of respite, but mercy is not on his mind.

You feel the tip of his nose trace softly along your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine, and then his warm breath is tickling the shell of your ear. “Again, wife.”

A shaky sigh leaves your lips, but you know you have no choice but to obey. “Vhagar…Vhagar is handsome and - fuck, Aemond!”

You arch into him until your breasts are close to crushed against his chest, because now his hand is beneath your gown and those long, practiced fingers are teasing your aching cunt through the material of your smallclothes. 

“Keep going,” he commands firmly, running a single fingertip firmly over your clit.

You swallow the whimper that’s beginning to rise in your throat. “Vhagar is handsome and the Seven Kingdoms are fortunate.” The words spill from you like a sudden downpour and, for just a moment, you bask in the blissful feel of your husband touching you where you burn for him. 

His touch is like water to a burning flame but, as quickly as his hand has slipped beneath the layers of your gown, it’s just as easily gone. This time, you can’t suppress a whine. 

“Wrong again,” Aemond says, taking your chin back between his thumb and forefinger. “Mayhaps I am not motivating you enough, my love.” 

“Your motivation is cruel,” you answer back petulantly, although you’re already missing the feeling of his lips on your skin and the taunting tease of a single finger. 

Aemond’s soft smirk only grows. “Mhm,” he hums, and then you’re suddenly in motion. 

His hands are curled securely beneath your thighs as he raises you from his lap and sets you atop the library table. From your vantage point you see the mischievous twinkle in his lilac eye as two large hands hold your legs apart, and your jaw falls slack when he then falls to his knees between them.

It’s a deliciously sinful sight that goes straight to your head. Aemond Targaryen, perhaps the most feared dragonrider and skilled swordsman in King's Landing, is on his knees before you and gazing at you as though you’re an oasis in the desert. 

“Gevie,” you whisper, echoing his earlier compliment. 

Even in the half light of the library you catch the faint blush that stains his cheeks, but his face remains impassive. “Sweet words will get you nowhere, wife. Again,” he says, and presses his lips to the inside of your knee. 

A shameless groan fills the quiet space as your fingers curl tightly around the edge of the table, It’s simultaneously too much and nowhere near enough. You hear Aemond’s elegant words of Valyrian, but only a handful more register in your lust-addled mind as his lips continue their journey along your thigh. Your translation comes forward on a shaky breath and is broken by moans and yelps as Aemond sucks bruise after bruise into the soft skin of your thigh. 

You bask in the feel of it - because little feels better than your husband marking you as his - and when he doesn’t stop, you believe that this time you’ve actually gotten it right. 

Aemond’s slow path of kisses continue until you feel the brush of his hair against your lower stomach. You inhale deeply, preparing for his strong hands to make short work of your smallclothes. The anticipation makes your hips tilt expectantly, waiting for the glorious feel of his warm mouth, his skilled tongue…

“Wrong,” he says softly, pulling his head back from between your quivering thighs. 

You’re ready to combust into a million little pieces with how great your need is, and the last of your pride slips through your fingers like freshly spun silk. “Aemond, please! I cannot bear it! Take me…please.”

Your begging is his weakness and you wait for him to crumble, but as your eyes meet his lilac one, you see only a steely determination. 

“Shh shh shh,” Aemond soothes you, running the pad of his thumb over your knee. Yes, you can, ñuha prūmia. Now try again.” 

Your husband repeats himself once more, this time placing intentional emphasis on the words that are still evading you. Slowly, the intricate words of Valyrian slot into place, the web of tangled knots unravels, and you can’t help but laugh at Aemond’s choice of words.

There are many reasons why you love the man between your thighs - his bravery, his protectiveness, his determination to name a few - but never has one person been able to make you laugh so easily. Others may see a monster, you only see the man who holds your heart in the palm of his hand. 

“You are demon, my love,” you scold him lightly, feeling him smirk against your inner thigh. “Vhagar’s rider is as brave as he is handsome, and his wife is the most fortunate lady in the Seven Kingdoms.” 

“Sȳz riña,” Aemond praises you, all while pushing your thighs wider apart. 

Warm hands slide over your thighs to your smallclothes, and one swift pull rips them roughly from your body. 

And then you finally feel the warm wetness of his mouth against your aching cunt. Tonight, he doesn’t tease, but instantly begins spelling out promises with his limber tongue.

You’ll hold him to every one of them.

Aemond licks a firm, slow line along the dripping length of your cunt, making sure to empathise each lewd noise of your arousal. You bite your lip as electricity crackles beneath your skin, trying as best you can to stifle the sounds that are bubbling in your throat.

Something your husband is having none of. 

“I want to hear you, my love,” he says from where he’s nestled between your thighs. He squeezes them roughly, informing you that his words are a warning and not a request.

The sound of his voice coaxes your eyes down, and you fleetingly see the shine of your own arousal coating his top lip. 

“Seven fucking hells!” You cry out, twisting a hand tightly into Aemond’s silver hair to push him closer. 

Your husband smirks and doesn’t take his lilac eye off yours as he buries his tongue back in your cunt.

It’s like throwing a flame to a funeral pyre.

Pleasure white and hot explodes through every inch of you, so blindingly intense that you have to throw a hand on the table behind for support. “Husband, please! Keep doing that!!” you plead roughly, beginning to grind against Aemond’s face in a desperate search for release.

He moans against your cunt and tightens his grips on your thighs until you’re sure there’ll be tiny bruises along your skin tomorrow, but you’ll welcome every single one.

“You’ll be the death of me, Aemond Targaryen,” you sigh, letting your head fall back on your shoulders to bask in every second of pleasure. 

You hear his appreciative hum from between your legs, and then his tongue settles wondrously on your clit, licking and lapping like a man starved. With each swirl and flick of his talented tongue the coil in your stomach winds tighter and tighter, promising a blinding release on your husband’s mouth. 

“Aemond…Seven Hells, Aemond…I’m so close, please,” you plead with him, arching your back as the first tendrils of release begin to flick teasingly through your core. 

Your husband responds by pulling you closer to his mouth, clamping you tightly to him until you’re balancing beautifully on the very edge of pleasure. 

Less than a minute later a tidal wave of pleasure pulls you fully beneath its surf. 

The force of your release sends your eyes rolling in your head and Aemond’s name leaves your lips like a sacred prayer, echoing wildly off the high ceilings of the library. You care little - let all of King's Landing and beyond know that you belong to this man body, mind and soul. 

Aemond’s tongue doesn’t leave your cunt until you’re panting and mewling above him, practically boneless atop the table in the wake of a shattering release. He presses a quick path of soft kisses to your inner thigh, fixes your skirts around your legs, and climbs to his feet while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“I believe that a successful lesson. What say you, wife?” he says with a smirk, fixing you with his good eye and reaching out to pull the bodice of your dress back over your shoulders. 

You shiver at his chaste touch. “I think another may be in order. It’s of the utmost importance that I master this language, wouldn’t you agree?” you tease him back, wrapping heavy arms around his shoulders. 

Aemond steps between your thighs and rests his forehead on yours. “Mayhaps a longer lesson is needed then?” he murmurs quietly.

You don’t fight the smile that unfurls across your lips. “I wouldn’t dare to question your methods, my prince.” 

He answers with a small smile and a quick peck to your lips. “Mhm. In our chambers would be wise. I fear your next lesson may last throughout the night,” he says, each word loaded with filthy promise. 

You take his offered hand and slide from the table top on shaky legs, feeling fresh excitement begin to bubble in your veins. “Then we must make haste, husband. Every second counts when such an important task is at stake.”

[scribefindegil]

idk why my brain Suddenly decided that i need to get into papercraft, but i'm glad it did because if i keep this up i might actually go through some of the zillions of tiny decorative paper scraps i have leftover from my Book School days

[essektheylyss]

Constantly mad that I'm so attached to my blog title because "Welcome to a better timeline!" is GREAT.

[bat-mom-writer]

Period Panic

Reader(wife) X Bruce Wayne (Husband)

Reader(mom) X Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, and Damian Wayne.

Summery: You started your period, and the boys are... what's the word? Terrified.

Rating: Fluff, slight angst, comfort

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the grand library of Wayne Manor, woman who had captured the heart of the legendary Bruce Wayne, you found solace amidst the towering bookshelves and the comforting scent of aged leather and paper. You hand paused over the spine of an antique volume, the gold lettering glinting under the soft glow of the pendant light above her. 

As you reached up to pull the book down, but your  body tensed suddenly. You leaned over, gripping the edge of the mahogany for support. "This cramps," you groaned, the words slipping out like a sigh before you could swallow them back. The sudden pain was a stark reminder of the monthly cycle that had become a part of her life once more.

The hushed whispers of the library stopped. Four pairs of eyes, belonging to Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, and Damian Wayne, wide with fear.

"Shit, please no," Jason pleads, sitting up from his seat, "Is it…?" he says to his brothers, his voice trailing off.

Dick and Tim exchange a knowing glance. Tim nods solemnly, his expression a mix of empathy and dread. "Guys," he says, turning to the others, "It's okay. She's okay. Maybe it's just a… you know, a stomachache."

Jason's eyes widen, and he jumps to his feet. "But what if it's not?" He whispers, his voice filled with a child-like concern that seemed so out of place in the hardened exterior he often wore. Dick puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We'll handle it," he assures him.

"I don't think the full realization of the situation hit ya yet, Dick," Jason said, taking Dick by the shirt, "It's that time. The time we fear and pray doesn't come the next month."

"Jason," Dick said firmly, stepping in front of him, "we don't know that yet. She might just be tired or something. Okay? Let's test it first before we lose our heads." He looks to the you on the other side of the library and calls out, "Hey mom."

"What?" you says, annoyed, not turning from the shelf you were perusing. The irritation in your voice was like a thunderclap in the quiet room.

The boys stop again, fear growing in their eyes. They had hoped it was a simple stomachache, something they could handle with a cup of tea and a warm compress. This was something else entirely.

"Run," Dick says, his voice low and urgent.

The boys don't need to be told twice. They sprint out of the library and down the hallway, the echo of their footsteps bouncing off the marble floors like a warning siren. They know the drill; they've seen this before. They need to gather supplies.

"R2," Dick called out, his voice echoing down the hall, "Get the painkillers from the medicine cabin."

Jason took off like a shot, his boots thundering down the corridor towards the medical bay. He knew the layout of the manor like the back of his hand, having spent years here as Robin. His heart raced as he flung open the cabinets and scanned the shelves. "Where the hell are they?" he murmured to himself, his hands shaking slightly.

"R3, get 'The Notebook' queued up on the main screen," Dick instructed. He knew their mother's favorite film was a surefire way to distract her from the pain and offer a bit of comfort.

"Dick, I'm scared," Tim says, his voice trembling.

"Don't worry, R3," Dick responds, his eyes on the prize as he navigates the labyrinth of leather-bound tomes, "We've got this." Tim nods and heads towards the media room, his mission clear.

"R4," Dick's turns to Damian, "Get the snacks."

Damian, ever the dutiful son, nods and bolts towards the kitchen, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floors. You preferences were ingrained in him, and he knew exactly what you want: a mix of sweet and salty to combat the cramps, something warm for comfort, and maybe a bit of chocolate for the emotional turmoil. He throws open the pantry doors and starts grabbing handfuls of her favorite snacks, tossing them into a basket. The smell of fresh popcorn fills the air as he hits the button on the high-tech popper.

"Okay," Dick says, after a brief moment of contemplation, "Let's get her some comfortable clothes." He knows from experience that the right outfit can make a world of difference on these days. He heads towards their mother's room, the others trailing behind like a pack of worried pups.

In the vast walk-in closet, they scan through racks of clothes, looking for something soft and loose. Dick pulls out a set of your favorite pajamas, the fabric as velvety as a cat's fur, and a thick, oversized sweatshirt that has seen better days but somehow still holds a sacred spot in her wardrobe. He grabs a pair of fuzzy socks with little bats on them, knowing they're the ones you want.

Dick, with the grace of a cat burglar, slowly makes his way back to the library, the pajamas and sweatshirt are draped over one arm, his steps are light, careful not to cause any additional disturbance to the delicate balance of the situation.

Entering the library, he sees you doubled over, your breathing shallow and quick. Your trying to be brave, but the pain is etched into the lines of your face.

Dick rolls his shoulders, taking a deep breath. "You got this," he whispers to himself, the words a silent mantra. "Just don't be too loud, or too quiet. Speak calmly, but not too formally." The last thing you needs right now is to feel like they're tiptoeing around you.

He takes a tentative step into the library, the plush carpet muffling his footfall. His eyes lock onto you, and for a moment, it's as if time stands still.

He tries entering but quickly stops and hides behind the wall as you lets out a groan, the kind that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The library feels eerie, as if it's holding its breath along with him, unsure of what to do next. Dick peeks around the corner, his heart in his throat. You’re there, hunched over, yout hand pressed against her lower abdomen. The book you had been reaching for lies forgotten on the floor.

Just then, and the three other boys come rushing down the hall. "What are you doing?" Tim whispers, his eyes darting into the room in a panic. Dick holds up a finger to his lips, silencing him. They all watch her, their hearts racing in unison, as you winces and lets out another soft groan.

"Every second we wait, the more pain she goes through," Dick murmured under his breath, "Which means the more dangerous her mood becomes." The room seemed to pulse with the tension as they watched her, unsure of how to proceed.

"R2, do you have the painkillers?" Dick hissed at Jason, who nodded, fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out a bottle, the pills rattling like a snake's tail. Dick snatched them from his hand, "Okay, good." He took a step forward, his heart hammering in his chest. But he backs down, "No, no, can't do it."

Tim's eyes widened, "What? Why not?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Dick says, his voice a blend of sarcasm and nerves, "Do you want to tell our mother to take her pills because we noticed she's looking cranky?" He tries to keep his voice low, not wanting to alert you to their presence just yet.

"Well, not me," Tim whispers, the color draining from his face.

"I already died once," Jason says, taking a step back with his hands up.

"I wasn't conceived to die by a cramp." Damian says, his voice steady, putting the snacks down on a the floor.

"Dick," Tim whispers, "You're the oldest. You have to."

"Me?" Dick squeaks, his voice high-pitched and betraying his nerves. "Why me?"

"Because," Tim replies, his voice trembling, "You're the one she won't kill on sight right now."

"Who’s not going to kill Dick?"

The words, are like a thunderclap, causing the three boys to jump out of their skins. Bruce Wayne, their father and the Dark Knight himself, stands in the doorway, his eyes narrowed in confusion.

"What's going on here?" Bruce asks, his voice as smooth as silk over the tense silence.

"We were…" Dick swallowed hard, his voice catching in his throat.

"Just talking!" Jason chimes in, "About uh…"

"Sports!" Tim blurts out, his cheeks reddening, "We were just… discussing sports."

Bruce raises an eyebrow, his gaze flicking from one boy to the next before finally landing on the Dick's arms. "Sports," he repeats, his tone flat. "With your mother's comfiest pajamas, and pain killers? And what’s that? A basket of snakes?”

Dick gulps, "It's… she… well, you know."

Bruce's gaze sharpens, and he nods almost imperceptibly. "Ah, that time of the month again. Alright hand me the stuff, I'll take it from here." 

The three brothers breathe a collective sigh of relief, passing the basket and the pills to their father. Dick whispers a quick thanks before retreating to the hallway. They lean against the wall, listening as their father's footsteps grow closer to the library. The tension is thick enough to slice with a knife, but it's a familiar dance they've learned over the years.

The woman's eyes shoot to the ceiling as Bruce approaches, and she groans. "Oh, not you too," she says, her voice strained. "I'm not a delicate fucking orchid that needs tending to."

Bruce chuckles softly, "You caught on did you?"

"You think this is funny?" She snaps, the pain making her words sharper than any of his Batarangs.

"Not at all," Bruce says calmly, "But I do know how to handle this." He gently holds out the pawns of comfort that Dick had gathered. 

You stare at the basket, your eyes narrowing in suspicion. The smell of buttery popcorn and the sight of your favorite snacks does make your stomach rumble despite the pain. "You think you can make me feel better by shoving snacks in my face?" you ask, or more accused."

"It's worth a shot," Bruce says, his voice as calm as a still lake. He opens the basket and takes out the chocolate bar, holding it up like a peace offering. "You know chocolate fixes everything."

You let out a huff, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of your mouth. "It doesn't fix everything," you grumble, but you take the chocolate anyway. The snap of the wrapper is like the crack of a whip in the library's quiet, but the sweet smell is heavenly. You bite into it, letting the rich, velvety goodness melt on your tongue, and for a brief moment, the pain seems to ease.

Bruce watches you, his eyes filled with understanding. "And when you've had your fill," he says gently, "Take these." He hands you the painkillers with a glass of water. The coolness of the glass feels like a lifeline in your hot, trembling hand. You down the pills with a grimace, and he takes the glass back, setting it down on the small side table next to the armchair you've claimed as your throne of despair.

The warmth of the chocolate spreads through your body, bringing with it a temporary reprieve from the cramps that have taken up residence in your abdomen. You lean into the chair, the plush cushions embracing you like a warm hug. The boys hover around, unsure of what to do next, their eyes darting between you and their father.

"Alright," Bruce says, his voice firm but gentle, "I know the boys have already set up a movie for you. Why don't you change into these?" He holds up the pajamas and sweatshirt. You nod, taking the offered clothes, and Bruce nods towards the bathroom. "I'll be right here when you're ready," he assures you.

As you retreat to the bathroom, the boys approach their father, their expressions a mix of relief and trepidation. "Thanks," Dick whispers, "We had a plan, but—"

"Your plan was to scurry around like mice hoping she doesn't notice?" Bruce asks, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"Well, when you put it that way," Jason says, his cheeks flushing a deep red, "It sounds a bit pathetic."

"It's not pathetic," Tim says, stepping forward, "It's just... we don't know how to handle it."

Bruce nods, his smile fading, "It's alright. I know it's tough, but you're all growing up. And one of these months, I won't be around and you'll have to deal with this yourselves."

The words hang in the air like a challenge, a reminder of the responsibilities they would one day have to face without his guiding hand. Dick swallows hard, looking at his brothers. They all knew it was coming, but the thought of handling "that time of the month" without their father's experience was daunting.

"We're Robin," Tim says, trying to sound braver than he feels, "We can handle it."

Jason snorts, "Yeah, right. The last time I tried to give her a heating pad, she threw it at me."

Tim winces, "I remember that. It left a dent in the wall."

Damian, ever the practical one, suggests, "Perhaps we should prepare a manual of some sort, detailing the proper procedures for handling such delicate situations."

Bruce's eyes twinkle with amusement. "A manual? For dealing with your mother's mood swings?"

"It's not just mood swings," Dick defends, "It's like the seven stages of grief, but with more chocolate and a lot more crying."

"And less dying," Tim adds, his voice a tad too hopeful.

You emerge from the bathroom, looking a bit more comfortable in the pajamas. The sweatshirt is too big, but somehow, it seems to fit you just right. The boys avert their eyes, not quite sure how to handle the tears that stain your cheeks. Dick, ever the observant one, notices and steps forward. "Mom?" he says, his voice a gentle whisper.

You wave him off, trying to wipe the tears away with the back of your hand. "It's nothing," you say, your voice thick with pain and emotion, "Just... hormones." The word hangs in the air like a guilty confession.

But Dick doesn't listen. He crosses the library, ignoring the cramps that are now a constant background noise in your head, and wraps you in his arms. He's taller than you, his embrace strong and protective. It's been a while since you've been this close, and it feels surprisingly good. His arms are like steel bands, holding you tightly but gently, as if you might break.

"It's okay, mom," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "We're here."

The dam breaks. You start crying more, "I'm sorry for being a trouble mother," you sob into Dick's shoulder. The other boys hover around, unsure of what to do next.

"You're not a trouble," Jason says gruffly, his hand awkwardly patting your back, "It's just... nature."

Tim nods in agreement, his voice wobbly, "Yeah, it's like Alfred's allergies. It just happens."

You laugh through your tears, the sound a little hiccuppy, "Thanks, guys."

Dick pulls away, wiping at your cheeks with his thumbs. "Come on," he says, "Let's get you set up."

Bruce watches the scene, a small smile playing on his lips. Despite the tough exterior he presents to the world, he's a softie when it comes to his family, especially when you're not feeling well. He nods at the boys, his smile growing as they lead you out of the library and down the hallway.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the pained peace treaty

fused with the foe, chapter one

a/n: oh wow, i have no idea how to introduce this beast of a story except to say hi, hello, welcome! i really hope you enjoy this story, as well as the rest of the trilogy, idk if i've ever gone as in depth and all out with any story as i have with these.

summary: “now, everything is already set into motion, so we don’t have time for any of your theatrics,” not looking you in the eye, he frostily told you, “you are to be married. A carriage has just arrived a few minutes ago to pick you up and transport you to Eflorr.”

warnings: king!steve rogers x reader, fantasy AU (monsters, but not much magic), original fantasy world, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, slow burn, innocent!reader, abusive father (like super bad. he is a garbage person), wedding, blood, injury

word count: 4813

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“Your majesty, I must warn you, if, gods forbid, our people come to discover the great lengths you’ve been willing to go in this disagreement over the past two decades, they might start an uprising. And if you keep going, then it’ll turn into a full-blown war and you know our kingdom wouldn’t be able to survive that, not with them. Our city’s walls may be high, high enough to keep out any beasts that may wander this far south, but it wouldn’t keep them out. You know better than most how people from Eflorr are. If you don’t wanna lose your crown, one way or another, then I’d strongly advise that we come up with some peace treaty.”

“I know, I know…” King Ivan leaned back in his gilded throne with a huff, the quality of his voice was as thin as his towering frame, “a trade I think should suffice.”

A different advisor then timidly pipped up, “but our mines ran cold ages ago, what could we possibly offer that would be satisfactory?”

Not lifting his cold gaze, the king stared at a fixed spot on the marble floor as he said, “I know one thing the king lacks that we may be able to provide for him… a wife.”

“A wife–,” both of the men’s eyes grew wide, “but do you mean–, your majesty, she is your only daughter, are you certain this is the fate you want her to have? Those people are barbaric! If one of the dangers that rule the north doesn’t get to her first, one of their citizens surely will. Sire, what if history repeats itself?”

“Then let it do so. In fact, perhaps this could have been her purpose all along and I just didn’t realise it. Couldn’t see past my own rage to grasp how useful she actually could be…”

Sharing a nervous glance, one of the advisors asked, “should we send for her? See if she agrees with the plans?”

“No, I’ll tell her when the time is right. Wouldn’t want her to do anything stupid and ruin the one good thing she could ever provide,” finally lifting his stony gaze, the king commanded, “make the arrangements, I’ll see to it that she doesn’t ruin it.” 

Deep within the opulent halls of the gilded palace, standing grand and safe behind Ingorn’s tall city walls, twisting up towards the clouds, up in a window in the western tower, there you sat. 

Book in your lap, you leaned back against the small pillow you’d propped behind you to make the wide windowsill more comfortable. Small paper butterflies hung from strings above and some dangled so low that the childhood craft that still decorated your window trickled the crown of your head. Flipping the page, your fingertips brushed down over the illustration that appeared in the agricultural tome you’d found in one of your brothers’ rooms. 

As long as you put it back before Angus returned then you’d probably be good. And if he were to somehow notice, then as long as he didn’t rat you out to your father then it would be alright. Both Angus and a few of the others that were closer to your age, Oliver and Francis respectively, were always a bit of a gamble whether or not they would do such a thing. They didn’t always have the same spirit as the eldest pair of your older brothers, Xavier and Callum. 

You missed them so much your heart ached. The older they got, the longer their diplomatic missions seemed to stretch out, making the quiet palace that much more lonely in your solitude. 

A knock then suddenly boomed at your door, causing you to jump edgily in your seat before you slammed the book shut and nervously stuffed it behind the firm pillow. 

“Come in!” you called out, swiftly straightening out your dress that had crumbled around your legs at the comfortable seat. As the door to your room slammed open, the figure that stood in it caught you by surprise, “Father–, oh, hello,” you straightened your posture that much further at his arrival. 

Skipping over any niceties, King Ivan simply stated, “you need to pack up your stuff.”

Your brows knitted into a fierce furrow, “what?”

“Not everything, of course,” he cast a cold glance around the room though didn’t take a step to enter it, “just the things you are particularly attached to.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” your head lightly shook from side to side, “where am I going?”

When his eyes finally gave you the time of day, it swiftly dropped to the floor as a heavy sigh flowed from his lips, “why do you have to be the spitting image of her…” the muttering was unfortunately just loud enough for your ears to catch. His disappointment was always just loud enough for your ears to catch. When he entered the room and you moved to get up, he swiftly said, “stay seated, Y/n,” before he planted himself next to you on the wide windowsill, “now, everything is already set into motion, so we don’t have time for any of your theatrics,” not looking you in the eye, he frostily told you, “you are to be married. A carriage has just arrived a few minutes ago to pick you up and transport you to Eflorr.”

“To Eflorr?” your gaze grew wide, “you wish for me to marry someone there?”

“Not just someone, you are to marry their king.”

“I–… I–…” your chest rose and fell rapidly beneath your rosy dress, “but father, you can’t–, I can’t go live with the people who killed mom.”

“We don’t know if they actually murdered her. But I do know that you did,” his glare locked upon you as he let himself seethe, “if you hadn’t been born then she’d still be alive,” the fact that the only thing he blamed more for his late wife’s untimely demise then the kingdom she’d perished in was you, remained a point that the sovereign had never been shy about sharing with you for as long as you could recall, “your duty is to protect and serve this land, this crown,” your eyes naturally fluttered up to gaze at the twisted gold balanced upon his head, “if you don’t go through with this, then those savages will come pillage and ruin your home. You are, regrettably, the very last hope this kingdom has of survival. You have no choice, Y/n. This marriage is the only thing that can stop a war we would never survive,” exhaling slowly, he then dominantly nodded in a concluding fashion, “pack your stuff, you have an hour.”

You felt tears sting your eyes as your bottom lip quivered, “an hour? But–, can’t we wait at least a few days before I leave? Can’t I get a chance to say goodbye to at least one of my brothers? None of them are home yet.”

Regret instantly washed over you as your father’s nostrils flared angrily. Seizing your arm in a bruising grip, he yanked you close as he hissed, “you listen, and you listen carefully, you little brat. You have been the bane of my existence ever since you took your first breath. You took away the love of my life. You don’t deserve a goodbye, you don’t deserve anything. Do you think I got a goodbye when your mother suddenly went into labour on that diplomatic mission? No. All I got was you. Not another son, but a living, breathing reminder of what I lost that day,” your eyes squeezed shut as your cheek tingled at the memory of his strikes, “now, be a good girl and go wet his prick, give him a few babies, do anything he’d fucking please, so that him and his barbaric army doesn’t come here and slaughter everything you know and love.”

“Your highness, are you cold?” the high-ranking warden sitting across from you in the carriage noticed the shiver that your body couldn’t seem to shake. 

Tearing your eyes off of the scenery along The Emerald Path that the narrow window granted you a view of, you glanced back at the warrior. The brown hair he had practically tied off at the base of his neck blossomed into a dark beard. A bare palm clasped over an inked one in his lap as you met his gaze and said, “no, I’m–…” in truth, you were scared, so scared that you were trembling like a leaf, but you couldn’t tell the foreign king’s advisor that, too much weighted on your shoulders, you couldn’t screw this up, “no,” glancing back out of the window, you only stared a moment at the sparse cottages that slowly came into view on the rolling hills before you turned your head again and let the nauseating nerves control your words, “pardon me, Barnes, is it?”

“Yes, your highness?”

“Sir, how much further till we get there?” your quiet voice echoed within the carriage, “it’s just–, it’s been days.”

“Oh, not long at all,” he shook his head lightly, “actually,” the knight leaned forward in his seat and cast his glance outside, “if you look out the window now, right there,” a small smile tugged at his lips as his finger shot up to point, “that river, that means we’re getting close to Borün city.”

As the river then suddenly curved before the dirt road, the clomping hooves of the horses that hauled the coach resonated as they trotted over a stone bridge. 

Twisting your head, you glanced out to your right and spotted farmlands curve over the rolling hills that swiftly blossomed into thickets and towering flora you’d only assume was the southern perimeter of The Noll Woods. Books about this kingdom had been banned in your homeland for as long as you could remember, but even though you were essentially going in blind, you still weren’t completely ignorant when it came to the dangers that called that sprawling forest its home, not that you were an expert in the slightest, but your brothers had from time to time told you tales of the monsters who dominated in this part. From giant and twisted insect-like creatures, to mischievous pixies, to even the rare dragon, those stories had always been your favourite. Apart from the rare occasion where Callum would share stories with you about your mother. Being the eldest, he was the only one who truly remembered her. 

Instinctively, your fingers fluttered up to fiddle with the opalescent stone that hung from a chain around your neck. In the middle of the milky jewel was a small rune engraved into it. You had no idea what it meant, but your fingers had still traced the carving countless of times before as it had hung from your neck for as long as you could recall. It hadn’t been till you were a ways into your teens that you’d come to discover that it had belonged to your mother. 

Casting your glance out the other side as you passed a tall watchtower, behind the wide city stables unfolded a port town so quaint that it surprised you. Over the small valley of gabled roofs towered a central tree, and beyond all of that, the sparkle of the sea caught your eye, a sight you’d never beheld before, haven not only stemmed from a landlocked metropolis, but also not haven been permitted to leave your room as much as your heart had desired. 

“This is Eflorr?” you asked as the carriage began to roll up the winding path to the stone castle that loomed on the cliff, granting you a new view of how the river that you’d crossed slid through the city and spilt into the ocean.

“This is Eflorr, your highness,” the corners of his lips twitched at the sight of how wide your curious eyes were. 

“It’s–… it’s–…” your stare danced over the lush ivy that climbed the solid towers, “not what I expected…”

“What did you expect?”

Tearing your gaze away from the window, you blinked, “oh, I didn’t mean–,” suddenly worried that your shock had come out sounding rude, “I just–… I don’t know a lot about this land,” in the few tales you’d heard about this place, there had been a running gag that the people of Eflorr had lived so close to the dangerous beasts that called this part of the continent their home that they too had turned into monsters, “it’s just different than I imagined.” 

Ascending the jagged hill and passing through the front gate, it opened up into a wide courtyard before you felt the carriage finally roll to a stop. 

The wagon creaked gently as Barnes stepped out first, though when his boots were firmly on the cobblestone, his frame twisted as he reached an outstretched hand back for you to grasp in support of your own exit. Ever so apprehensively, you slid your own palm into his as your other twisted in your long skirts before you slipped out of the carriage. 

Letting go of his gasp, the soldier's low timbre washed over you as your head tilted back to take in the vast stronghold, “his majesty, unfortunately, couldn’t be here for your arrival as there was a bit of a dryad problem further up north he had to take care of,” you gaze tore away from the fort and fell upon him, “but I assure you he should be back in time for the wedding.”

“Oh, alright,” you breathed, unsure if that fact made you feel better or worse about the entire predicament.

“If you’d like, I can give you a brief tour of the castle,” he offered as he led you towards the main entrance into the castle proper, “or if you’re exhausted after the journey, then I can just show you directly up to your chambers.”

Offering him a polite smile, you nodded, “a tour would be lovely, thank you.”

He only briefly went over the buildings surrounding the courtyard you’d entered into, as they were mainly designed as barracks and various other facilities for the local wardens, though the horses that stuck their heads out of the royal stalls in the corner did catch your eye before you moved on inside. 

Barnes’ voice echoed in most of the chambers he showed you in the castle’s western wing. The vast stained-glass windows that were in the ballroom for instance took your breath away as you saw how the light streamed through them and warmed up the room with glittering little rays of colour. 

Behind the great halls, squeezed in between and connecting the two major parts of the fort, there you crossed through a much more quiet and lush courtyard. The pebble paths that curved around the central fountain too curled around various topiary bushes that were trimmed to perfection like living sculptures. 

Though as your guide showed you the eastern wing that crested over the foaming sea below, your curiosity got the better of you. 

“Hey, Barnes?”

Slowing his leisurely stride, he tilted his head slightly, “yes, your highness?”

“What are dryads?” your brows knit lightly together, “you mentioned there was a problem with them, but what are they?”

“You don’t know?” he glanced over at you, clearly trying to mask his surprise as you shook your head, “oh, well, they are forest spirits, nymphs,” he explained as you roamed deeper down a broad hallway on the second floor, passing many private chambers both to your right and your left, “it’s not uncommon for them to wander and bother the folks who live further up the coast. Have you never encountered one? They are not as uncommon in Obelón as most of the other creatures that thrive this far north.”

“No, I’ve never seen one…” you shook your head as a low sigh flowed from your lips, “never really seen anything…”

“Not much of an outdoorsy person?” he guessed in a light-hearted tone. 

Forcing a smile, you replied, “you could say that…” as you hadn’t been allowed to be one even if you wanted to. Passing a set of double doors that stood wide open, the sight inside made you halt your steps, “is this the library?”

Shadowing you as your feet crossed the threshold, he nodded, “yes, it is,” then pointed back over his shoulder, “and your quarters are right down that hall.”

Numerous grand bookcases stood lined up all the way down to where a tall window allowed the sunlight in and let it stream through the rows. 

“Can I–… would it be alright if I read some of them?” 

“Of course, your highness.” 

“Would you mind showing me which ones I’m allowed to read?” you briefly peeked back at him as a bubble of anxiety fluttered in your belly, “I don’t wanna accidentally read something that I’m not allowed to.”

Barnes then blinked back at you a moment before he uttered, “your highness, you can read each and every one of them if you’d like. Why wouldn’t you be allowed to read whatever you wish? They are yours after all, or will be after the wedding,” the corners of your lips twitched upwards as he then asked, “would you like to peruse the titles now or do you want to see your chambers?”

“Oh, uhm,” you tore your gaze away from the tomes and turned back, “I’ll look later.”

“Alright,” he nodded, extending his inked arm to show you the way. As he pushed the heavy wooden door open to the room at the very end of the hall, his voice rang out once more, “this is the peacock suite,” following him inside, he settled to a stop near the exit for you to explore the space on your own, “you can, of course, change anything you’d like for it to match your taste.”

“Thank you,” you breathed as you slowly made your way deeper into the chamber. It was gently divided with a more formal area towards the front where both tufted couches and a crackling fireplace stood, as well as a set of doors that opened up to a quaint balcony. Towards the left, under a swirling archway, twisted a broad canopy bed up towards the tall ceilings, warm with blankets and furs, and in the corner, by a breezy partition, stood a deep cobber bathtub.

Haven not noticed that he’d moved, you then heard as Barnes creaked the doors to a close, “if you need anything, anything at all, I’ll be right outside.”

With a loud creak, the heavy double doors opened before you and revealed the grand hall. As soft music gushed out, you nearly didn’t recognise the space from your tour the other day as it was now decorated with vibrant flowers and flowing banners that dropped down from the high ceilings above, as well as being completely packed with a swarm of people. A thin path parted the giddy crowd right down the middle towards the opposing grand door that guards opened simultaneously to yours. 

A shaky breath filled your lungs as you stared at the man crossing over the threshold. The flickering candlelight caught the honeyed shine of the locks that came down to tickle the nape of his neck. A bit darker, his short beard was full and warmed up the bottom half of his gruff features. He sure looked like a man who could slay a kraken with his bare fists, as the soft fur cloak that draped over his shoulders did not conceal his bulky physic one bit. The neckline of his indigo tunic stretched low enough for you to see the concave of his fuzzy chest and the impressive battle scars that broke up the rippling flesh. 

You’d seen the portrait of the king that hung in the hallway that stretched up towards the throne room, but to see him before your very eyes, in flesh and blood and not precise paint, was something else entirely. 

The long and embroidered train of the blue silk kirtle you wore dragged across the store floor behind you as both you and the monarch slowly stepped into the chamber to join in the very middle. 

The enchanting music stopped as you reached one another and the parted paths to either exit slowly closed as the crowd gathered and enclosed around the sacred vow that was about to ensue. 

Parting the sea of people like a divine force, an elderly woman, with a braided grey mane so long that it hit the floor, stepped up beside the both of you. 

“People of Eflorr,” the crone’s calm voice boomed, “today marks a day of unity, a day of peace, and most of all a day of love. Like a seed planted in the soil, tonight we will all witness this relationship blossom and go on the journey of growing into a magnificent tree, with roots strong enough to endure any storm, to propagate new seedlings that will watch over and shade our kingdom when yours have fallen.” 

Looking to the king, she handed him a small dagger from her belt and spoke, “blade across skin,” and he reached out for your right hand, “strike out your seedling’s love line,” your breath hitched as you felt him slice the top of your palm. Crimson blood trickled down onto his own hand as yours rested atop it, “and claim it as your own,” he flipped the blade around and handed it to you, before presenting you his own palm, open in yours. He didn’t even blink as you hesitantly pierced the calloused skin and traced the line already adoring his broad palm, “weave your lines together, so they become the same,” he then moved to clasp your hands together, his wide grip engulfed yours completely. Your teeth sank into just the faintest bit of your bottom lip at the fresh sting of your wound as it bled into his, “and may this scar serve you as a reminder, of the vow you made on this momentous day.” 

And as the last of the matron's words flowed from her lips so did the roar of celebration that erupted throughout the crowd as the festivities of the night bloomed at an instant.

The feast had been nothing short of immaculate. Countless of dishes had been spread out on the crowded banquet tables ranging from the savoury braised legumes to the sweet and shiny pies. It was an impossible task to try and taste every one of them, but an excuse you still used to stay glued to your seat and not get up and mingle with the boisterous gathering of strangers. 

As a stark contrast, you thought you only noticed the king take two bites before he rose to greet some latecomers who had arrived. Laughing and chatting with the sea of people, he hadn’t offered you a single word, barely even a brief glance the whole night. Though your gaze still followed him from your seat up at the high table as he moved through the crowd like they were all his dearest friends. 

When the moon had floated up to be high in the sky, clearly visible on the other side of the stained glass, your head had dropped down into a propped-up palm as a deep yawn forced its way out of your frame. 

“Are you tired, your majesty?” a deep timbre suddenly found your ears, a specific tone that caused your spine to straighten out at once. 

Whipping your head to your right, your weary eyes grew wide as you saw the king again at his seat, “no, I’m alright,” you hastily coughed out, “I’m so sorry for behaving like that in your presence. This party is exquisite.” 

“It’s alright, you can yawn,” you suddenly felt the need to look away now that his ocean stare was finally fixed upon you, “it’s late, I was about to retire for the night as well, so I can only imagine how you must feel. If you’d like, I could escort you back to your chambers. I’m not sure how familiar you’ve become with the castle since you’ve arrived, but even I can still get lost when the corridors are this dark and I’ve indulged in perhaps one too many goblets of wine.”

A flutter of nauseating nerves rushed within your belly, but even so, you still pushed through and forced a smile, “if that’s what the king desires, then sure, you can escort me.”

It was your wedding night. You knew what was about to happen. 

Or, actually, you didn’t quite know what the marital act entailed, but you were sure a man such as Steve had enough of an understanding to take charge. All you knew was what little you’d been told. To strip down naked, not whine or scream, and do as he tells you. 

The soaring butterflies within you only grew more ferocious as you followed his long stride throughout the castle. Out of the ballroom and through a cold stone hallway, when you crossed the bridge that linked the two wings over a part of the cliff that descended dramatically, you nearly doubled over the parapet to empty your stomach over the town of Borün that blossomed below. 

But with a shaky intake of breath, your fist closed around the silk of your skirt as you settled yourself and forced your feet to keep moving. Even as you passed the threshold into the eastern part of the castle, you still shadowed the monarch up the many steps until his broad palm held the door to your chambers open for you to enter. 

The fire had been lit while you were gone, and the room was encased in the warm glow. 

“Did, uh…” you heard the door close behind you as the king attempted a bit of small talk, “did you have a nice time tonight?” 

“I did, your majesty,” you kept your answer brief out of fear that he’d hear the tremble to your tone. 

Slowly turning his back to you, his gaze washed over the room, “are you pleased with your bed chambers?” he settled to face the balcony, the door slightly ajar to let the night breeze seep through and rustle the sheer curtains, “because if you don’t like it, if you’d rather have a view of the town then the sea, then that’s an easy problem to fix.” 

“I think the view is just fine from here, but thank you,” you answered politely as you gathered up the last bit of your courage and reached back to undo the long row of buttons that went down the spine of the light blue dress. 

When the silky garment dropped to the floor, the quiet rustle was enough to draw the king’s attention.

First offering you just a quick glance over his shoulder, he then swiftly whirled around completely, “what are you doing?”

Weaving your fingers in the thin material of your chemise, you blinked back at his stunned features, “I’m sorry, am I doing it wrong?” sure that he could already see everything through the sheer, white fabric. 

His feet didn’t move as he asked, “what are trying to do?” before he averted his gaze to the stone floor. 

“Well,” you uttered quietly, “it’s our wedding night.”

“Oh…” was all he breathed. 

“To be transparent, I’m actually not quite sure what’s to happen, but I do know it’s something,” reaching up, you took the gold and twisted circlet, that crowned your head, off and carefully sat it down on the side table to your left, “I don’t know the details, I just know that I should strip down. Do you know what we’re supposed to do?”

“Fuck,” he cursed, briefly squeezing his eyes shut, “yes I do, but, your majesty, please, keep your clothes on,” his gaze flickered back to you as you slowly began to hike up the last layer. 

“Why?” your fingers froze, “isn’t it a tradition here for us to–”

“Well, yes, but–…” he let out a strained sigh before slowly stating, “I’m gonna go.” 

A chill crawled up your skin, “…oh, I see…” you uttered quietly as he crossed the room, “did I do something wrong?”

Halting in the doorway as he ripped it open, “no, you–…” but the rest of his words crumbled as his gaze settled upon you one last time, instead letting a low sigh flow from his lungs, “sleep well,” and added nearly subconsciously just before the door slammed shut, “goodnight, dove.”

Even though a wave of relief washed over you, a sting of hurt also followed suit as the king left. 

Had you done something wrong, or did he just find you that repellent, that hideous, that he refused to perform his marital duties?

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