#my bandy bandy boy

[bandysnatched]

𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯, 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖞 & 𝘪 𝘸𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝚢𝚘𝚞

[ka-sanya]

♪ I'm going there to meet my Saviour To sing his praise forever more ♪

[ripjulie-gone]

this isnt even the right blog but

and bonus:

HIS NEW FIT IS NICE OKAY. And I am excited to hear the new setlist in preparation for october.

[seokmattchuus]

Nugus stay making bops why has Feeling by Fantasy Boys been on repeat today

[bandy-andy]

thank you for the sweaterduo and c!schlatt art I will now rotate it in my brain for 10 years

YOOOOOOOOOOOO I'm glad you liked it enough to rotate it in the brain, why it means alot to me 🦡

[dearheartdont]

Tagged!

tagged in WIP Wunday by @manicpixiedreamedwins. Thank you very much.

DBD, Charles POV, Payneland, getting ready for date night.

The suit is single-breasted and close-cut in a rich burgundy. After hours searching through photos on the internet (Crystal had done most of the searching), Charles had decided on tonic cloth for the fabric, so there is an inky blue sheen that flashes in and out of prominence when he moves. A paisley handkerchief peeks out of his breast pocket.

He looks good, Charles knows - Crystal had let out a teasing whistle when he changed into his new outfit - but something isn’t quite right.

It’s the tie. He’d worn one with his school uniform, but most of the time left it pulled loose and took the demerits teachers doled out for slovenly dress. He can’t really feel the knot around his neck, but it’s somehow still uncomfortable.

“At school, there was a joke,” Charles says, “What do you call a working-class lad in a suit?”

Crystal turns away from the bathroom mirror and repeats, “What do you call a working-class lad in a suit?

“The defendant.”

“That’s not funny.” Crystal watches him press his fingers to the knot of the tie.

“I didn’t think so either,” Charles says. It was something that the boys (and teachers) bandied about as the height of wit. Laughter following the punchline, eyes watching and waiting for Charles to join in. He had back then, smiling with teeth and pushing down the urge to bite back. He wouldn’t now.

“Get rid of the tie,” Crystal says, “you still look good without it.”

The tie fades and Charles undoes his top shirt button.

“Better. Now get out of my way so I can do my eyeliner.” The softness of Crystal’s voice in is opposition to the words. Charles allows himself to be shoved through the bathroom door and into the hotel bedroom.

He catches the tail end of what Niko is saying to Edwin. “--different can be good.”

Edwin does look different: a black tuxedo suit, white bowtie and black patent shoes. Like someone out of an old-timey advert selling cigarettes or expensive whiskey. Like someone who should be leading some fancy lady covered in sparkles round a ballroom, instead taking Charles on a date.

They stare at each other in silence, until “Oh fuck me,” falls out of Charles’ mouth.

Niko giggles, but Charles doesn’t turn, eyes pinned to Edwin in front of him.

“Is it too much?” Edwin’s hands tug at his shirt cuffs, gold cufflinks flashing. “I forewent the waistcoat as they no longer seem to be the fashion, but this was the formal wear I was most familiar with."

“It was a good ‘fuck me’. You look like James Bond, mate.”

“I know who that is.” Edwin says, and there's that small, pleased smile that would be a grin on anyone else. “You look rather handsome too.”

“Only rather handsome?”

Edwin’s steps closer and reaches out his hands to fuss with Charles’ handkerchief. When satisfied, he presses a hand against Charles’ chest over the pocket. Edwin dips his face closer, so he can whisper into Charles’ ear. “Would you prefer ‘fuck me’ handsome, instead?”

Charles can’t reply, his throat suddenly too dry to make words.

[xjoonchildx]

kanalia | jhs x reader | chapter five: the king is a fool

banner by the amazing, incredible @kth1

⚜️summary: secrets and uncertainty plague a young queen in her arranged marriage to a kind but distant king. the farther she drifts from her husband, the closer she gets to one of his most trusted men.

⚜️pairing: queen!reader x royalguard!hoseok

⚜️rating: mature, 18+

⚜️genre: royal AU, historical AU, smut

⚜️warnings: infidelity (it’s complicated, y’all) mentions of pregnancy, fertility issues. OC struggles with depressive thoughts and episodes.

⚜️word count: 10K

⚜️notes: the queen is hot and bothered, literally & figuratively. the king puts several Ls in the disappointed but not surprised category, everyone gets drunk at some point. lord min is a terrible archer, yeona remains round and winning. the queen could melt steel with her sexual frustration, lord jung is not faring much better but at least he knows what he's doing, slightly awkward marital smut. the queen fights with everyone.

i could never have finished this chapter without these amazing authors & minds @miscelunaaa and @vyduan and one person who would probably level us all with her first fic if she decided to write one, @hobi-gif. please let me re-iterate how much it means to me that any one of you reads my stories, and it would make me endlessly happy to talk to you about it. you can talk to me here 💕

previous chapter final chapter

Hyeri is curious.

She examines the stains at the hem of your walking dress with narrowed eyes, pausing her thorough study of the red-brown splotches only to steal the occasional furtive glance your way.  

Her lips purse as she shakes dirt loose from the grooves of your walking boots. She watches the sediment fall to the floor with a raised brow, uncharacteristically quiet as she reaches for the broom to sweep the mess away.

But her bewilderment only grows as she draws closer.

The older woman’s posture stiffens as she regards you, lips pulling into a thin line as she takes in the state of your wind-swept hair and grimy fingernails. You must reek of the ill temper you’ve brought back from your ride, the smell of it as pungent as the sweat and horse on your clothes. She tests your temperament in much the same way as she tests your bathwater, query as feather-light as the fingertip she skims along the surface.

“Are you… well, this evening, Your Grace?”

“As well as I ever am,” you answer succinctly, accepting her hand and stepping carefully into the tub. Woven into the spaces between each of your clipped words is rebuke; a silent warning to proceed no further. Your handmaid, who is by no means a meek woman, has the good sense to heed it.

So Hyeri says nothing as she takes a comb to the tangles in your hair, working them apart with peach oil. She says nothing as she scrubs away the dirt embedded beneath your normally pristine fingernails. And she says nothing still when you wince at the ache in your thighs as she helps you from the bath.

When the heavy chamber door finally pulls behind her, shutting the stares and the questions safely out, you make your way to bed. You extinguish the lamp on your nightstand and welcome the shadows.

And then you succumb to the darkness that envelops you, inside and out.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Steamy heat has put an end to weeks of pleasant fall weather. 

You’ve sought refuge this afternoon beneath a tree at the edge of the castle’s sprawling open field. The oak, though grand, offers scant protection from the midday sun. A bead of sweat trickles down your neck and disappears into the linen at your décolletage. 

“Between you and me, I’ve always found hunting to be an appalling sport.”

Boram shakes her head at the scene in the distance. The King and his men claim to be training for an upcoming hunt, but by all appearances, there is little training taking place. Instead they look to be bandying about like mischievous little boys, scrambling for position in front of the straw targets with bows in hand. 

“I find it to be an exercise in vanity more than ability. Little more than male preening disguised as sport.” Boram dabs at her brow with a handkerchief and sighs. “What do you think?”

You don’t answer Boram’s question on account of your distraction. Try as you might to keep your eyes on the dashing elder Lord Kim or the charming young Lord Jeon or – heaven forbid, your husband – they wander to Lord Jung instead, over and over and over again. Your gaze pulled to his strong face as though drawn by a magnet.

He turns his head and his dark eyes find yours across the distance.

The butterflies you’ve felt in his presence before are not to blame for the unsettled feeling that comes over you now. The very sight of the man makes your stomach turn over, as though you can taste the vivid recollection of the last time you saw him. 

The memory of that wonderful ride – and of the horrible way it ended – are still bitter on your tongue. Like picking the most beautiful fruit in the orchard only to find it sour and decaying inside. 

“Your Grace?”

You blink.

“I say this to you as my friend and not my Queen,” Boram says, pausing to clear her throat. “You don’t seem yourself today. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“Nothing at all,” you lie quickly, smoothing down the damp curls springing up around your ears. “I’m fine, truly. Though I suppose it is possible the heat is making me cross. I can barely think in such conditions.”

“Awful, isn’t it?” Boram laments, reaching over to give Yeona’s belly a tickle. The baby curls into herself like a starfish, giggling as she rolls around on the blanket. “Yoongi says it will take a rain to break it. But until then, we must all suffer.”

“And suffer we shall,” you echo under your breath, watching Lord Jung load his bow in the distance. He sets his lithe body in a precise stance then draws his arm back and releases his arrow. It flies in a tight arc and lands just below the bullseye on the target. The men erupt into raucous cheers. You resist the urge to scowl.

“As for the hunting,” you add, “I think men are just as guilty of the frivolity they so often accuse women of. Not that any one of them is likely to admit it.”

“No, I suppose not,” Boram laughs. “Men are not known to be skilled in the art of introspection.”

“They certainly are not.”

And why should they be? Men never have to stop and consider the consequences of their actions. They alone decide the rules of engagement. They are free to be as vain and as frivolous and as thoughtless as their hearts desire. Horrid, infuriating creatures.

Lord Min steps up to the target. His stance is uneven and his arrow is wild the very second he lets it loose. It flies yards from the target and lands off in the grass. The men jeer loudly.

“Poor Yoongi,” Boram winces as she watches the men tease him. “He’s never been much of an archer, I’m afraid.” But the good-natured Lord Min appears to take it all in stride, shrugging off their taunts as he trades his bow for a fresh tankard of ale.

The King takes his turn next – the lines of his body thicker and stronger than Lord Jung’s, but no less elegant. The men circle around your husband as he draws the bow back with one strong arm. He takes careful aim with his arrow and deftly plants it just above the target’s bullseye. The sound of the men’s whooping echoes across the field.

And so it goes for a while, with the men taking turns loosing their arrows to varying degrees of success.

Lords Park and Jeon both prove to be adequate archers, hitting the targets more often than not. The elder and younger Lord Kims are less skilled and spend the lion’s share of their time plucking arrows from the grass behind the targets. Lord Min quickly gives up on the endeavor entirely, opting instead to sit with his ale and heckle the others.

But the two best archers on the field refuse to be distracted by drink.

The King and Lord Jung set an arduous pace, loading and firing their arrows in quick succession. Even at a distance, even with your meager knowledge of archery, you can discern that both men are quite evenly matched in terms of skill. They load, fire, and strike their respective targets with precision.

On and on they persist – despite the brutal heat, despite the fact that the other men have begun to tire. One by one the other Guardsmen surrender, abandoning their bows and collapsing onto the grass to watch. 

“These two seem quite serious, don’t they?” Boram notes. 

They certainly do. The air of silly fun that’s sat over the group for much of the afternoon is all but gone now and what began as a diversion for all of the men has clearly become a challenge between just two. The other Guardsmen seem to sense the shift in atmosphere as well, their faces earnest as they watch the King and Lord Jung compete.

Physically, the two men are quite different. The King’s muscular arms and chest serve him well as he steadies his bow and fires. In contrast, Lord Jung’s body is lithe, sleek. He moves with an agility the King cannot. But both wear matching expressions of determination. And though this competition might have been amiable at the start, it’s now evident that neither man is willing to leave the field without a clear victor.

Lord Min calls out to them both – voice too distant for you to make out his words – and the men appear to nod in agreement. They both step back from the targets, increasing the difficulty of each shot. But it takes only a few more arrows to prove that the added distance is no hindrance to either man. Both set their stances again, both aim and fire, and both land their arrows with ease.

The Guardsmen sitting nearby fall silent, and in the absence of their racket the King’s answering growl of frustration echoes over the entire field. 

“Oh my,” Boram whispers. “I’d heard there was some tension between them, and it would certainly appear to be so.”

It certainly would. Right now, the King and Lord Jung look more like rivals seeking to settle a score than lifelong friends. 

The King’s agitation is apparent in every move he makes, in the way he jerks the arrows out of the straw targets and stalks back into position. Lord Jung’s agitation is equally apparent. He accepts a skin of water from Lord Min without so much as a thanks and hands it back once he’s drained it.

It’s a strange thing to see the handsome Guardsman challenge his King with the very same passion in which he’d defended him just days prior.

“Has the King spoken to you about it?”

“No,” you admit stiffly, “He has not. Are you determined to keep me in the dark, as well?”

“Heavens, no,” Boram protests, pulling Yeona into her lap. She hands the baby a rice cake and Yeona sets to gumming at it right away. “I would never want you to think that I’m speaking ill of the King, is all.” 

“I could never think that of you.”

There is hesitation in Boram’s face when she flicks her dark eyes back to meet yours. 

“Well, the details I have are few,” she starts slowly. “But what I know is that the King expressed a wish to see Lord Jung married again and Lord Jung, from my understanding was – ” she pauses, carefully considering her next words,“ – less than amenable to the idea.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Yoongi says they fought over the matter. Quite thoroughly, from what I’ve been told.”

“I see,” you say, taking great care to keep your expression impassive. “And did Lord Min explain why Lord Jung is so opposed to marriage? He’s still a young man. I can certainly see why the King would think it a logical proposition.”

Boram’s lips purse as she thinks.

“I do not know that I can say. Though I consider Lord Jung to be a dear friend, he can be terribly private about some matters.”

You cut your eyes towards the field to search for the man in question. 

Does she really know Lord Jung? Do you? Today there is no sign of the man who’d leveled you with a smile in the Great Hall, no trace of the man who’d teased you about riding clothes before helping you onto your mount. The man you see now wears a strained expression as he watches the King take aim, his energy volatile like a pot ready to boil over. 

Perhaps you’d been foolish to think him so different from the King. Perhaps they are as evenly matched in the art of duplicity as they are the skill of archery.

“So what will come of it?” you ask after a while. “Will the King – make him marry?”

“I don’t know,” Boram admits. “And therein, I suppose, is where much of the tension lies. Lord Jung has already taken a bride once in service to the Kingdom. I can’t imagine he’d be inclined to do it again.”

There’s a sudden commotion on the field then, an outburst that has Lords Park and Jeon on their feet. The younger men rush to meet the King and Lord Jung mid-field, nodding as the King speaks. Both take off running at once. 

“I’ve no clue what that is all about, but I do wish they’d end this already,” Boram grumbles, watching the young men disappear behind the tree line as they go off in search of whatever it is the King’s asked for. “I don’t know how much longer I can last in this heat.”

“Nor I,” you agree, watching the King and Lord Jung speak to one another. Both men look sober, the lines of their faces hard. “But it seems we’ll all have to endure it for just a bit longer in order to humor this contest of male prides.”

Some arduous minutes later, Lords Park and Jeon make their return to the field.

The dust kicked up by the horses they ride precedes them, the ground parched from weeks without rain. Both men arrive in a cloud of grime – Lord Jeon on the King’s mount and Lord Park on Lord Jung’s– and dismount without delay, handing the reins over to their elders.

So this is how they will decide the victor.

“Well, let’s hope they keep their wits about them,” Boram sighs. “Lest they both break their legs in the heat of competition.”

“Yes, let’s,” you mutter.

The King is first to take his turn, of course. 

He mounts Jeonsa with ease despite the horse’s grand height and takes his time warming the warhorse up. The King runs his mount in circles around the target until he’s satisfied with his plan and the timing of his shot. He steadies himself against the jostling with his strong thighs, pulling his bow back to fire. The arrow hits the target just below the bullseye. 

The men, who’ve spent hours now drinking in the hot sun, erupt into a chorus of ruffian cheers. 

Lord Jung wastes no time taking to his own mount. His horse is leaner and quicker than Jeonsa, and it’s clear that he commands complete control of the animal’s every step. Both horse and rider move as one as he urges his mount faster, straightening his back to fire. The arrow hits the target just above the bullseye.

The men are getting rowdy now, egging on both competitors as they circle on their horses. Their shouting is louder, more animated, and you would not at all be surprised if there were a few healthy wagers underway. You wonder which of the men they’ve bet on. 

You wonder which of the men you would bet on before pushing the thought away and reminding yourself that you’re not particularly fond of either at this moment. 

The King circles Jeonsa around the target once again, taking his time about it. He seems to consider every circumstance surrounding his next shot – the angle, the speed, the light wind that blows east. After a great deal of circling and thought, he rears back to release his arrow.

It lands on the target, just above the arrow planted by Lord Jung. 

The shouting from the men becomes a low roar.

Lord Jung pointedly ignores the commotion, rolling his shoulders as he stares down the target, brow knit in concentration. Soon he’s urging his mount to move, the pair fluid as they circle the target. 

Just like the King, Lord Jung circles longer for this shot than he had for the first. Twice he draws back as though ready to fire and thinks better of it. But after painstaking deliberation, he finds his stride. He pulls his arm back and sets his stance. Then he releases his arrow. 

And it misses the target entirely.

It flies off the end of Lord Jung’s bow with astonishing speed, gliding just to the right of the straw and landing off in the distance. The men are on their feet now, jumping and yelling and slapping one another on their backs. Lord Jung shakes his head in disgust.

“Well,” Boram reaches for her basket, loading her things into it with haste. “That’s settled now. I certainly hope at least one of them feels better. Let’s move into more liveable conditions, shall we?”

You open your mouth to agree just as you spot the King barreling towards you atop Jeonsa, leaving the men celebrating his victory on the field behind. 

You nearly stumble over the hem of your dress in your rush to rise to your feet. Your husband is grinning widely when he reaches you, stopping his mount long enough to extend one large hand. You place your hand in his and he dips his head to plant a kiss on your fingers.

“Well done, You Grace,” you demur, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “A hard-fought victory.”

“Thank you. I’m quite pleased with the outcome.”

The King acknowledges Boram with a smile before turning his mount to ride back to his men. You put a hand to your brow to shade your eyes and watch as they cheer for him – reward him with the adulation he’s clearly worked so hard for. 

But a thought occurs to you as you examine the scene in the distance. 

There is no sign of Lord Jung. 

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The King comes to you that night – hair damp and smelling of fine soap, breath tinged faintly with ale. 

He coaxes you to your knees just as he’s done so many times before. His fingers slide against your most secret place, slippery just as they’ve been so many times before. And then he’s pushing inside you, hard and hot just as he’s been so many times before.

But there is something different about him tonight.

Your husband’s touch is rougher than you remember. His grip on your waist is harder than you remember, large hands moving from your waist to your backside to dig his blunt fingertips into the soft flesh. His thrusts are more forceful than you remember, more erratic, powerful enough to push you up the length of the bed. 

You fist your hands into the bedding and push back, refusing to allow your knees to buckle under the pressure. That earns you a low groan from the King – a sound that strikes a strange chord inside you; sends a shiver racing up your spine. You press your hot face into the sheets.

Perhaps Namjoon is still feeling the effects of an arduous afternoon in the hot sun. Perhaps he’s still in his cups after a night of drinking with his men. 

Or perhaps it is all just a trick of your mind.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Morning brings no improvement in your mood. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

You wake snappish, jarred from a fitful sleep by the sudden appearance of light in your chamber. Shafts of it – hot and harsh – stream through your windows, spill across your duvet, assault your eyes. You bury your face in the pillow in a futile attempt to avoid it, sweat beading at the nape of your neck until the uncomfortable warmth forces you to quit the bed.

But the rude manner of your awakening is only one reason for your irritation.

The other is the lingering tenderness between your legs, a dull ache you can feel with each careful step. The sensation is more an annoyance than a true discomfort, but it vexes you nonetheless. Each muted throb serves as an unwelcome reminder of your visit from the King, of the peculiar way he’d bedded you last night. 

Your face flames as you think of it.

What is he about, your husband? And what of the juvenile, chest-thumping nonsense you’d witnessed yesterday afternoon? The combative way he’d gone up against Lord Jung and the grand show he’d made of coming to you to fête his victory. Boorish, absurd behavior – all of it. 

You go about your morning ablutions in silence, unwilling to meet Hyeri’s eyes for even one moment. You are in no mood to withstand her meddling today – well-intentioned or otherwise – and so it is for the best that she helps you wash and dress in relative silence. 

If there is something the older woman means to say, she has the good sense to swallow it, murmuring only a quiet warning about the heat as you slip out the chamber door.

And heavens, how you are wholly unprepared for the heat.

It, too, has worsened overnight – the air around you nearly thick enough to drink. You hurry towards the aviary, spurred on by the promise of the shade beneath its trees, but by the time you are finally seated at your desk you are soggy and sticky all over. Slick with sweat between your thighs and beneath your arms and breasts. 

Perhaps you should have heeded Hyeri’s warning. 

The thought rankles you as you open your book and attempt to pick up your story where you’d left it. You start and stop the same sentence over and over again, the heat so tyrannical that you can barely breathe, much less think. Even the King’s prized birds refuse to fly under such conditions – opting instead to perch on the highest branches, wings lifted to cool themselves with the occasional passing breeze. 

The stillness unnerves you; makes your aggravation mount with each unbearable minute that ticks by and before long, you throw your novel down in frustration. This will not do.

Loathe as you are to spend another day confined to the castle’s thick stone walls, there is no avoiding it. You’ll not survive another half hour in this heat, which means you’ll certainly not be able to pass an entire afternoon in it. You huff as you throw your things back into your basket and stalk off towards the aviary’s entrance.

But perhaps you should have been more mindful.

Immersed as you are in this black mood, you don’t notice the brambles growing at the edge of the heavy gate. You brush past them in a hurry, only to be wrenched back by the thorns that take hold of your skirt. You tug at the material with your free hand, successful only at tearing a hole in the fine linen but unsuccessful at pulling yourself free. You drop your basket in the struggle and the contents spill out, an apple rolling to a stop at your feet.

It is then that you do something very unladylike, something that would have earned you an exaggerated gasp from your sister or a sharp rebuke from your mother. 

You swear. Loudly.

You summon all of your frustration and scream what is perhaps the most undignified word you know at the very top of your lungs, the vulgarity echoing in the aviary’s eerie quiet. And though it’s done nothing to solve your current predicament, there’s something truly satisfying about speaking the nasty word out loud, about shouting it into existence.

That is, until someone coughs.

“I take it you need some help, Your Grace?”

You clap a hand over your mouth as you whirl in the direction of the voice.

Lord Min approaches slowly, eyes sparkling with amusement as he takes in your sorry state. You’ve no idea where he came from, but at this very moment you’ve never been so horrified and grateful to see him, all at the very same time. 

“Yes, I – ” you start and stop, flustered by both your behavior. “ – I’m stuck. The brambles are caught in my skirt and – ”

“Oh yes, I see,” he says, leaning down to examine the mess you’ve gotten yourself into. He tugs at the bottom of your skirt and you wince at the sound of the fabric tearing. “You’ve got yourself quite tangled up here, haven’t you?” 

“I believe I have,” you admit with embarrassment. Lord Min gets down on his knees and begins plucking thorns and burs out of the fabric, brow knit with concentration as he attempts to extricate what remains of your fine linen dress.

You clear your throat.

“My Lord, I hope I didn’t – Well, rather, I hope you were not offended by that word you heard me say. It’s not a word that I usually use, not really. Well, not ever. What I mean to say is that I know of coarse language, of course, but I’m certainly not in the habit of using it.”

“What word?” Lord Min interrupts your rambling from his perch at your feet, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Did you say something, Your Grace? I must not have heard it.”

The corners of his mouth curve into a cautious smile, which you return with a timid one of your own. His teasing is welcome. It brings badly-needed levity to your embarrassing situation and lightens the heaviness of this atrocious day.

“What’s this, Min?”

At once, the gesture dies on your lips.

Lord Jung comes into view by way of the same path taken by Lord Min, though his sudden appearance does not bring you the same kind of relief. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

The very moment he’s standing before you, critical gaze moving from you to Lord Min and back, you feel absolutely lightheaded with anxiety. You wonder what he must make of the scene he’s stumbled upon: Lord Min on his knees, at your feet, hands fisted in your skirts. 

“You Grace.” The lines of Lord Jung’s beautiful face are hard as he acknowledges you, his voice stiff and formal in a way that makes it foreign to your ears. He bows to you much in the same way, body rigid as he performs the required motion.

“My Lord,” you return with similar formality.

“Her Grace is stuck,” Lord Min explains, unaware or perhaps unbothered by the provocative position the two of you have been discovered in. “I’m trying to free her without ripping this linen to shreds. Could use your help, seeing as you’re standing there. Push that branch back for me?”

“Yes, of course.”

Oh, but now you feel a migraine coming on. Lord Jung squeezes into the space beside you, leaning over Lord Min to push the brambles back so that the older man may have both hands free to work. At this point, both men are too close, but he is far too close. Heat blazes a path up your neck and into your cheeks. 

Inhale, you twit. Exhale.

“Last few, Your Grace,” Lord Min announces, voice muffled by your skirts. “I think the linen will need a bit of mending, but not much more.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

Lord Jung’s gaze connects with yours. His dark eyes, normally so warm and expressive, are flat as he regards you. In fact, everything about the handsome guardsman’s countenance is uncharacteristically severe today, from the deep knit of his brows to the way his bow-shaped mouth presses into a firm line. He looks away from you without so much as a smile.

Is he – is he angry with you?

Your mouth nearly falls open at the realization. What right would Lord Jung have to be angry with you? It was he who’d laid the trap with the promise of a perfect afternoon spent riding and he who’d sprung the trap by defending your husband’s dishonesty. 

If either one of you had a just claim to animosity, it would most certainly be you. 

The awful word you’d uttered at the very start of this ridiculous dilemma springs right to the tip of your tongue. If only you had the courage to spit it at him. Horrid, infuriating man.

“There now,” Lord Min announces. “I think we’ve got it. Hang on to that bramble for a bit longer while Her Grace steps away from the gate.”

You start forward slowly, steps mercifully unencumbered by gnarled plants. Though Lord Min has done his best to salvage the fine linen, your skirt is now covered in a fine dusting of grime, torn in places from your knees to your ankles. Hyeri will have a fit when she sees you, but you couldn’t care less about the state of your ruined dress. The only thing that matters now is quitting this place at once.

“Thank you so much, Lord Min,” you breathe, dropping to your knees to gather your scattered things. The elder guardsman helps you retrieve the wayward charcoals and papers, which you hurriedly stuff back into your basket. “I’ll be off now and won’t take up any more of your afternoon.”

With that, you rush to your feet and turn on your heels to leave. You try not to think about the scene you’re leaving behind – Lord Min puzzled by your sudden exit, Lord Jung affronted by the fact that you’d pointedly ignored him in your thanks. 

You make haste with those first few steps towards freedom, only to be pulled back once again. Only this time, not by jagged brambles.

“Your Grace.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stand at the sound of the gruff voice behind you. You turn around slowly, acutely aware of both men watching your every move. When Lord Jung steps forward, your eyes fall to the gently worn leather binding in his hands. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

You take great care to school your features, though the panic rising inside of you threatens to spill out. Your most private thoughts are inside that book. Fragments of poems and unsent letters and one horribly incriminating sketch of a man who is most certainly not your husband.

“Thank you, My Lord,” you mumble, resisting the urge to run to him and snatch the book right out of his grip. You can feel him watching your every move as you approach to accept it with unsteady hands.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

A storm is coming. You can feel it.

Never mind that the sun is shining – or that the sky outside is a perfect, crystalline blue. The clouds dotted across the horizon hang in the air, unmoving. There is no wind to rustle the leaves in the trees. The calm is ominous. Foreboding.

“... think none of the people in this kingdom have ever seen this kind of display before. I imagine they’ll be quite awed by it. I’ve only ever seen it once myself, in a village far North. A strange lot, those people are. After all these years, they still dabble in the dark arts.”

At the other end of the long dining table before you sits the King. He’s been prattling on like this for the better part of ten minutes now; far too absorbed in his grand talk of the festival to note that his audience of one has yet to engage with a word that’s come out of his mouth.

“It’s strange though, to think of celebrating a Fall Festival in this heat. Though I generally prefer the heat to the cold, these conditions are quite beyond the pale. We’ll have to have just as much water on hand as we do ale.”

You make a sound under your breath that you hope will pass for discourse.

“Of course, there’s still much to be done. But the stewards assure me that everything will be ready in time. And there will be much to celebrate this year as I’m told the crops in all our holdings are faring well. The wheat has – ”

The King’s jabbering comes to an abrupt stop.

“You’ve barely eaten,” he notes, in a sudden fit of awareness. He regards you over the rim of his wine glass, curious. “Is the jajangmyeon not to your liking?”

“It is to my liking,” you insist, pushing the wheat noodles around your bowl in a half-hearted attempt to appease him. “As always. I suppose I’m just not very hungry tonight, is all.”

“I find that surprising,” the King says, as though you’d asked his opinion on the matter. “I understand you were brave enough to venture out into that awful heat this afternoon. I would have thought you’d be famished tonight.”

Every muscle in your body tenses at once.

“Oh?”

“I spoke with Hyeri this afternoon,” the King elaborates, oblivious to his misstep. “She said she’d warned you against leaving the castle under those conditions, but you’d off and done it anyway.” He chuckles under his breath as he recounts the conversation. “I think you surprise her at times with how strong-willed you can be.”

Beneath the table, your hands ball into fists.

The thought of Hyeri disclosing the details of your day to the King, no matter how trivial, incenses you. You imagine them together over tea, sharing a laugh as they trade observations about your shortcomings. Or worse – meeting with one another somber-faced as they commiserate over your inability to produce a child. 

That thought is the most insidious. Your nails dig savagely into your palms.

“Do you and Hyeri discuss my comings and goings often, then, Your Grace?” 

Your husband shrugs, helping himself to another generous serving of noodles.

“Often enough, I suppose.”

“So am I then to assume that when you ask me about my day, you are merely standing on ceremony? Surely you must be, given that you’ve already had a full report from my handmaid.”

The King sets down his chopsticks to look at you, perplexed by the contentious turn in this conversation. But he’s careful to school his features as he considers what to say next.

“Of course not,” he starts slowly. “I ask after you because I genuinely want to know about your day. It’s a consideration that I would think customary between husbands and wives.”

Is he – is he toying with you?

What on earth would His Grace know about what’s customary between husbands and wives? He is the one who’s made this marriage into a farce with his deceit and adultery. He is the one who’s held you at arm’s length from the very start in order to protect the woman he truly loves. Your husband’s hubris is as astonishing as it is aggravating. Horrid, infuriating man.

“Well I, for one, would genuinely like to know about your day, Your Grace,” you say, unable to keep venom from seeping into your every word. “So tell me then – as is customary between husband and wives – how did you pass the afternoon?”

The color drains from the King’s face. 

You should shut your mouth now and say no more, you know it – but by now you are far too consumed with anger to give much thought to the consequences of sharp words. You push the bowl of jajangmyeon away and get to your feet.

“Nothing of interest to share, then?” You raise a brow as you stare down at your husband, unwilling to look away for even one moment. “What a pity. Perhaps tomorrow.”

The King’s eyes narrow but his mouth stays shut. He says nothing in his own defense, says nothing to attempt to placate you. 

And he says nothing as you turn your back on him and walk out the door.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The first crack of thunder sounds just as you’re readying for bed. You stand at your window and watch the storm roll in. 

Black clouds build off in the distance, discernible only by the occasional flare of lightning. Each bright flash is followed by an earth-shaking rumble that satisfies you somehow, as though you’ve manifested this squall with your thoughts. The violent wind and rain it carries with it a mirror of the tempest inside you.

“Do you require anything else, Your Grace?”

Hyeri’s voice comes from behind, timid and small. She’s been tiptoeing around your chamber all evening, clearly disquieted by the cold reception you’d given her upon your return. The well-bred, well-behaved woman inside you whispers that you should turn to her, do something to reassure her, but you refuse. 

Fortified by your anger, you keep your back to Hyeri and go on staring at the storm clouds.

“No,” you say firmly. “You can retire for the night.”

“But I – ” Hyeri starts, stops, and then sighs. “Very well. As you wish, Your Grace.”

And you do wish. You wish for Hyeri to leave you – not just tonight, but every night. And you wish not just for Hyeri to leave you – but all of them. You’ve grown quite tired of humiliating yourself in this kingdom; of placing your trust in people who’ve made you into a fool time and time again. 

There is rustling as the older woman hurriedly gathers her things, then a brief pause before she slips out the door. The heavy thud that finally announces her departure brings you some small measure of peace, but it does not last.

Your bath-damp body is warm when you slip beneath the heavy duvet. Too warm. Though the storm raging nearby brings with it the promise of cool rain, it is still too far off to displace the humid air in your chamber. You toss and turn beneath the heavy covers for a while, your thin nightgown soaked through with sweat by the time you finally kick your bedding away.

So you lie there in the dark, close to feverish with heat and unable to settle down. Every time you close your eyes, you’re taunted by images – of Hyeri, of the King, of the child that never comes. What you would give to be able to quiet your mind, to have some respite from the reality of your circumstances.

But there will be no respite, not any time soon. The thunder outside is close enough now to shake the castle’s heavy walls with each new blast that rips through the sky. You feel the tremors right down to your bones, the sensation causing goosebumps to scatter across your skin. 

In spite of the heat, you shiver. 

There’s a prickling that starts at your scalp and goes right down to your toes. It makes you itch with the desire to drag your nails down your arms and legs. It makes you want to squeeze your thighs together, tight and tighter still until your agitation is gone. Perhaps that is the solution. 

You cup your breasts through the damp, thin material of your nightgown. They feel sensitive, tender — and the very moment you brush your fingertips over your nipples they come to life, pebbling against the gauzy fabric. 

You close your eyes and try to imagine that your hands are not your own. That the fingers that close around the aching buds, teasing and testing, are not your fingers. That the dormant pleasure the pressure rouses inside you has instead been roused by someone else. 

In your mind, the hand that steals between your thighs is not your own. It’s larger than yours, the fingers longer and rougher than yours. You imagine that hand parting your legs, coarse fingertips slippery against the wetness gathered at your entrance. And you imagine it caressing you there, expertly stroking the spot that makes the air leave your lungs. 

What would it be like to be touched like this? To have a lover’s lips at your neck and his hand between your thighs? To have the weight of him pressing down on you, the scent of him enveloping you – to feel his warm breath fan over your skin?

These thoughts only serve to make the ache between your legs more pronounced. But the more you attend to it, the sharper it becomes. Pleasure blooms with each inexpert pass of your fingers over that place, but in its wake your desperation grows, too. 

You whine under your breath as you touch yourself harder, faster – a heaviness building at your core that makes you feel full, overripe. There is relief on the other side of whatever this is, and you know it. 

But can you reach it? 

Your imaginary lover would know how to help you reach it. He would take you in his arms and in his mouth and leave no inch of your body untouched. He would fuse himself to you, skin-to-skin, and show you how to beckon your pleasure at will, help you realize its full potential. 

In your mind’s eye you can see him – legs and arms strong and lean, golden skin illuminated by firelight. The mouth he sets to your aching nipples would be soft, lips pretty and bow-shaped. And his hair would be dark and his eyes would be a rich chocolate and his face would be – 

A clap of thunder explodes in the sky. 

Your eyes fly open – unseeing – as you gasp from the shock of it. It leaves you trembling, body slick with sweat and limbs tingling from the sudden fear. You lie there in the dark, panting as you wait for your heart to stop racing. 

And just like that, the pleasure you’ve been chasing is gone. Quick as a rabbit. 

Outside your window the heavens weep, the rain beating against the ground like a hail of arrows. 

The dry earth enjoying a relief that always seems to elude you.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

“Magnificent, Your Grace.” 

Hyeri passes a hand over the embellishments in your bodice, chest puffed with pride as she examines the dressmaker’s handiwork. Though her brown eyes have long gone dull and gray with age, they shine as she steps back to take you in from head to toe. “Just magnificent.”

It is magnificent – far and away the finest garment you have ever worn. 

Rich, plum-colored velvet embellished with gilt thread, the plunging neckline and bliaut sleeves lined with pressed bezants. You hardly recognize the woman looking back at you in the mirror, the one with her hair swept off her neck in an intricate braided bun, eyes darkened with kohl, ears and neck adorned with sparkling gold. Whoever that woman is, she is far bolder and far more sophisticated than you.

“There’s nothing like his work,” Hyeri muses, running a thumb over pattern pressed into the hem of one sleeve. “Frail as he is, it takes him ages to complete a dress. But he’s worth it. Worth the wait and worth every single won.”

You study the intertwining gold patterns stitched into the bustline. No doubt the King has paid dearly for this dress and all its fine accoutrements. The thought of your husband spending an obscene amount of money on it nearly puts a smile on your face. 

“You look remarkable in this dress,” Hyeri remarks quietly, wrinkled mouth lifting at the corners with a cautious smile. “Well, of course, you look remarkable everyday, but especially tonight.” 

Her expression is bittersweet as she reaches for you, gently tucking a strand of hair that’s fallen loose of your braid behind your ear. This newfound emotional distance has been hard on her, you know. It’s been hard on you, too. And though holding her at arm’s length has proven difficult at times, it feels somehow vital to your self-preservation.

“Don’t forget your shawl,” Hyeri says softly. “It’s gotten quite cold out there.”

It certainly has. The storm that ripped through the kingdom just days ago took the insufferable heat with it, leaving behind a pure, crystalline cold. The night sky is clear enough to see for miles. 

So you accept the shawl from Hyeri with a quiet thanks, avoiding her eyes as you slip out the chamber door.

By the time you make your way to the great hall, the revelry is already well underway. You can hear it pulsing through the slats of the heavy wooden doors, the music and commotion contained within powerful enough to stir the ground beneath your feet. The footmen posted at either side of the entrance bow deeply as you approach, then move to pull the doors open.

You raise a hand to still them, wanting a moment to steel yourself before entering the fray.

“I’m not – If you’ll just give me – ”

One of the guards steps forward to speak when your words falter.

“No need to explain, Your Grace,” he says earnestly. “Just let us know when you’re ready.”

“Thank you.” You take as deep a breath as your elaborate gown will allow. “Truly.”

You already know what awaits on the other side of those doors. Artificial smiles that hide whispers about your empty womb, honeyed and hollow words of praise from your exasperating husband. Pity too, perhaps, from those connected enough to be privy to the true state of your marriage. 

But you’ll bear it. You must. Because it’s what’s expected of you and because your political survival in this kingdom depends on it.

“Well then,” you say, smoothing down your velvet skirt with trembling hands. "I believe I've had time to collect myself."

The very same footman that had spoken to you just moments earlier gives you a sympathetic smile as he places one hand on the door’s ornate wrought iron handle. He pauses to look at you before signaling to the other footman, one brow raised as if to say are you sure?

You swallow thickly and nod your affirmation.

Slowly, the heavy doors are pulled open, creaking as they part. You step forward to enter, feeling a rush of cool air at your heels. The brief hush that falls over the great hall makes your heartbeat quicken.

But then the King stands. 

He rises to his feet and bows to you, and every person inside the great hall follows suit. You return his bow and then straighten, holding your head up high as you set off to fulfill your duty.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The King makes no mention of the tense meal you’d shared just a few nights prior. Not that you’d expected him to. If anything, your husband’s predilection for avoidance has been one of his most consistent traits. And if he’s harbored any ill feelings about the curt words you’d spoken that night, surely they’ve been washed away in a torrent of ale.

He’s already a bit drunk when you take your seat beside him – pleasantly so, if his ruddy cheeks and leisurely smile are any indication. His dark eyes are glassy as they sweep over your form, taking in the grandeur of your dress. But they linger at your bust for just a heartbeat too long and it takes all the self-control you can muster to not kick him beneath the table.

“You look fetching in that dress,” the King notes, reaching for his tankard. “The color suits you.”

“Oh? Then you’ll be pleased to know I’ve dozens more just like it on the way.”

You startle a laugh from the King just as he’s taken a drink and he splutters on it, coughing until tears gather at the corners of his eyes. “Very good of you to warn me before the bill comes due,” he wheezes.

“But of course, Your Grace.” You infuse your words with cloying, contrived sweetness, putting a hand over your heart for emphasis. “It is the very least I could do.”

The King chuckles as you turn to look out over the room. 

The tables below the raised platform on which you both dine are teeming with people, their long wooden benches bowing beneath the substantial weight. They are littered with food and drink, tankards and platters and goblets scattered for as far as the eye can see. 

You sip your wine and watch partygoers reach over one another for noodles and steal dumplings from their neighbors’ plates.

It takes a minute for you to spot Boram. She and Lord Min are tucked into a corner, cozy and close. Your dear friend is the very picture of contentment; resplendent in a royal blue gown, glowing in the torchlight when her husband presses a kiss to her temple. Your heart aches as you watch them. What you would give to have what they have – to know the fulfillment they’ve found in one another.

In fact, the Mins make for such a compelling tableau that you nearly overlook the one behind it. Lord Jung is dressed in an arresting black and gold tunic, dark hair styled away from his face and a tankard of ale in his hand. And he is not alone.

Seated close to him – so very close – is a woman. A beautiful woman, as best you can tell from a distance. Her dark red dress in perfect contrast to her shiny fall of dark hair, the garment cut to accentuate what can only be described as a generous bust. She leans in to Lord Jung as she says something, décolletage on full display when she throws her head back to laugh.

Your grip on the wine goblet in your hand tightens.

The woman is brazen, that much you can tell. Her proximity to the Guardsman is far too close to be proper, her scandalous –  if stunning – manner of dress far too self-indulgent to be benign. And though you cannot make out clearly how she’s been received by Lord Jung, the very fact that he has not sent her away is telling. Is this the woman he intends to marry, then? Or just a diversion for the night? 

You drain the wine that remains in your goblet and signal for the serving girl to bring you more.

Moments later Lord Jung, too, flags down a passing servant to fill his tankard. For a man who once took great pride in extolling his discipline with spirits, he seems to be exercising very little of it tonight. In fact, he looks to be indulging as much or perhaps even more than his fellow Guardsmen. Perhaps that is why he does not he does not move to distance himself when the alluring woman at his side places a hand on his arm.

You swallow another large sip of wine.

“It’s nearly time for the evening’s entertainment,” the King says. “I think you’ll be impressed by what’s in store.”

You cannot tear your gaze from the scene before you. You cannot stop staring at the comely woman at Lord Jung’s side – stiffening in your seat when she leans over to whisper in his ear.

“I’m looking forward to it,” you say absentmindedly, lifting your wine glass to your lips once again.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

When you were a girl, barely ten years old, your father had come home from a long journey with a fantastic tale. 

He’d spoken of fire – in shades of red and green and gold – launched into the sky, embers raining down on the earth in a magnificent display. You’d been spellbound by the picture he’d painted for you, wishing desperately to see this phenomenon for yourself.

And now you have.

The King’s promise of a surprise well exceeds your expectations. Each new flare sent up over the open field is met with a hush from the crowd, followed by loud cheers and applause as it explodes into color.

“I brought them back from a village up North,” the King explains, preening at the crowd’s reception. “And though I wanted to show them right away, I made myself wait until the most advantageous time. What do you make of them?”

“They’re splendid,” you answer earnestly. “I’ve never seen anything so grand.”

The King hides a satisfied smile behind the rim of his tankard. By this point in the evening, he’s crossed the line from agreeably drunk to good and well soused – as have many of the others in attendance. You, too, are feeling the effects of your wine, experiencing that strange weightlessness that can only be brought on by drink.

And you are glad for the distraction of the fire display. 

It’s helped pull your focus away from Lord Jung and that woman. Though each time there is a brief break in the presentation, you cannot help but search the throng for any sign of them. You wonder where they are right now. What they might be doing. But then you drown the bitter thoughts with the wine in your goblet.    

The night wears on and the crowd around you becomes rowdier, louder – the ale barrels slowly disappearing one by one. Even the King is looking a bit worse for the wear. He’s sagged into the chair beside you, heavy-lidded as he watches the bright detonations that light up the sky.

You are not faring much better. A dull throb taps at your temples, no doubt the consequence of drinking too much wine, and you suspect that it will be far more pronounced come morning. You ought to retire for the evening now, while you still have some of your wits about you.

You open your mouth to say as much to the King at the very same time you catch sight of a slim man ambling away from the crowd. Though he’s hundreds of yards away and though there’s little light beyond the torches and the occasional embers in the sky, you recognize him right away. 

You would recognize him anywhere.

Impulsively, you get to your feet and utter a rushed goodbye to the King. He bids you farewell with a sluggish smile and not a moment later he’s gone back to gazing skyward, mesmerized by the lights. Just ahead, Lord Jung slinks off into the shadows, moving with an unsteady gait. 

And you follow him. To what end you cannot be sure.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Clearly, you’d given no real thought to this course of action. 

If you had, you’d not be scurrying across damp grass right now, struggling to keep your balance in your beautiful velvet dress. The heavy fabric weighs you down with each step, making each footfall precarious. In fact, if you’d stopped for even a moment to consider the implications of stealing away to pursue a man who is not your husband, you’d have ended this lunacy long before it even began.

But here you are in the dark, chasing after Lord Jung. With only the moon to light your way.

The slender man moves quickly, unburdened by the trappings of women’s formalwear and assisted by his long legs. You lift the hem of your dress off the ground and do your best to keep up on the shadowy path. Just a short distance ahead you can make out the lines of a thatched roof and wooden fence. 

It’s the stables, you realize, and the pieces start to fall into place.

He’s come here to meet that woman. The two of them must have agreed to leave the festival and come here for a secret tryst. Were you a woman in your right mind, that realization would stop you cold and send you running straight back to the castle. But you are absolutely not in your right mind. You are dangerous tonight; fearless from the wine flowing freely in your veins.

As such, the very thought of Lord Jung arranging for a passionate liaison with this woman has the opposite effect. It infuriates you. And you’ll not be satisfied until you can see the proof for yourself and then end this fixation once and for all.

Overhead, a flare of light illuminates the darkness just as you’re nearing the horse stalls. It’s followed by the sound of sizzling gunpowder, and it draws your attention skyward. You look up just in time to see wisps of fire tumble back to the earth. But when you fix your gaze forward again, Lord Jung is gone.

What on earth?

You’ve barely begun to consider your next move before your body is moving of its own volition, jerked right off the walking path by a hand that wraps around your arm like a band of steel. Lord Jung drags you behind the horse stall with one hand and claps the other over your mouth to smother the sound of hysteria that threatens to escape.

“What. Are. You. Doing?”

He hisses the words, one by one, his low vibrato thrumming with barely-contained anger. You’ve yet to recover from the shock of being accosted in the dark and so you stare at him, bewildered and mute.

He releases you, dropping the hand covering your mouth to walk to the edge of the stables. You watch as he ducks his head around the corner to check the walking path. Once he’s satisfied you’ve not been followed, he rounds on you.

“Anyone could have seen you.”

“No one saw me,” you scowl, finding your voice. You rub your forearm where his fingers dug painfully into your flesh. “They’re all far too drunk to see anything, I assure you.”

The Guardsman shoves a hand through his dark hair and exhales deeply.

“What are you about tonight, Your Grace?” 

A fair question, and one you ought to have considered before dashing off into the night. But you’d been so hellbent on hunting the man down that you’d given no real thought to what you’d do if you actually caught him. You hesitate for so long that he grows impatient, closing in on you.

“What,” he repeats slowly, “Are you about?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Well, you ought to know,” he growls. “You ought to know damned well exactly what you’re about before you go off following men into the dark.”

But it’s not as though you’ve followed just any man into the dark, is it? You’d followed him. The admonishment riles you, bringing your temper back to a full boil. You straighten your spine and sear him with a withering look.

“That woman tonight. At the feast. She wants you to bed her.”

Lord Jung’s dark eyes go wide just before they narrow. He stalks towards you slowly, forcing you to retreat until your back is flush to the stable’s rough wooden slats. Slivers of moonlight play off his angular face, making the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced.

He’s beautiful – even like this – even when he’s so irate that he can barely stand still.

“I know what she wants,” he murmurs, voice sinking to an octave that raises goosebumps on your arms. “What I do not know is what you want. What I do not know is why you are here.”

“So you intend to bed her,” you challenge.

Something dangerous flickers in the man's expression as he regards you, gaze potent enough to almost make you regret your sudden bout of daring. Almost.

“No.”

And so there is no tryst. No agreement between secret lovers. Adrenaline floods your veins, bringing with it a clarity that you’ve not had since you began drinking tonight. You’ve been reckless – so, so reckless – and now there is no undoing what you’ve done. 

“I’ve answered your question and now you will answer mine,” Lord Jung warns, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “What. Do. You. Want?”

All the fire has left you now. Whatever force possessed you to confront this man in this way has disappeared, leaving behind only a sickly taste in your mouth. You’ll feel more than just the wine in the morning, you know it. 

“Brave enough to follow me into the dark, brave enough to demand I explain my plans for bedsport,” he continues, brows knit as he stares you down. “But somehow, not brave enough to tell me what you’re doing here in the first place.”

“I – ” 

“Tell me then,” he goads, growing more agitated by the minute. “Open your mouth and speak. Tell me why you’re here. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to kiss me.”

You ought to have slapped him across the face. At the very least, you would have earned the look he’s giving you right now – this frozen mask of incredulity that’s come over him. He backs away from you slowly, as though poised to run. But he doesn’t.

“You’re mad.”

“I am not mad,” you say evenly, with a poise you’d not thought yourself capable of. “You asked me what I want and I’ve told you. I want you to kiss me.”

Another burst of color explodes in the sky. A loud cheer goes up over the field nearby, a disquieting reminder of the hundreds of people milling about just a short walk away. The commotion seems to sober him.

“Go home, Your Grace.” His words are strangled, forced. “You are playing with fire. You have no idea what you’re doing here.”

You stiffen, lifting your nose in the air. 

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” you lie.

Your insistence only serves to make him even more agitated. He begins to pace back and forth, glowering at you as he moves.

“Go back to your castle, Your Grace. Go back to your fine life and your fine things and no one will ever be the wiser.”

“I will not,” you refuse, petulant.

Lord Jung delivers his last blow, the fatal one, in a voice so graveled it sounds as though the words are spoken by a stranger. And perhaps he is a stranger, this man you’ve been so infatuated with. Perhaps he’s nothing like what you’ve made him in your own mind.

“Go back to your husband,” he growls. “Your King.”

Your humiliation is instant and acute. You burn with it, the embarrassment so all-consuming that it nearly makes you see stars. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears, feel your heart pounding in your throat when you finally manage to speak.

“The King doesn’t want me,” you say stiffly. “Though I am certain you already know that.”

“The King is a fool!” he explodes, surging forward and slamming his hands down on either side of you. The outburst is violent enough to shake the horse stall and the venom in his countenance nearly makes you come out of your skin. His mouth hovers terrifyingly close to yours, so close that you can nearly taste the ale on his breath. You stop breathing altogether. 

Then he wrenches himself away from you, staggering backwards as though he’s been burned.

“And so am I.”

i’d love to hear from you about this chapter! you can talk to me here. otherwise, i hope you enjoyed it and only the final chapter is left 💕

[desultory-novice]

"The Only Thing I Know"

"...It's still blood shed..."

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A little sketch for the accidental second (or third?) of the Thematically Noir Songs || Gotye's "The Only Thing I Know"

To me, this is 100% a song about the Summer Trio. Or how they came undone when those bonds were destroyed forever.

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I love how the music in this song feels very cold, desolate, and wintry, just like Shiver Star. And then, it chooses to end on this oddly dissonant, warm, beach cafe music, which to me just digs the nail in further. Because going to the (non-existent) beach in search of a true summer is something that was always bandied about between them.

But Raquelle dies and Noir dies and Adeleine, poor dear, DOES get to go in Kirby 64, but it is not with the two of them at her side...

-

Lyrics wise, I feel like both Raquelle and Adeleine fit the "girl that I remember, who'll never leave or need to grow" as one is dead and one literally can't grow older anymore. The word "memory" in this case (the only thing I know) feels like a fitting metaphor for the control gear that locked around Noir after Raquelle's death.

(Frankly, all three of them are kind of trapped in this moment/memory, really)

"When the past gives me no comfort And though the future is the cost..."

-The past being times when things were happy, but that memory stings Noir now, because the only thing from the past he'd kept with him was his pain, which the Sword both fed off of and fed him with poisonous whispers that he could cut it all away and be better off. The cost was everyone's future. No one made it out normal.

"The way I'm choosing to remember I'll forever be the man I never was..."

-Noir is literally physically locked into the bloody role of being Zero's blade, enforcer, and executioner: The Swordsman. A role painfully unfitting for the sorrowful and wistful, ever-dreaming, deeply protective, all bark-and-no-bite teenage boy...

"And you, you fade But the memory remains the same"

"And I, I can't change And I think living with your memory Is slowly driving me insane."

-Same as above, really. What he did and the knowledge he cannot take it back is eating away at him and even speeding along the change into Dark Matter.

The last part, the B part following the long instrumental, feels like Adeleine's chance to finally say something about the situation Noir carefully crafted for her by caring about her so much that he...was too afraid to open up to her before things got THIS bad.

-

"You are perfect but you're empty And it gets so lonely in my mind"

"Cause your image in my memory's The only shred of you that's left behind" -He was the perfect big brother, at least, on the surface. Again, he never let her in and now she's left trying to reassemble a truer picture of what her brother was like without him and she's got so little to work from...

"You were real and but then you left me And that's the part I can't accept

So I'll keep on living with your memory Because it's all that I have left..." -As I alluded to in the Haircut From Hell comic, Adeleine has this kind of understated, defrosting horror in the back of her mind that Noir's "gift" to her (his curse) was to die while accidentally trapping her in the memory of a time when he was still alive

-

For the drawing, though it is a loose and hasty sketch, I did try to convey a few things, particularly in the way everyone's hands are being used. Raquelle has both her hands around Noir's shoulders (or neck) as if she's trying to cling to him mid fall. But that positioning echoes the idea that it was her death that locked the collar...

Noir has never needed to use his hands to wield the heavy sword, but here, he metaphorically holds it, taking "responsibility" for this death. But doing so keeps him from otherwise reaching out to her (as he didn't truly snap out of his emotion-dampened blood-haze till it was too late) and it keeps him from reaching out to Adeleine too... 

Though the tails of his scarf appear to try...

For as opposed to the star-crossed pair, tangled in each other's arms in a doomed fashion, Adeleine is but a singular figure forlornly walking away from the scene. She is alone and seems to know it. Her eyes meet no one's. One hand of hers is full with the Brush, but the other is still open. Yet there is no one to take it anymore.....

[heartshapedmisery]

here to ask for some sub!neil plssss🫶

YESSS been thinking about sub!neil too much recently I need him biblically !! sorry this took me a sec it got lost in my drafts and I forgot abt it

warnings! ⇢ MINORS DNI 18+ | sub!neil, unprotected sex, riding, petnames ( baby boy, sweetheart ), neil having a huuuge praise kink

The two of you fell back against the couch hastily, Neil shirtless below you as he pulled you down on top of him and his hands settled at the curves of your waist.

"Need you," he breathed, his eyes raking your figure as you sat back, your hands flat on his chest as you let him get a good look at you.

"Patience, baby," you cooed, the hint of a knowing smirk evident on your face as you could feel his erection grow harder beneath you as you sat on his lap. You could practically feel all of him through his boxer shorts, especially since you had no more than your favorite pair of lace panties on your lower half.

Hesitantly, you rocked your hips back, creating just enough friction to earn a soft moan from his lips. "Please," he whined, impatiently moving his hips around to relieve his hard-on as much as he could. You had always loved him like this. Eager for even the lightest of touches. The simplest of movements.

"Be good, sweetheart," you whispered. "Good boys get what they want." you told him, tucking a loose piece of hair behind his ear. Carefully, you pulled your t-shirt over your head and discarded it behind you without caring where it landed. Neil's eyes practically bugged out of his head when he saw your pretty lace bra matching your panties, his grip tightening on your waist.

"Want you so bad, need to feel that pussy," he breathed through a strained groan, beginning to grow irritated with your taunting. As much as you loved making him squirm underneath you like this, his rock-hard cock sitting right beneath your core had you worked up just as much as he was, your wetness pooling at the fabric of your panties.

Silently, you caved and dipped your hand beneath his boxers, grasping his length and pulling it free—his tip flushed and wet with his precum. Without thinking, your thumb ran over the slit at his head, making a shudder roll through his body along with an abnormally loud moan.

"So big, baby," you breathed, sitting up a little to pull the crotch of your panties to the side and align his tip with your entrance. "Don't know if it'll fit." His eyes watched your hand intently, his heart practically beating out of his chest as he watched himself slowly disappear inside of you as you sank down.

"F-Fuck," he choked out, his eyes screwing shut as a wave of relief washed over him. You were so wet around him, clenching him just right as you fell into a steady movement of rolling your hips across his.

He wasn't going to last long.

"Baby," you breathed, your hands planted on his bandy chest to hold yourself upright as you rode him, hanging on for dear life so you didn't fall off the couch. "Fuck, you're so big! Fills me so good."

He couldn't help but moan pathetically, your praise making his heart flutter. His hands clenched around the flesh of your thigh as he helped guide your hips up and down his cock, since you were practically bouncing on it by now.

"Fuck, (Y/N)," he let your name fall from his lips like a chant, barely masking the squelching sound of your wet cunt wrapped around him. Both of you were close, and his tip grazing your cervix with every move of your hips really wasn't helping.

"You gonna come for me, baby?" you breathed, feeling your own climax growing in your abdomen. Neil was too caught up in chasing his pleasure to say anything right away, his eyes screwing shut as he barely let out a response. "Y-Yes, fuck!"

Your hand gripped his arm as it wrapped around your waist, your nails digging into his skin as a borderline squeal escaped your throat, finally tipping over the edge of your high at the feeling of his release filling you. Neil moaned out as he thrust up into you, his body tense with pleasure as you fell onto his chest tiredly, your face burrowing into the crook of his neck. He could feel you smiling against his skin, your head moving to slowly plant sweet kisses along his neck and cheek before finally reaching his lips.

"So good," you told him in between pecks. "Always so good for me . . "

[odetolithium]

Spooky - Snapetober Day 31 🎃

Thestrals have always been a constant in Severus’s life. Over the years, he grows to appreciate them.

Prompts by @superfallingstars

This has been such a joy to post Severus one shots every day. Thank you so so much for your love and support with my writing 🖤

October 1971

“What do you feed in the forest?” asked Severus, tripping over his robes to catch up with Hagrid’s long strides. He pointed to the bleeding sack slung over the man’s broad shoulders; eyes wide with intrigue. The boy’s wild imagination conjured images of ravenous beasts; three-headed wolves, giant scorpions with twin tails, heads and tails in numbers beyond normal.

“Blood-thirsty beasts,” whispered Hagrid, winking at the curious boy. “One day I’ll tell yeh, lad.” The forest loomed in front of Severus.

“Can you not show me, Hagrid?” replied Severus, eager to see more of the magical world. He wanted to learn everything he could, even vicious critters in the forest. Hagrid patted him, roughly, on his head and bid him farewell.

“’Ave a good day, Severus. If those boys give yeh any trouble, yeh can tell ‘em Hagrid is friends wi’ some terrifyin’ creatures,” he laughed heartily, vanishing into the thick of trees. He heard the distant flap of wings and feet trampling the undergrowth. Severus smiled, scurrying back up the hill towards the castle.

September 1976

“- I suppose, I was going to take potions...”

“The old bastard probably won’t even notice if you turn up for his N.E.W.T class...”

“Snape can always tutor you,” Mulciber nudged Severus. “He’s probably got some dark shit to teach you, eh Snape?” Severus, disinterested in the conversation, turned to Avery and nodded curtly. Avery licked his lips and rubbed his large hands together.

The O.W.L results were all the sixth years were discussing on the train. The groans of disappointment and boasting of top grades followed them to the carriages. Severus neither groaned nor boasted, the markings of letters on parchment meant little to him now. No amount of O grades could fill the absence of his mother.

“Hey, Snape! This one’s empty-” shouted Avery, clambering into the carriage after Mulciber. Severus stopped, his eyes tracking the tall horse-like creature he’d never seen before. A thestral. Mouth slightly open, Severus took a measured step back. Illustrations in textbooks never prepared him for the real thing. Blank eyes bulged in large sockets, keenly sensing the fear and hesitation. Severus recoiled as the dragon-like head turned slowly to face him. The thin black coat of skin was stretched taught across protruding bones. It was a disgusting beast.

“What is he staring at?”

“Snape, come on -”

Mumbling incoherently, Severus joins his fellow sixth years for the journey to the castle. They watched him warily, unsure how to react to his silence. In the noiseless void, Severus was being eaten alive, poisoned by the stingers of guilt. He eyed the sinister beast, a gift from hell itself, its hooves threatening to crush his chest as it stomped forwards dragging Severus behind.

September 1981

“Professor! Yeh never said...” Hagrid bustled towards Severus, there was a grin spread across his face, but it was suddenly lost within his beard.  “Since when?” he asked, reaching the young professor by the clearing. His cupped hand was full of scraps of red meat, a small thestral was nibbling in his palm.

“It was just before my sixth year,” muttered Severus. “It’s been about five years.”

“While yeh were at Hogwarts?” gasped Hagrid, dropping the large sack of oozing meats to the forest floor. The small thestral seemed more interested in these offerings and Severus watched it trot away, small noises of excitement escaping its throat.

“My mother,” he started, “I saw my mother die.” Clearing his throat, he tossed the leftovers to the herd; watching the youngest struggle on their bandy legs.  

“How come... did yeh tell anyone, lad?”

Severus shook his head, his eyes watching the graceful creatures like shadows.

“It was my fault... I didn’t help her,” he whispered, the bandy-legged babies perked up and whipped their growing manes. Mist billowed from their snouts as they wobbled over. Severus stroked the spine of the most eager, the backs of his fingers brushing against the cool coat. “I’ll live with that guilt forever.”

July 1995

“It is the most beautiful magic,” beamed Dumbledore, glittering eyes tracing the form of his patronus around his office. “I’ve always suggested adding it to the curriculum, but the Minister doesn’t take my advice these days.” Smiling, Dumbledore’s face was illuminated by the glow of the phoenix. He lifted his wand and broke the charm. Severus grasped his own wand, reciting the incantation in his head. The headmaster inclined his head, an invitation for Severus to begin.

“A happy memory, Severus.”

“Expecto Patronum!”

A faint wisp, and then nothing. Severus swore and started to pace the small office; it was merely three paces with his strides.

“I think we need a different memory,” frowned Dumbledore, adjusting the glasses perched on his nose. Absent-mindedly, the old man rubbed at the break in his bridge. Severus stopped pacing and turned to face him.

“Unfortunately, they are hard to come by,” sneered Severus, leaning over the desk. He sighed, forcing himself to relive childhood memories to find happiness beyond the misery.

“I am surprised I can even get this far,” he groaned, sinking closer to the desk. His nose almost touching the surface.

“I told you, Severus. Casting a patronus charm has little to do with light and dark. Voldemort himself could cast one if he so desired.”

“Why am I failing then?”

“You have lived through some horrors. You have experienced some truly awful things. You have denied yourself happiness for years.” The blue twinkled in his eyes, like it had caught the lasting glow of a patronus. Dumbledore swept over to the defeated professor, taking hold of his shoulders. “However, you are a highly skilled occulmens. The very best that I’ve ever come across, Severus. Make a memory.”

Severus spent the next hour torturing himself with a memory he would never live. He strayed away from his mother as the subject, deeming her too involved in his pain and that was similar for Hogwarts as well. He planted the memory, allowed the emotion to overwhelm him and spoke the incantation. The vision of Lily, alive and free, was enough to produce a powerful patronus. A tall, blinding creature streaked past before charging around the office. Its usual, sinister appearance was replaced by a beautiful, ethereal glow. It was a pure white thestral.

“The Order will enjoy this,” scoffed Severus. “A former death-eater with a patronus of death.”

“On the contrary, Severus. It is extremely rare to be attached to a thestral, it shows unwavering loyalty and a kind heart. Despite the tragedies in your past, you have a great understanding of kindness,” Dumbledore explained, watching Severus’s eyes catch the flight of his patronus.

[micamicster]

Country Girl Blue Sargent

I hit the highway in a pink RV with stars on the ceiling

One True Love - The O'Kanes / Gravedigger - Willie Nelson / Marie Laveau - Bobby Bare / Closer to Fine - Indigo Girls / That Don't Impress Me Much - Shania Twain / Blowin' Smoke - Kacey Musgraves / Coat of Many Colors - Dolly Parton / Wide Open Spaces -The Chicks / I Wish I Was the Moon - Neko Case / The Lucky One - Alison Krauss / Passionate Kisses - Mary Chapin Carpenter / Love Will Turn You Around - Kenny Rogers / I'll Be Your Baby Tonight - Linda Ronstadt / Orphan Girl - Emmylou Harris/ Shut Up and Drive - Chely Wright / Help Me Make It Through the Night - Willie Nelson / Alibi - Hurray for the Riff Raff / Share the Moon - Indigo Girls / Something to Talk About - Bonnie Raitt / What's Your Mama's Name? - Tanya Tucker / The Unquiet Grave - Joan Baez / Boulder to Birmingham - Emmylou Harris / Landslide - The Chicks / Light of a Clear Blue Morning - Dolly Parton / On the Road Again - Willie Nelson / The Long Way Around - The Chicks

Country Boy? Dick Gansey

It's a mighty dark night and I made that drive, but I'll never get out of your love alive

Delta Dawn - Tanya Tucker / Southern Nights - Glen Campbell / Seven Year Ache - Rosanne Cash / Are You Ready for the Country? - Neil Young / Garden Party - Rick Nelson & the Stone Canyon Band / The Waiting - Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers / Everybody Knows - The Chicks / Blue - LeAnn Rimes / Long Black Veil - Johnny Cash / Walkin' After Midnight - Patsy Cline / I Take My Chances - Mary Chapin Carpenter / Share the Moon - Indigo Girls / Something About What Happens When We Talk - Lucinda Williams / Valentine's Day - Bruce Springsteen / 'Til I'm too Old to Die Young - Moe Bandy / Easy Silence - The Chicks / It's Not Supposed to Be That Way - Waylon Jennings / Raise the Dead - Linda Ronstadt & Emmylou Harris / I’ll Go to My Grave Loving You - The Statler Brothers / Hang Me - Peggy Seeger / My Life - Iris DeMent / Those Memories of You - Trio / Oh What a Beautiful World - Rodney Crowell / Shenandoah - Bruce Springsteen / Our Town - Iris DeMent

Obviously we are taking a broad view of country music and one heavily influenced by my personal tastes blah blah but as always please understand that while these playlists may not be definitive, they are 100% Correct <3

Ronan and Adam's playlists

[loving-n0t-heyting]

Tbc that trolling about girlhood as a risk factor for sexual assault was definitely cherrypicking on my part; there were several categories of sexual violence considered in the survey, and in all others the male subjects reported higher rates than the female subjects. Dont read too much into my troll line

That said, its massively less cherrypicking than what the porn pearlclutchers in the thread were doing. In every category, girl perpetrators of sexual violence still were a pretty hefty portion, a point emphasised by the researchers at length. And yet, the one SV risk factor identified by the study (among many) that gets circulated is used as another illustration of the radfem "porn as root of all evil" theory, which absolutely everyone repeating it understands as part and parcel of the grand "men and boys are the rape gender" narrative. Which is how a research paper with a section titled "Both Male and Female Youth as Perpetrators" gets bandied about as if thru some black magic as one more confirmation of the fundamental yawning moral chasm between violent degenerate moids and pure victimised wombyn. Obviously radfems are not unique in this dark evidentiary sorcery but as ever they are a particularly vivid and morbidly fascinating case study; let all who opine beware!!

[nashiriel]

Just reading the Black and Greens’ reactions to baby Luke claiming the Cannibal…I honestly could read 100 chapters, because can you imagine how the Greens would panic when Rhaenyra turns up in King’s Landing like “please meet my most loyal supporter and his dragon?” It would be truly heartwarming stuff.

And I would love to see the Rhaenys/Luke bonding. I wonder if her visibly getting on with Luke more would help head off Vaemond’s challenge (though he’d have to be pretty bold to be challenge Luke’s claim in the hall, knowing the Cannibal is waiting outside).

I am once again asking you to please, please forgive me for taking so long to get back to you. I am trying to work my way through my inbox, I swear!

But in the festive spirit…it’s not 100 chapters, but I hope you enjoy the below snippet from that AU! A very merry Christmas to you (if you celebrate!)

It is Prince Daemon who greets them as they dismount, teeth flashing in the curve of that cocksure grin that Rhaenys remembers of old. There is still much of that boy left to him, she sees. No grey dulls the silver of his hair, and the lines on his face are softened now, smoothed by contentment as he stands amongst the smoke and skies of his new consort’s domain.  

Marriage to the Princess of Dragonstone suits him well, it seems. Fury burns Rhaenys’ throat, mingled as it is still with bitter grief. 

Three moons. Her children, her grandson, have been dead for three moons.

“My brave girl,” Daemon beams as soon as Baela’s feet have touched the ground, sweeping her into his arms with an exuberance that sends her laughter pealing through the air. “Your sister has missed you.”

“How is she?” Baela demands excitedly, wriggling like a pup in his embrace. “How are her burns? Has she flown-”

“She is resting,” her father laughs, pride clear on his face. Laena’s letters had not spoken of such when she wrote of he and Rhaena in that last, lingering year.

“The maesters say the burn is healing well, sweetling, and she asks me every day when the dragonkeepers will let her back down to the beach. She says that she can still thread her needle, and that a set of reins are nothing compared to that.” 

His eyes find Rhaenys’ then, amused. “You would be proud of how brave she has been, cousin.”

“I have always been proud of Rhaena,” Rhaenys says curtly. She has not come here to bandy pleasantries, not when Rhaenyra’s letters had made clear through their increasing urgent pleas that there was a matter that duty could not let her ignore. “As proud as I was of her mother. The day is short, Daemon. Where is the boy?”

The mirth falls away from Daemon’s face.

The valley that Caraxes and Meleys alight upon is not quite at the foot at the Dragonmont, but it is close enough that the restless murmurs of the volcano as it turns in its sleep rumble through the air. In comparison, the dragon whose coiled bulk blots out the sky and rocks from her sight is unsettlingly quiet, its scales a motionless dark sheen over the ground like oil laid over placid water. 

Rhaenys’ steps do not falter, even as Caraxes’ whistle shrieks in the air above her. Meleys had loomed larger in her girlhood’s eyes as she sang to her in the dark of the Dragonpit. She had seen Balerion’s wings blacken the sky, a majesty that even age could not rob from the greatest glory their blood had ever known. What is this shadow that she should fear it, no matter large it hulks with its butcher’s reek? 

Rhaenys might think it asleep were it not for the gleaming eye that watches her approach, gaze green and hungry as wildfire. With a sharp intake of breath, she sees the small form nestled against its black talons, not even half the size of those knife-like curves. As Rhaenys draws closer, he lifts his head from where it was bent over the long object clutched in his fist, dark eyes wide with astonishment. 

“Grandmother?”

“Lucerys,” Rhaenys says evenly, refusing to allow herself a flinch as a growl splits the air, loud enough to shake the stones from Dragonstone’s parapets. A black tail lashes the air in a brutal snap, heavy enough to cleave a castle wall in two, as the dragon coils itself closer still around Luke, teeth glittering in evident warning. It could crush him as easily as Rhaenys could an ant beneath her heel; Meleys bellows behind her as the whip uncoils in Rhaenys’ hand. 

“Cannibal!” a voice pipes up behind the ripple of the dragon’s wing, high-pitched and aggrieved rather than terror-stricken. “No! I said no!”

Ash lies thick as snow on the ground. Feet away, a cracked thigh bone protrudes from it, flesh brittled black and crumbling where it still clings. There had been guards watching over their play when the Cannibal’s shadow suddenly descended upon the sands, Rhaena had written in a wobbling sprawl so unlike her normal perfect lettering. With spears and trident, they had tried to draw him off. The precious seconds before they were charred to sprawls of greased meat might have meant the difference between life and death to her grandchildren, at least. 

“Easy,” Daemon calls down, his voice strong and stern as winter even as Caraxes’ wings beat the air. “It is your worry feeding his, Lucerys. Calm yourself.”

“I am calm!” comes the indignant squeal, shrill with a fury that Daemon’s words alone cannot have provoked. The Cannibal’s muscles go taut as a bowstring, the dark curve of his jaw shifting as a noise like a mountain cracking apart rumbles between his teeth. 

This one will not be brought to bay by a whip, nor soothed with the lullabies of Old Valyria. Rhaenys sees that clearly in this moment, that and the reason why Daemon has proved insufficient to manage this.

In all the history of Dragonstone, there is only one thing that has held any sway over the Cannibal, and - still to Rhaenys’ utter disbelief - it is the voice of the child who sits tear-stained and trembling in sullen rancour as the Cannibal looms above him, stretching up and up into the darkened sky. 

“The Conqueror himself never hatched a dragon,” she had overheard Laenor soothe Lucerys once in a shadowed corner of High Tide, cradling him close as they watched Vermax playfully char the meat Jace was throwing in the air.

“You’ll claim a mount one day. Like your aunt, like your grandmother. And I promise, it will be a dragon worthy of you.”

The Cannibal. How by all the seven hells had the boy ever managed to even attract his attention, never mind claim him?

“Lucerys,” she says again, sharp and swift as her whip.

He flinches at her tone, but Rhaenys does not care; the time for coddling him was before the gods in their folly put the Cannibal in the hands of a child.

“None are here to harm you or him, child, and you must make him know that. Remember all that the dragonkeepers have taught you. Breathe deep, and speak loud and clear. Lykiri-”

“I’m trying,” Lucerys says plaintively, one hand scrubbing at his dirtied face. She wonders how long he has been here, how often the Cannibal is pleased to let the human he has bonded with leave his sight. “He doesn’t know what they mean, he won’t listen-”

“Do you think any dragon is born knowing them? The words alone do not have meaning; they are there to clarify your intent, so that he does not blindly follow what you feel instead. You have claimed him, Lucerys. He will listen, but only if you are strong enough to ensure that he understands.”

There comes a choked sob, almost lost in the sulphurous blast of hot breath rolling across Rhaenys’ skin as the Cannibal turns its great head towards her. She does not break its gaze as she coaxes Lucerys to breathe deep, to gather himself together (a memory comes unbidden, of the song she sang to Laenor as a child to soothe his night terrors, and she bites down against another unexpected welt of grief).

Eventually, mercifully, the dragon settles, though covetousness still burns in those eyes like the distant stars as he watches Lucerys leave his shadow to come forth to her.

“Prince Daemon is right,” she says after the Rogue Prince has taken his leave at her sharp gesture.

“That dragon is a part of you now, child, and his rage is strong enough without you feeding it. If you cannot control yourself, what chance do you think you’ll have commanding him? If he tells you to calm yourself, listen.”

“Why? He’s not my father,” comes a furious sniffle, those dark eyes blinking ferociously in a bid to hold back tears. For the first time, she sees what it is he is holding so tightly; a broken spear, the snapped shaft still bearing the remnants of the crest of Dragonstone’s royal guards. 

“He is not,” Rhaenys says tightly; that much, at least, they can agree on. “but when it comes to dragons, you’d be a fool not to heed him, boy. And if you’re a fool with this beast, you won’t live long enough to know it. He is dangerous, Lucerys. You should never have gone to him.”

”But I didn’t,” the child says, lip quivering. “It was the Grey Ghost we went to the beach for, me and Rhaena. We brought fish-”

“Fish,” Rhaenys repeats coldly.

“From the kitchens, lots of them. Cook gave some to us every day; he’d thought we’d found some kittens. We had to hide behind the rocks the first few times; he only came out when he thought no one was there. We had to get him used to Rhaena’s smell. Aemond thought it’d work-”

He stops, small face suddenly stricken. 

Well. Rhaenys had never imagined that the queen’s and Rhaenyra’s dragonless children might once have felt close enough to venture ideas of luring a mount between them. It matters not now, she supposes. If ever there was ever friendship between the two, it died that night on Driftmark. Rhaenys had not needed to see the poisonous glare levelled at Luke from Prince Aemond’s remaining eye as she thrust him safely beyond Queen Alicent’s reach behind her to know that. 

“I didn’t mean for the Cannibal to come,” Luke insists, and an odd look comes across his face, almost hopeful as he looks back over his shoulder to where the dragon watches him with that unblinking, terrible gaze.

“But he must’ve been meant to find us. He’d never come to that beach before, the dragonkeepers said. It was Father, it must’ve been. He heard my prayers and sent him to me.”

No, Rhaenys thinks, and does not know if it is cruelty or kindness that keeps the words from her tongue. If my son could have sent you a dragon, he would have brought you his own Seasmoke.

“So he fell upon the Grey Ghost,” she says instead. “How did that lead you to claiming him? You could have been killed. Rhaena could have been killed. What were you thinking, boy, to get so close?”

“Meraxes,” Luke mumbles, so low Rhaenys thinks she misheard him. She bends closer, acutely aware of the shadow rumbling in warning before her.

”What did you say?”

“Jace told me,” Luke says, fidgeting; behind him, the Cannibal’s tail ripples black, spikes flexing with the motion.

“The only way a man can stop a dragon. Grey Ghost was trying to crawl away, but he couldn’t…he couldn’t move, and Rhaena was screaming, and…the Cannibal had to drag him back with his teeth with his head bent down like that, and I thought if I threw it-” 

The spearhead gleams sharp as dragon teeth. Luke looks up at her, pleading, his confession coming in a quavering whisper.

“I tried to get his eye.”

[mariacallous]

Is a five-year age gap in a relationship a little untoward? What about a three-year gap?

On social media, Gen Zers ― at least those who are chronically online ― are constantly debating the ethics of age gaps. Even if some relationships are perfectly legal, that doesn’t necessarily make them ethical, many say.

It’s little wonder then that age-disparate relationships are cause for so much conversation: Having grown up alongside the #MeToo movement, Generation Z is well versed in unbalanced power dynamics and the language of consent. And lately, there’s been plenty of celebrity pairings to interrogate.

There’s the obviously icky examples, like the recent, short-lived romance between Aoki Lee Simmons — Russell and Kimora Lee Simmons’ 21-year-old daughter — and restaurateur Vittorio Assaf, 65. Earlier this month, viral photos showed the pair flouncing around on vacation in St. Barts.

Yes, they’re both consenting adults, but it was still unseemly, critics said. If anything, the argument that they’re both of age is “something groomers cling to,” as one young woman on Threads put it.

“Adulthood was meant to signify voting/draft age,” she wrote. “But everyone knows your prefrontal cortex is not fully formed at this age.” (This difference between so-called brain age and chronological age ― you might be 21 but your brain is undeveloped! ― often gets brought up in these kinds of conversations.)

There are gender-swapped examples too, like actor Aaron Taylor-Johnson and filmmaker Sam Taylor-Johnson, a now-married couple who met while working on a 2009 John Lennon biopic called “Nowhere Boy.” At the time, he was in his late teens and she was a mother of two in her early 40s.

“I didn’t relate to anyone my age,” the actor told The Telegraph in 2019, reflecting on when they first met. “I just feel that we’re on the same wavelength.”

Some fans aren’t convinced. “We def aren’t talking about male grooming victims enough and this is literally proof,” one person wrote in a highly shared TikTok video about their coupling.

Then there’s the less expected critiques: Is four years too much of an age gap? “At 25, I wouldn’t even date a 21 year old,” reads one tweet with around 80,000 likes.

What about 10 years? Fans of Billie Eilish were up in arms in 2022 when the then-20-year-old singer revealed that she was dating fellow musician Jesse Rutherford, who was in his early 30s. One viral tweet about the 10-year age gap reads: “jesse rutherford was alive during george h w bush’s presidency . billie eilish cannot legally drink.”

Long-established relationships aren’t safe, either. Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively’s 11-year gap has been scrutinized. And recently, Beyhive members have begun debating whether Beyoncé was “groomed” because she was 19 when she started dating Jay-Z, who was in his early 30s.

Noncelebrity couples are getting called out, too. “I was 19. My now husband was 27. My now 13yo child calls him my ‘predator,’” one woman wrote on Threads alongside laughing emoji, probably only half-joking.

Why Gen Z Seems To Have Such An Aversion To Age Gaps

Is Gen Z just more prudish on this subject than prior generations?

Not necessarily, said Justin Lehmiller, a research fellow at the Kinsey Institute and the host of the “Sex and Psychology Podcast.” He’s been studying age-gap relationships for roughly 20 years and said the stigma around age-disparate relationships is long-standing.

In 2008 ― when terms like “cradle robber” and “cougar” were bandied around a lot more than they are now ― Lehmiller co-authored a study that found age-discrepant couples reported experiencing significantly more social disapproval than people in gay or interracial couples.

So the discomfort around these types of relationships isn’t anything new. What is new, according to Lehmiller, is how comfortable Gen Z feels about publicly and vocally disapproving of these relationships ― even on people’s personal Instagram pages. (Aaron and Sam Taylor-Johnson recently spoke out against the “bizarre” online judgment they’ve received. Eilish and Rutherford brushed off the criticism from overly concerned fans by dressing up as a baby and an old man one Halloween.)

“To some in Gen Z, age-gap relationships read as being inherently exploitative because they perceive age discrepancies as necessarily creating a power imbalance that favors the older partner,” Lehmiller told HuffPost.

What’s also changed is which parties tend to receive the brunt of the judgment. In the past, people were often scornful of both the younger and older partners in these relationships. Historically, the younger partners, especially when they were women, endured labels like “gold digger” ― with the implication that they were the ones doing the exploiting. That terminology doesn’t always fly with Gen Z.

“That perception seems to have largely disappeared when you look at what Gen Z is saying,” Lehmiller noted. “They seem to cast the younger partners as victims who are being preyed upon or ‘groomed.’”

Gigi Engle, a certified sex and relationship psychotherapist and resident intimacy expert for dating app 3Fun, worries that the term “grooming” is being overapplied and losing its meaning.

“The narrative is really toxic here and in many other cases,” she told HuffPost. “Trans people are groomers, gay people are groomers, older people dating younger people are groomers ― and this just isn’t accurate. It’s a really fear-mongering time we live in.”

Gen Z may be hyperfocused on this because of their age: If you’re a 35-year-old woman, you’re probably less hung up on the idea of a 50-year-old guy expressing interest in you.

“I think younger people may be more susceptible to manipulation and are therefore more afraid of it,” Engle said. “The reality is, age-gap relationships have been happening since humans have existed, and it is absolutely not some one-size-fits-all. In the vast majority of relationships like this, nothing untoward is happening.”

Here’s What Gen Z Has To Say About Age Gaps

Talking to actual Gen Zers, you’ll find that their opinions on age gaps run the gamut. As with most things, their takes on the subject are much more nuanced than those found on X, the platform previously known as Twitter, would have you believe.

That said, many are genuinely bothered by age gaps. While the #MeToo movement gave them the language to talk about power imbalances, some 20-somethings say their opinions are more colored by their own personal experiences.

Layla — a 23-year-old who asked to use her first name only for privacy reasons, like others in this story — thinks it’s better to date within your own age group, ideally within a two- or three-year range.

“When I was around 21 and 22, I tried talking to guys who were 30 and over but soon realized it wasn’t right,” she told HuffPot. “They had so much more life experiences than me, and it was awkward being from different generations.”

Layla said she’d tried to joke and laugh about certain things ― a meme or a TikTok video ― and got a lot of blank stares. She wasn’t a fan of their humor, either: A date recounting the umpteenth “Seinfeld” episode or that one “Step Brothers” scene gets a little old after a while.

“Trying to relate to one another just didn’t work out, and it felt awkward and wrong,” she said.

“I believe a relationship between an 18- and 25-year-old is problematic,” Layla said, noting that this applies regardless of gender.

“I actually wish women got called out for their predatory behavior, too,” she said. “It almost seems like no one wants to hold women accountable.”

Mona, a 21-year-old college student in Georgia, even finds her own parents’ 11-year age gap a little “predatory”: Her dad was in his late 30s and a divorced father of one when he met her mom, who was in her late 20s and didn’t have children.

Mona would date someone three years older. She wouldn’t consider going younger, though. “I do think that an 18- and 25-year-old together is unacceptable,” she said.

She is particularly weirded out when she hears people talk about how their partner basically raised them or taught them “how to be a woman,” as Beyoncé said to Jay-Z in a 2006 birthday toast that went viral recently.

Mona is also wary of anyone who almost exclusively dates young people ― the Leonardo DiCaprios of the world. Every time the 49-year-old actor gets a new girlfriend, a graph highlighting the fact that each of his ex-girlfriends has been 25 or under starts circulating again.

“Any respectable adult would have the common sense that pursuing a teenager is extremely weird, and I also believe it says a lot about the headspace of the older person,” the 21-year-old said.

Mona also thinks the COVID-19 pandemic might’ve been a factor in Gen Zers’ apprehension over age gaps. They might technically be 21, but given that weird few-year pause, they don’t feel it.

“You hear about how we’re mentally the same age that we were when the pandemic first started,” she said. “That might play a role in why some people are not settling on older people pursuing them ― you feel you’re still too young.”

Not everyone agrees. Rei, a 22-year-old who is queer, said they don’t find age-disparate relationships inherently problematic. They said there’s a lot more than age that gives people power over each other, and if you consider five years an “age-gap relationship” then Rei is currently in one.

“Though my partner is older than me, I have a college degree and she doesn’t,” they said. “So arguably I have a better financial and career outlook that would make me the ‘abusive one,’ if you’re using that language.”

Age gaps may be more common in the queer community, Rei said. “I don’t know a gay guy who hasn’t been with someone much older than him,” they said. “It’s just normal to us.”

Problematic dynamics can exist no matter the age. “People now don’t know what grooming is and just use the term as synonymous with age gaps,” Rei said.

To some extent, Rei sees the hubbub over age gaps as an overcorrection of the mores ushered in by the #MeToo movement.

“People overadjust and assume that any relationship out of the norm is abusive,” they said. “In my experience, people who feel age gaps are problematic are also the same people who argue the internet is harmful and should be censored because they had a bad experience as a kid. Your experience isn’t universal.”

For Amelia, 24, actual age matters less than the stage of life you’re in. She figures if you’re a relatively accomplished 28-year-old dating an accomplished 40-year-old, what’s the big deal? The word “grooming” really only applies when an adult is introduced to a future partner when they’re underage, Amelia said.

She cited the relationship between Dane Cook and his wife as an “egregious” example of a questionable age gap. (The now-52-year-old comedian met Kelsi Taylor at a game night he hosted when she was in her late teens.)

“Do I think it’s possible for people like that to have a healthy and happy relationship? Sure,” Amelia said. “But the older I get, my desire to talk to high schoolers grows slimmer and slimmer. I really can’t put myself in the shoes of someone who would want to befriend a high schooler.”

That said, Amelia thinks that some Gen Zers take their judgment too far. To her, the concern over age gaps seems like a weirdly “paternalistic” brand of feminism, where women feel the need to protect women from men.

“It’s similar to how Swifties treat Taylor Swift,” she said, referring to the now-34-year-old pop star.

“You have young women ‘looking out for’ a billionaire woman in her 30s. I’m a fan of Taylor Swift, but I don’t think she needs protecting from Travis Kelce because Travis Kelce got in the face of his NFL coach during the Super Bowl.”

The anti-age-gap sentiment held by many plays into the “puriteen” narrative that’s been inescapable lately. Online, there’s a lot of hand-wringing over Gen Zers’ seeming aversion to sex: Studies show that they’re having less of it than earlier generations and that they don’t want sex scenes in their movies.

Though Amelia overall disagrees with age-gap critics ― she feels like their arguments rob women of their agency, she said ― she gets where those in her peer group are coming from.

“The majority of us had unsupervised internet access from a young age. We were in chatrooms, on Tumblr, and other various corners of the internet that we probably should not have been on at that age,” she said. “It was easy for grown men on the internet to reach us if they wanted to.”

If you’ve been oversexualized at a young age ― or seen others in your age bracket be oversexualized ― that experience is understandably going to shape how you perceive these kinds of things, Amelia said.

But the reality is, there are likely just as many happy May-December unions as there are disappointing ones. “Believe it or not, we often see more ― not less ― equity in these relationships,” Lehmiller noted.

All of the Gen Zers we spoke to said that ultimately, two consenting adults can do whatever they want in their private lives, even if others find it off-putting.

“Men can like women that are younger and not be a creep,” Amelia said. “He also can be a creep, but some random person with a Twitter cartoon avatar shouldn’t necessarily be the judge of that!”

[v-a-l]

My favourite detail in OOTP is when Harry finds Sirius at the dining hall Crookshanks is curled up in his lap. Like he’s surrounded by people screaming at him about “Dumbledore’s instructions”, not allowed to go outside cause the ministry and Death Eaters are gunning for him, he’s being called irresponsible and reckless and he’s brushing it all aside cause boy does he know how to deal with people screaming at him in this house, any regardless: he’s still got Crookshanks. He’s got Buckbeak and they remain Sirius’ first and last line of defence

Harry felt something brush against his knees and started, but it was only Crookshanks, Hermione’s bandy-legged ginger cat, who wound himself once around Harry’s legs, purring, then jumped onto Sirius’s lap and curled up. Sirius scratched him absentmindedly behind the ears as he turned, still grim-faced, to Harry.

Harry did not mention his vague suspicions to Sirius, whose cheerfulness was evaporating fast now that Christmas was over. As the date of their departure back to Hogwarts drew nearer, he became more and more prone to what Mrs. Weasley called “fits of the sullens,” in which he would become taciturn and grumpy, often withdrawing to Buckbeak’s room for hours at a time. His gloom seeped through the house, oozing under doorways like some noxious gas, so that all of them became infected by it.

[isabel3710]

Here are some of my personal head cannons about Bruce and Bandy's kids.

I spent way to much time thinking up names. Also, let me know if you guys want me to share all the ages plus birth order.

They have thirteen kids: twelve boys and one girl (this is cannon)

Four of their kids are named Bruce Jr, Cove, Rainy, Windy, Freddy, and La Breezey (this is cannon) 

Four of the boys are named after Bruce's brothers; Johnny, Klay, Florrie, and Ranch (everyone calls him 'Rad’)

The final three kids (also boys) are named Twiggy, Bay, and Calder

Their eldest is Bruce Jr. He likes to go by ‘Jay’ and is thirteen.

Their daughter, LaBreezey, is five. She is named after Bruce's mother. 

Freddy is LaBreezey’s twin (also five) and is named after Brandy’s father.

Twiggy is named after Bruce’s father. He’s seven.

Rainy and Windy are also twins. They're ten. 

Bruce Jr, Cove, Rainy, Windy, Freddy, Calder, and La Breezey mostly look like Vacayers (including height) with a few troll features.

Johnny, Klay, Forrie, Rad, Twiggy, and Bay mostly look like trolls (including height) with a few Vacayer traits. (I know this isn’t cannon-compliant but I want it to be true)

Their kids were hatched from eggs and Bruce carried them all (Vacayers don't lay eggs but Brandy did help)

Bruce first started growing out his hair because of how big the Vacayer sized kids’ eggs were (now it's a fashion choice). They were born the same size of a full grown troll.

All of the kids have troll-like singing voices.

The kids grew up with their dad singing them lullabies to sleep and making up little ditties about them.

They have all heard stories about their uncles long before officially meeting them. 

Johnny, Klay, Forrie, and Rad were so excited to meet their name-sakes.