#or the things he did to an ambassador's leg

[astrhae]

some important and underrated lines in the books, related to wylan van eck (aka gold that i found again while writing the character study fic):

Wylan took a deep breath as if sucking in courage and sputtered, “You won’t throw me overboard. You need me.”

--- Six of Crows, Chapter 13. when i say wylan is unhinged, i mean he had the audacity to lie to kaz brekker (who doesn't know yet that wylan isn't the best hostage) AND use that lie to go against kaz AND actually win. jesper only notices wylan lying to kaz in the second book, but despite being wide-eyed as matthias describes, wylan's been lying to kaz from the very beginning. throughout the books, wylan gets better and better at using people's assumptions of him as a weapon/tool, and he admits as much when jesper says: "i'm going to stop underestimating you", and wylan replies: "then you're going to be a lot harder to surprise."

While Kaz explained and Jesper used the laundry shears to portion out pieces of rope, Wylan helped Inej and Nina prepare. To pass as members of the Menagerie, they would need tattoos.

--- Six of Crows, Chapter 28. wylan is CANONICALLY a tattoo artist. demolitionist. poisons expert. musician. and tattoo artist. do with that what you will

“I don’t like the idea of killing people, either. I don’t even like chemistry.”

--- Six of Crows, Chapter 32. HE LIKES NUMBERS. and music. and jesper. there's just something about wylan being forced into chemistry when he doesn't truly enjoy it, vs. everything his father's forced him to do when he doesn't truly enjoy it. he says this right after the we could wake him up line, and him mentioning that he doesn't even like what he's been doing all along underscores how much wylan's ruthlessness comes from a place where he doesn't want to be cruel. he's just. had to do a lot of things to survive. and he does want to survive

Gunfire sounded from above. Apparently, Wylan had found the controls. ... Wylan had scratches from the glass all over his cheeks and neck. He was beaming.

--- Six of Crows, Chapter 39. wylan is unhinged. truly. and i love him, really. he was really the first to figure out how to fire the tank. him, not jesper, which was a choice i very much approve of

He should be making a plan, maybe even plotting revenge, trying to gather his wits and his resources. And what was he doing? Wishing he could ring for tea... Whatever it took to survive the Barrel, Wylan knew he didn’t have it.

--- Crooked Kingdom, Chapter 23. first, wylan wishing he could ring for tea, vs. the parallel in the show where he offers the crows tea. second, wylan being painfully honest with himself. but third, he ends the chapter being able to navigate the streets of the barrel himself without knowing how to read the signs, which really reflects his amazingly good memory and skill for thinking along three axes, like the lockpick kaz compared him to

���Yes,” Wylan said, that one word imbued with a whole world of hope. ��But I don’t have anything to bargain with.”

--- Crooked Kingdom, Chapter 28. wylan's spent so long bargaining for his life that by the time he meets genya, he doesn't believe he has anything left to bargain with. but wylan still tries, AND when he succeeds, he still has the audacity to get genya to make him look better

in conclusion, wylan might be shy but that doesn't mean he isn't scheming something, but that doesn't mean he wants to scheme, but that doesn't mean he isn't good at scheming. he's excellent at it, he's just an unhinged ball of contradictions, and wylan would, could, and should beat kaz in a chess match

[o0sleepingdead0o]

Ambassador Danny AU

Just a silly thing knocking around in my brain.

Batman halted in the door of the conference room, taking in the sight of a strange being lounging imperiously in his chair. His white hair seemed to defy gravity ever so gently and his green, glowing eyes—Jason’s eyes—stared back with none of the regard or fear so many people showed towards Batman. His tanned face was speckled with tiny stars that Batman had to actively resist becoming memorized by. The boy’s choice of covering was sheening armour that refracted the light through his chest-plate of black ice. The white sleet that sharpened his knuckles seemed perfectly capable of movement despite it encasing his hands in similar fashion to the chest-plate; glassy in it’s brutal edges and as hard as the sheets that form over the coldest of lakes. 

The watchtower had been invaded. Batman had questioned why the place was so cold when he’d arrived. Now he knew.

The only thing that kept Batman from immediately reacting might have—very much—had to do with how young he looked. A boy in the second half of his teens.

And the fact that several other Justice League members were at Batman’s back as he strolled further into the room, watching the boy warily.

The boy’s eyes were unconcerned as he watched the Justice League file in. Worryingly so. Who was he that he would be so unfazed, how powerful? Or was it faith he wouldn’t be harmed, taking advantage of the Justice League’s strong morals?

The teen had commandeered the chair with all the authority of a king and the confidence of one assured of their own position. He sprawled across it. The chairs were all identical of practical, unassuming make, but this boy made it look like his throne as he leaned heavily on one side and stretched one leg way on the other. A hand was extended to dangle off one chair-arm and he had a knee braced up, showing an armoured shin protecting his black, sturdy, cargo-like pants and iced boots that jagged treacherously upwards.

The boy smirked. “Took you long enough. I was getting bored.”

Batman resisted the urge to clamp his hands over his already protected ears from the unearthly static and screeching glaciers that came from the boy’s mouth. He noticed Superman flinch and his face grimace.

“Who are you?” Batman growled. This boy was obviously inhuman. He was also an unknown. Batman would be foolish to underestimate someone who had somehow infiltrated the watchtower without being seen or setting off any alerts. Who exuded too much confidence, as if the entire world was at his fingertips.

Attacking took the back-burner in favour of garnering information in such a concerning situation.

“You may address me as. . .” He contemplated a bit too much for Batman to believe whatever he would give them would be his true name. “Danny.”

“. . .Danny.” 

The name was so. . .normal.

“How did you get here?” Wonder Woman asked with hints of warning and aggression.

The boy smiled. He had fangs. Too many sharp teeth. He didn’t answer and was revelling in their ignorance.

“What are you doing here?” Superman asked. It said something about Danny’s energy that even superman was being cautious about approaching.

“Waiting for you.” He smirked.

“Why?” Batman pushed as much threat and intimidation into his stance and words as he could. He usually didn’t have to think about it. “What do you want?”

Danny chuckled and a shiver ran up Batman’s spine. Goosebumps formed even through the protective layers that shielded him from the cold.

“Why don’t you sit?” The words should have been innocent. They felt like a trap. “You’ve gathered for a meeting, haven’t you?” 

The league members didn’t move. Danny sighed.

“Fine, fine, fine.” He rolled his eyes and Batman was eerily reminded of how much the adolescent exasperation reminded him of his own children. Danny leaned off the chair arm to lean an elbow on the table instead, propping his chin up. He was all teeth. “The Infinite Realms wishes for peace. I’ve come to investigate the possibility of a treaty on behalf of the High King.”

<><><><>

“THERE’S A DENIZEN OF THE INFINITE REALMS IN THE WATCHTOWER??!!!”

Batman held the phone away from his face at Constantine’s uncharacteristic display of panic. It did not bode well and it settled uncomfortably in his bones.

He grunted in affirmation.

Constantine swore up and down enough to fill Alfred’s swear jar ten times over. “What do they want?! What did you say to them!? Ohhhh, bloody ****! You’ve already antagonized them haven’t you?!”

“No.” Batman ground out.

Constantine was quiet. Several seconds ticked by.

“. . .WELL?!”

“He claims the High King wants to negotiate for peace.”

There was silence on the other end. Batman usually preferred it when Constantine was quiet, but this was thick and seemed to claw out of the phone to infect the watchtower. It muffled the noises and beeps and drowned out the presence of the other league members who had stepped out of the conference room with him.

Then there was a great, controlled release of wavery air. When Constantine spoke, it was more serious than Batman ever remembered hearing him.

“Okay, okay.” Constantine mumbled to himself. “Listen closely, Bats, and repeat everything, and I mean everything, to your circus clowns.”

Superman cleared his throat. “We’re here.”

“YOU LEFT THE AMBASSADOR ALONE?!”

“Of course not! Wonder Woman and Martian Manhunter are monitoring him.” Batman said. 

Constantine grumble-sighed. “Good.” He mumbled. “Two of the competent ones. I don’t trust Bats not to **** this up and get us all killed.”

“What now?” Flash said.

Batman was a little offended. “Constan—“

“NO!” He yelled vehemently. He sounded a little manic. “Batsy, you have the emotional intelligence of a wet paper bag, a sad, trampled, wet paper bag with so many holes that it can’t even be considered a bag anymore, you have the emotional intelligence of wet, paper scraps and the diplomacy of a feral hyena! Unless he addresses you first, Do. Not. Initiate! Do not open your mouth! I have no faith in you whatsoever!”

“I will n—“ Batman tried to growl again, but Constantine cut him off. Again!

“No!” Constantine reiterated oh, so eloquently. “Look.” He sighed. “Getting news of the newest High King since he defeated the last one has been near impossible. All Deadman will tell me is that he’s better than the last guy and we are incredibly lucky our entire dimension wasn’t wiped out after that stunt the American government pulled with the Anti-ecto Acts.”

Batman saw some of the leaguers pale. He suddenly wasn’t feeling the best either.

“Anti-Ecto Acts?”

“Laws declaring their species non-sentient and illegal, I dealt with it, thing is, this is an extremely delicate situation.” He stressed. “We don’t know what kind of ruler he is, what little thing might set him off, and we cannot afford to set the High King off! Capiche?! It’s a good sign that he’s willing to negotiate peace, but he could change his mind. Some ghosts are very temperamental.”

“Ghosts.” Several of the leaguers repeated. Constantine let out an incredibly exasperated sound.

“Do you idiots know nothing?! Yes, ghosts! The Infinite Realms is the dimension between dimensions, the land of the dead and the never-born! They are incredibly powerful entities and many of them could level our planet easily! Whatever you do, DO NOT ask how they’ve died! It is highly taboo and you’ll get yourselves killed!” Constantine let out a stressed groan.

“I would come back and deal with this myself, but I am. . .occupied at the moment. Don’t try to negotiate without me! You lot will muck everything up! And seriously, DO NOT ASK HOW THEY’VE DIED! Keep the Ambassador happy until I can get there, convince him to stay! We might not have another chance like this, don’t annoy them, do not ignore them, and, just in general, don’t give the ambassador any reason to deliver anything negative to King Phantom and have him erase us all, got it?”

The Justice League exchanged several, stunned looks.

“Got it?”

Batman grunted.

“Good. And Bats.” Constantine added lowly. “If this fails, I am blaming you for the end of the world.”

Constantine ended the call and the phone beeped before drowning everyone in silence. The leaguers shared more looks.

“Now what?” Hal said.

[stoopakoopa]

Day 8 - Reunion

Drew out a little snippet from @donze-trash's fic for @mesdelostrescaballeros2024!!

Part of a larger continuity being uploaded on ao3! Read it below ⬇️

Donald pulled up outside the apartment where Panchito was staying and took a deep, fortifying breath. Of course he was excited to see his friend again! Of course he was excited for The Three Caballeros to be once more reunited, even if only for a day. There was just that one catch—he felt bad even calling it a catch, like it was somehow a bad thing that he and Zé had finally professed their love for one another—but it would always be awkward telling Panchito. Surely, the duck thought with an internal groan, things would unavoidably change within the trio.

To make it all worse, José had been away on flight shifts when Panchito arrived in town, and Donald had agreed to only break the news when his new boyfriend had returned. He was a terrible liar about this kind of thing: his tongue got all tied up and his beak chattered when he spoke. How in the hell was he supposed to—?

The Donald Duck Pity Party was cut short as sharp, energetic chatter caught his ear from the street: Panchito was being seen off and heading straight for the car. Donald flung himself toward the back seat, toward the gift José had planned to hand over today, and hastily threw a spare blanket over it. The thick, scratchy wool did a decent job of concealing the obvious shape of a brand new guitar, at least if you didn't pay it mind. They'd give it to him when they were all together. That's how they were supposed to do things. Together.

Panchito appeared, waving goodbye to someone before bounding out of the apartment complex. His face lit up when he saw Donald, and before Donald could even get a word out, Panchito had leapt into the front seat, pulling him into a bear hug. His wide sombrero wobbled dangerously, but he didn't seem to care.

"¡Ay caramba, amigo! What took you so long to get here?" Panchito exclaimed, yanking Donald into his arms despite protest from his seatbelt, all to kiss Donald's cheek with his usual enthusiasm.

"'Ey, Pancho! How you doin' amigo?" The duck choked out, finding it a little easier to act natural amid the strangulation.

Panchito released Donald to pinch his cheek playfully. "Better with you here! I've been working on that new song I told you about last night! What about you? What have you been up to all day?"

"I'm doin' swell! And nothing much! Been taking 'er easy today." He lied, and not well—he was already talking too much. "Excited, though! Not every day I get to hang out with my two best pals!" Donald pulled away from Panchito's hold in order to return his attention to driving, feeling too awkward to linger in the warm hold, however much he usually would.

The charro clicked the seatbelt into place and leaned back in his seat, apparently unfazed by the duck's haste. "Ay güey, I'm just hyped that we are finally getting together again for a change. So, what are we doing this time? Are we gonna hit up the club so hard we get kicked out again? Or maybe reopen the Magical Mythical Monster Petting Zoo from Scrooge's secret vault? Or how about we raid the Anvilania embassy and get the ambassador drunk again? You know she still calls me." 

Donald nodded, absolutely not absorbing anything the rooster was clucking about in favor of focusing on the road. He was happy, of course; his friend's exuberance was infectious to say the least. It had indeed been too long since they got to hang out like this as a group… but a part of him still felt tense. He chanced another glance at the vaquero—oblivious, humming merrily, a long leg resting against the door as he propped up his foot on his knee and took up what little space his seat offered. He wished he could feel so carefree.

When they arrived at the little airport, Panchito's excitement was hard to miss. Before the car could even finish pulling up to the 15-minute zone, he'd unbuckled and bolted out of the car window, running ahead towards the tarmac and calling out for Zé at the top of his lungs.

"Yeah, don't wait up or nothing!" Donald called after him with a roll of his eyes. Crazy bird, he hadn't even put the car into park yet!  The lighthearted atmosphere Panchito had cultivated was at war with the impulse to complain bubbling inside him because he wanted see Zé first, to get a chance to hold his boyfriend first before they had to act respectably platonic in front of their none the wiser companion. It wasn't jealousy, not exactly, just…

One hug, one second to let the weight of the week melt off was all he wanted. But that wasn't happening. Not yet. Instead, he'd have to wait and keep playing the part.

"Great," he muttered, jerking on the car's parking brake. "Just act natural. Simple."

The airport, while always abuzz with people from all walks of life and from every corner of the globe, was relatively less hectic on a weekday like this, and José was all the more grateful for it. Deplaning the small jet from Panama was fairly routine and done quickly, leaving Zé with a little free time before he met up with his friends. He brought with him his single suitcase, loaded with more clothes than his usual amount, plus some souvenirs from Brazil and the several other countries he had stopped in during the work week. There were things for the kids back at the manor, plus a homemade gaúcho style poncho pala made by his vovó for Della (whom the old bird had assumed was still freezing from her time on the Moon).  Strapped to the outside of the suitcase (because it could not fit) and wrapped in cloth was José's gift to Donald, a new hammock for his houseboat. He hoped he would like it.

Walking to the exit, Zé attempted to steal himself for the reunion to come. Not so much for seeing Donald, though his blood ran quick with excitement for him to be sure. But Panchito, whom he had not seen since they met for that ill-fated holiday to Bahia that never came to fruition. They had kept in constant contact even after their break up, though it caused pain on both sides. They had been determined to preserve their eternal friendship even in the face of romantic disappointment. And though it took some years for Zé to be able to look the rooster in the face without the unbearable ache in his chest urging him to take it all back and try again, he never wanted to lose sight of what drew him and the other two Caballeros together in the first place. They were his family, no matter what happened.

Even when I act like a stupid teenager and run crying to my ex-boyfriend about my hopeless crush, which turned out to be not so hopeless after all because we're together now and— Merda!

Zé closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. It was very good that he had this spare moment to compose himself as he entered the airport proper.

The distant sound of a familiar crow cut through the din of the crowd, stopping Zé in his tracks. That voice—there was no mistaking it. And like the call to sunrise, it made his heart want to leap into the sky. Spotting a tall flash of red, and a hat that he insisted was too big for his head, standing tall amongst the crowd, Zé dropped his suitcase and his umbrella and ran forward like his tail was on fire. Before he even had time to think about it, he was launching himself into Panchito's arms. The rooster caught him instantly, just like old times.

"¡¡AAAAAAJAJAJAJAJA!!" Panchito's triumphant grito echoed across the terminal. His grip was tight, almost desperate, and his wide grin spoke volumes. Zé could feel the emotion radiating from him—Panchito had missed him more than words could ever say, that much was clear. His whole body seemed to hum with excitement. 

"José!! Mi cielo!" Panchito crowed, his voice overflowing with affection as he slowly, reluctantly, released the green parrot. 

Zé smiled warmly, returning the sentiment. "It is so good to see you, docinho!" His tone was as light and affectionate as ever. "It has been too long!"

"No manches, pendejo, it's only been a few months!" Panchito guffawed, his eyes sparkling with unfiltered happiness. His grin stretched wide as he shook his head in disbelief, the warmth in his expression unmistakable. The man was an open book, his emotions always worn on his sleeve.

The malandro chuckled softly, adjusting his hat. "Well, yes, but it has been twice as long since the three of us have been—" He stopped, scanning the area. "Espere, onde está o Donald?" 

Panchito's expression shifted briefly—a flicker of realization, maybe impatience. He glanced back toward the car, where Zé knew Donald must still be catching up. The vaquero's elation had clearly driven him to rush ahead, leaving their other friend behind. Zé could almost feel the mixture of emotions brewing under Panchito's playful exterior, a familiar tug of longing buried in the joy of reunion.

But Zé knew better than to bring that up. He simply smiled again, his voice calm, teasing. "Always in a rush, eh  mano?" 

"Life is too short to sit still," the rooster replied assuredly, and his hand which still rested on his waist in a half hug pulled him in for just an instant, a punctuation to the point. 

"Hey, ya found 'im! Over here, guys!!!!" a distinctive voice cut through the busy hum of the arrival hall and Zé immediately turned towards the sound, his heart immediately catapulting into the stratosphere.

"DONAL'!" he and Panchito shouted in unison, their voices echoing across the platform. The moment the malandro caught sight of Donald looking flustered and determined as ever as he weaved through the crowd, all the excitement, the nerves, the longing came rushing back to him. He broke from Panchito's hold to sprint to him with ever increasing urgency, his heart pounding not from exertion but from sheer jubilation.

Quickly he closed the distance between them, throwing his arms around the sailor and pulling him into a tight embrace. He fit into his arms perfectly, and for a moment he didn't want to let go. Donald absorbed the impact with ease and let Zé down safely, the rest of the world seeming to melt away in an instant. Zé quickly buried his face into Donald's shoulder, feeling the comforting weight of his lover's arms around him. There was relief, adoration, and an overwhelming sense of peace. Even for just a fleeting moment, everything felt right—like he was where he belonged.

"Meu querido..." Zé whispered softly, just for Donald, though he didn't linger on the words. He knew this interlude was fleeting.

Sure enough, as if sensing their private moment was up, Donald's voice broke through their quiet intimacy. "Panchito...?" Donald called, one arm still wrapped around Zé as he extended the other towards their rambunctious rooster to include him.

Zé was too distracted with cuddling up to his sailor's side to register the gleam in Panchito's eye, at first. As it was, it was only the loud, triumphant yell that signaled their impending doom, and the parrot felt he had little choice but to make sure he didn't endure it alone, his arm holding his duck in place.

"No, wait—!" Donald started, but it was too late.

Panchito came down hard from where he had launched himself into the air like a luchador delivering his finishing move. Elbow extended, he crashed into the two of them with the energy of a firecracker bursting on impact. Donald let out a choked WAK! of surprise, his arms flailing as he was knocked clean off balance. Zé, caught in the middle of it all, simply accepted his fate with a laugh, not even trying to brace for the collision.

They tumbled down in a heap of feathers, beaks, and limbs, Zé wedged between his two best friends, both of them piled on top of Donald, who lay sprawled at the bottom. He could feel Donald wheezing beneath him, dazed from the sudden assault, while Panchito—of course—was perched victoriously at the top of the pile, leaning on one elbow like he owned the world.

"Órale! ¿Que te pasa? You were supposed to catch me!" Panchito chortled, looking entirely too pleased with himself as he flashed a wide, playful grin down at the both of them. "I could have gotten hurt!" 

"God forbid…" Donald rasped weakly.

Zé couldn't help but chuckle, even as he lay squashed in the middle. Completely unconcerned by the chaos, he wiggled into a more comfortable position between them, his head resting against Donald's back. He could feel the frantic beat of his partner's heart beneath his cheek, could hear the shallow breaths as Donald tried to recover. There was no tension, no frustration. Just pure, unbridled affection. Even in moments like this—especially in moments like this—Zé felt nothing but love for the both of them.

This was how it had always been with the three of them. Chaos and laughter, roughhousing and tenderness, all tangled together in one messy, beautiful friendship.

"Well, caras," Zé sighed contentedly, "it is good to be back where I belong."

"Where, with all of ya on top of me?" the sailor beneath him groaned, barely able to get out a full breath with all the pressure bearing down on him.

Don't tempt me, the malandro thought before immediately shelving it for later.

[commandershepardvasfuckit]

An Arranged Marriage, part 3

M!troll x f!reader 1.7k words, still currently sfw and building up anything else

Part 1 | Part 2

It’s been a few days with your new husband and while he knows roughly nothing about humans it sure isn’t going to stop him from trying to take care you when you don’t feel well. Even if you wished he’d just leave you alone.

————

Every morning since then you woke up to Zen’jan making breakfast for the two of you, fish or other meat always with any bones removed and fruit already peeled and chopped for you. He was often gone for most of the day, leaving you to explore the city on your own or with Bira in tow. Every night when he returned he cooked dinner for you, or occasionally brought back food from a nearby tavern for the two of you.

He also had made no attempt to touch you since he washed your arms and face that first morning, which was a relief, going so far as to even make sure his hands never brushed yours when handing you things. Essentially, the two of you lead two separate lives, connected only by small talk over breakfast and dinner.

During the week you noticed new little things appearing around: snacks and treats left out for you when he left of the day, a bracelet placed on the bedside table by you, fancy soaps and lotions in the bathroom. Zen’jan never mentioned any of it, but you noticed his face light up for a brief moment when he saw you wearing the bracelet.

You woke that morning in pain, your joints aching and a familiar cramping low in your belly. Forcing yourself to your feet, you staggered to the bathroom to situate yourself and then returned to bed and yanked the blankets over your head.

“What is the matter?” you did not hear him approach, but you tugged the blanket down to see Zen’jan sitting cross legged next to the bed and watching you closely.

“Nothing” you snapped, “Just time for my period”.

Zen’jan did not say anything at first, he just watched you with his head tilted slightly, “I do not know know the translation for that, sorry”.

You often forgot human common was not his first language, or even his second or third. He spoke the troll language, orcish, the minotaur language, and human common. Most humans you knew only spoke the common, maybe an ambassador might speak some dwarven or a bit of elvish, but you had never heard of someone in your kingdom knowing four languages.

“It’s fine. I’m fine”.

“No, something is wrong. Let me help you” he insisted.

“Fine. Get me a hot water bottle and something to help with pain”.

Zen’jan practically leapt up and began digging through the cabinets, grabbing the bag of grains he often used to make breakfast and sitting next to the lit hearth before calling that he would be back as quick as possible while he bolted out the door.

Once again you were alone. Alone, and in pain. You tried to doze off, but any time you finally got comfy another wave of cramps would disturb you, making you toss and turn endlessly.

When he finally returned you heard him clinking about, mixing things from the sounds of it.

“Here” once more he was at your bedside without you ever hearing footsteps. You hated how quietly he moved.

He handed you a cup of bitter smelling, thin, white liquid that tasted even worse than it smelled. You choked it back and he handed you a second cup, this time some sort of tea.

“That will help with any pain, and the tea is just for comfort. My mom used to make it for me when I was little and did not feel well”.

“Thanks” you muttered.

“And here, should be nice and warm now” he handed you the bag of grain that had been sitting by the hearth.

The warmth of it felt good against your sore muscles, you curled around it laying on your side.

“Will you talk to me now? Tell me what is wrong?” Zen’jan asked.

“I’m fine. Thank you”.

He was close to you, much closer than he had been all week. He was sitting cross legged on the floor next to the bed, his arms folded on the edge of the bed and resting his head on them. Like this his face was very close to yours, the tips of his tusks nearly touching you.

“Don’t you have things to do?” you asked him.

“I do, but you are in pain, I am not just leaving you here alone all day. Especially since you will not tell me what is wrong”.

“I told you what’s wrong”.

“Yes, but I do not know what that means though, this is not my first language. I do not always understand everything you say”.

“Period. Monthly bleeding. Cycle. Menstrual! Whatever you want to call it! That’s all!” you barked at him.

He held your gaze, his brows knitted together still trying to follow what you said.

“You really have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” you asked, exasperated.

“I am sorry, but no”.

“Troll women, they don’t bleed like once a month? No cramps? Nothing?”

“No? Is that normal for humans?”

“Yeah! Either you’re pregnant, or dealing with this once a month!”

“Oh” he said.

“So sorry if I’m in a bad mood, but I’m in pain and currently bleeding out of my vagina, so I think I’m allowed to be grumpy” You were pretty sure he still had very little idea of what you were talking about, but you were hardly in the mood to give a full biology lesson.

“What can I do to make you comfortable?” he asked.

“You’ve already done it, it’s fine. You got me something warm and pain medicine. You’ve done your acts of service, you can go now”.

“I am still staying here with you. You may as well tell me how I can help” he insisted.

You were annoyed. While you were thankful for the medicine and makeshift hot water bottle, what you really wanted was to be back at your family’s manor. Your maids taking care of you, cozy with a hot water bottle that would be swapped as needed, favorite foods and treats brought to you, medicine brought to you, just pampered while you waited it out.

“Fine, help keep me distracted while the medicine kicks in” you snapped at him.

“Can I tell you about where trolls come from then?”

“Sure”

That seemed to perk him up a bit. Once more you had no idea why you felt the need to comfort him or indulge him, but he had been looking at you so sadly and worried.

“Before there was anything else, there was the Nothingness” he began, “The potential of everything that would ever exist was there, but it needed to be made. First there was Owa, the spirit of the worlds. She created the land and seas and all the plants and she was happy for a time, but she grew lonely and cried.

“From her tears grew Oja, her sister. Oja created the animals and for a time the sisters were happy. But they grew lonely again with only having each other. The same way Owa’s tears made Oja, their tears together made the first troll, Reli. Owa and Oja loved Reli, they watched her grow and change in a way that they did not, but living and growing means dying one day.

“When Reli died their grief pulled her spirit back from the Nothingness, and no longer bound to the world she stood as their equal. She could not walk the earth with them anymore, so instead she made herself a new home, a realm within the Nothingness where a once mortal spirit could dwell.

“Owa and Oja created more trolls, who grew and multiplied, but as mortal life grew on the planet it became harder for the gods to step foot here, the planet was no longer for them.

“Now the gods watch over us from the Nothingness, sometimes visiting or appearing when they can. And Reli carries us to her realm when our time here is done. She is the Great Mother of us all, and welcomes us home”.

“So there are three troll gods then?” you asked.

“Owa, Oja, and Reli are the most powerful, but there are many more. Hundreds probably, but many are gods of little things, or gods of certain regions”.

“Huh”

“What about humans? Where did humans come from?” he asked.

“The Light created everything, it’s always existed, it will always exist. It banishes the shadows and protects from the darkness” you answered.

“And are shadows and darkness such a bad thing?”

“Yes! Of course they are! The Light is hope, healing, life, protection! Everything the shadows want to destroy! The darkness wants to destroy and consume all it can! The Light is the only thing keeping it at bay!” you snarled at him.

“I was only curious” he muttered, a bit of a wounded tone seeping into his voice, “I do not know much about human culture or beliefs, and I want to learn more about about my wife”

Wife. The word made your skin crawl a bit when he said it. It had only come up a few times, him referring to you as his wife, and while he was entirely correct it still felt uncomfortable.

“Maybe one day you would like to come with me to visit the shrines? Just to see?” he asked. “And I would like to learn more about your Light, whenever you are feeling up to it”.

You fidgeted uncomfortably at the idea. There was nothing inherently against visiting the shrines of other gods, but it still felt a bit sacrilegious to you.

Zen’jan was watching you expectantly, his head still resting on his arms, again doing a fantastic job of looking rather small for a man of his stature.

“Fine, when I’m feeling better I’ll go with you, but just for a quick look around!”

He smiled, his facial expression softening and relaxing considerably, “Thank you, I do not want to be a mystery to you, or for you to be a mystery to me” and extended out a hand to you, which you ignored.

It probably would not be the worst thing to learn a bit about trolls or your husband.

Part 4

[lemon-russ]

Your lion fic was beautiful. May I request more? Anything will do really. But here are my requests.

Lion angrily jerking it after experiencing one (1) emotion

Lion aggressively cuddling you. You're not hurt or sick or have lost feeling in your lower body temporarily, he just wants to be close to you. And be an ass about it.

You wear his legion colours/symbols and he gets really horny.

40k Lion reminiscing about an old lover from 30k (using that term loosely, they were probably just fuck buddies) and maybe they meet again in 40k. Let's say a perpetual reader.

Anyway these are just my brainworms. Feel free to ignore.

And yes, I am aware I have a thing for stoic men losing it and being absolute freaks. I am currently in search for a good therapist.

Sorry for the delay, but I feel adjacent to a human today, so I finally finished this! Also the way you presented it made me snort laugh haha, the kind message into "angrily jerking it" lmfao

Anyway here's The Lion straight jorkin' it (I like all your suggestions and might come back to the colors one especially!)

Tags: @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye @lisikk

Thanks @squishyowl for the dividers!

Lion El'Jonson X Fem!Reader

CW: Lion straight up jorkin' it. That's all.

Stupid woman, Lion thought, slamming his chamber doors closed.

He started angrily undoing the belt of his tunic as he marched to his bed, fingers frustratingly fumbling the latch in a hurry.

Stupid, infuriating woman.

Guilliman had sent a representative to give The Lion updates about some missions the Ultramarines had been on, just the average doldrum of war talk. But the representative he sent was his little Ambassador pet.

“My Lord?” You had said, looking up at him between explaining supply lines, “You seem very tired. Did you not rest well?”

He’d been shocked by the simple question. He had indeed been without a proper rest for a bit too long. But, no one ever asked such things about him. He was a god to most baselines, infallible and untiring, beyond mortal needs. But you spent a majority of your time around his brother, so of course you could read him better than a random serf could. And you’d been… concerned. For him.

“Wh- I…” he had stuttered, caught off guard. That annoyed him. Being flustered by a tiny baseline woman’s concern for him annoyed him. The pang of unnameable emotion that shot through him annoyed him. The sudden pulse of pressure below his stomach, especially annoyed him.

“Don’t be daft woman-” he had spat back. You’d just smiled softly at the verbal attack, soft eyes scanning his face, studying the circles forming under his eyes. Then for some warp damned reason, you had gone and made him a cup of recaff. You placed it in front of the flabbergasted Primarch and returned to explaining your papers like nothing had passed.

Stupid woman.

The minute you’d given him a quick aquillan salute and been on your way out the door, He had turned on his heel and stormed off to his quarters, leaving confused serfs in his wake as he pushed them aside, some even falling to the floor. “No one disturb me.” He had growled, stalling their pursuit of him.

He finally pulled his pants down, holding his tunic aside as he knelt on his bed. That feeling that you had invoked in him had shot right between his legs. The whole rest of the meeting, he was struggling to focus on anything but how hard you had made him.

He grasped himself, groaning at the friction at last as he stroked. Your image assaulted his mind. You leaning over the table just enough that he could see down the far too loose tunic dress you wore. He growled remembering that glimpse of your breasts, infuriatingly framed in ultramarine blue. It should have been HIS colors.

He grasped himself tighter as he assailed his aching cock, falling back on his pillows. It should be Dark Angels green you were in. No- it should be nothing at all. You should be naked in his bed. You should be panting in his lap-

His hips bucked himself fruitlessly into his hand at the image. Your sweet face, flush and gasping as you rode him. Did you look at Guilliman the way you’d looked up at him? Did you fetch him drinks when you noticed he was worn? The thought enraged The Lion. How dare you go back to the Macragge’s Honour, back to anywhere but his bed.

He gripped the sheets, yanking at his tunic as he frustratedly picked up speed, ignoring the slight soreness from his calloused palm attacking his cock without anything to help the friction. It wouldn’t be an issue if it was you on him instead. He bet you were plenty slick, and tight-

He felt his balls start to tighten, drawing in a hissing, ragged gasp through grit teeth. His bed creaked with the cadence of his hips jerking up into his fist. You should be here. You should be wrapped around him, holding on for your life as he used you like a cocksleeve- he imagined your small hands splayed over his stomach for balance, trying desperately to hold yourself down against his bouncing.

He fisted his cock faster, frustrated by the sub-par sensation of his own rough skin, barely slicked with his pre-cum as he drove himself forcefully toward an orgasm. He was frustrated he’d immediately given in to such base instincts. He was Frustrated you could drive him to this with one little question, with one sweet look.

His mind flooded with the image of you giving him that little smile, eyes soft and concerned in defiance of his sharp words-

He let out a snarl as the heat in him snapped, shooting his spend over his stomach in jerking pulses. A few more hard pumps on his cock drained him, shuddering and mind blank, before he collapsed back on the bed, legs shaking and ragged gasps wracking his lungs.

He lay panting, covered in his own seed, twitching his hips up in the aftershocks. This was your fault. You stupid, damnable woman.

He groaned and let his arm fall to his side as the sensations eased from his need-drunk mind.

He had a very stern demand to draft. If his brother wanted him to keep playing nice- which he had been, he’d been very cooperative he thought, he earned some credit- If Guilliman wanted Lion to keep his word about their plans and supplies and defenses-

Then the cost was merely one insignificant little diplomat woman.

[rimouskis]

Mike Lange on Sidney Crosby's contract extension:

“He's been one of the great ambassadors of the game in his ability to handle all situations, particularly off the ice or in the locker room. He welcomes anybody that wants to come in. He'll give them the time, in most cases, he remembers those people – and they're forever grateful, really. You don't understand how important that is to people around the league. He's a master at it, and he's really good. He's genuine, and that's a beautiful thing to have when you've got a player like that. He demands so much respect, and yet, he's not looking for that. He's just trying to be a good human. That, probably, is his greatest asset. He, to me, is the ultimate captain with his team, with his personality… I mean, he just has that innate ability to be able to meet somebody with humility. That's what really stands out to me with Sid. He came that way. He was packaged and ready to go from the start. If you remember the early games, he had to be the front-and-center guy. He stepped in as an 18-year-old and there he is, talking to all these people not only in English, but French, too. I don’t think other people remember that he knows French, coming from Rimouski. So, just a pretty special guy. I think it was the right city for him to come to. The culture was right. He kept the culture going, and I'm looking forward to more years from him. When you're ready to retire Sid, let us know. But we'll take you on one leg. We’ll take you on one leg for as long as you want to play. This city, you know how much it’s grown on him. You know, there's a movie called the Body Snatchers. They snatch people up, and they got me, and I think they got Sid, too. I think they got him too. My god, they got us [chuckles]. But we’re happy they did.”

via @PensInsideScoop on NHL.com

[brox-not-a-badger]

Carnations and Ironwood

Woah boy, my first NSFW fic and it’s Ferrus Manus x ambassador!reader!?!

Tw; some carnal thoughts, eventually aggressive pussy eating, Ferrus absolutely crankin’ it.

_____________________________________________

Ferrus is not as expressive, as most of his other brothers, often observed as a dull engine of war. So when an ambassador from Chemos, sent by Fulgrim, has him questioning what he assumed he knew about himself and his resistance, he was thrown for a loop.

_____________________________________________

Ferrus was put in an uncomfortable position. His brain had been wracked with the same cycle of thoughts. You, by the throne and the Emperor, he needed you. It was pitiful, really. You were an ambassador from Chemos, having only been here a week, and you managed to already enthrall this poor man. The problem was, you were here temporarily, and Ferrus was not good with his own emotions. He was stoic and resilient. Good for war, bad for whenever you were around.

As of right now, Ferrus was seated with a stern expression on his face, arms crossed as he stared at you. He was stubborn as a mule, refusing to let whatever he was feeling slip as you were speaking, however, he had felt something stirring within him as soon as this supposedly brief meeting had began and you stepped in.

Despite his stubborn, stoic attitude towards most things, he watched your unmatched grace, causing his critical mind to wander. He watched how you swayed as you spoke, yet your words fell on deaf ears. Ferrus admired how you held yourself in such a confident and sure-of-yourself light. The way your eyes very abruptly met his as you continued to go through various talking points that he blatantly ignored solely to admire you. You made him feel things he originally assumed impossible. You were tantalizing to the senses, speaking to him, a primarch, with so much unbridled confidence. His mind began to wander further, wondering how you’d look beneath him, clutching the sheets of his bed as he laid into you like a machine, not of war for once, but of pure lust and hunger and want.

The second he caught his mind wandering in such a direction, he shook his head and snapped to attention, breathing a little heavily as his hearts thundered in his chest like the heavy blow of a hammer on an anvil, over and over. He swallowed the lump in his throat, reaching down and adjusting his robes further in hopes that he wasn’t getting too excited. He risked a glance down at his robes, adjusting uncomfortably to look back at you.

Ferrus wasn’t listening to a word you were speaking, instead, he was focusing on your movements still. Your grace, your beauty. He questioned if this is how Fulgrim felt looking at a well-made painting. Ferrus never understood the point of art. Nor did he like the company of ambassadors. But, instead he watched your body language. Mostly just your body though. Another thing he was obsessed with about you. Between the heat pooling in his belly and the now-tightening grip he had on the armrest of his chair he was at a loss. Ferrus’ mouth felt dry as he continued to watch you, your words not breaking through to him whatsoever, that was until you spoke his name upon noticing he was drifting off. “Ferrus-? Lord Ferrus? Are you listening? You look like the average day dreamer!”

“Yes, yes continue. I was just… lost in thought, that is all.” Ferrus Manus looked back at your face. He nodded, grunting in confirmation and urging you to continue. He let out a trembling breath as he dug his nails into the armrest of his chair, making a painstaking grating feeling thanks to the resilience of his metallic hands and the hardwood of the chair, momentarily grateful you’d taken your attention off of him and back to what you were talking about. The heat in his belly pooled more down south, forcing the primarch of the iron hands to cross his legs. Ferrus was wishing he hadn’t taken off his armor before starting this meeting. He was hoping you wouldn’t notice the obvious tent in his robes.

Throne, you were perfect to him, so when you finally stopped talking he had to suck in a sharp breath and uncomfortably twist in his chair again to stop himself from making a noise to signify his nervousness. It took almost no time at all for you to notice his discomfort. “Sir, you look-… incredibly uncomfortable right now. Your face is very red and y-.. you-… oh.” You found your own face heating up as your gaze traveled to the space between his muscular thighs.

“Th- this meeting is concluded.” Ferrus nearly choked on his words. Before you could even start to question him, he tried to return to his default stoic attitude, abruptly getting up and leaving the room, one metallic hand gripping at his robes to hide his very obvious erection. He shuffled off, so unbelievably hard that the poor primarch could barely walk straight, borderline slamming the door behind him as he made his painfully embarrassing exit.

_____________________________________ NSFW PORTION BELOW THIS POINT ___________________________________

Internalized guilt and worry had ran through you for what felt like an eternity. Watching Ferrus walk off like a wounded animal just a few hours ago was certainly a sight to behold. The stoic primarch had gotten a throbbing erection from merely watching you pace back and forth and elaborate on your ideas to him. It took you a while to work up the courage to bring yourself to his quarter’s door, pausing with a wide-eyed look as you heard a low grunting noise like a beast in rut.

The second you pushed that door open you were greeted by a pungent smell and a shocking sight. Ferrus Manus, primarch of the Iron Hands, leaned back in his seat, cock in hand. He stared at you with as much shock as you stared at him. His face turned beat red as he tried to cover himself with his robes. You stared at him in absolute shock and surprise before a sudden rush trampled your squandered feelings. “Ferrus- oh, sweetheart-… this is thanks to earlier, isn’t it?”

“I- n- no it- it’s not- throne damnit, come here.” He growled like a wild animal. This unseen side of him was something you didn’t think was possible. You shut the door behind you wandering over. He didn’t need to tell you twice. “Get on the desk-… please.” He asked in a very husky, yet somehow still quite polite tone, watching you clamber over the desk awkwardly. Upon making him wait with your slightly awkward movements, he finally just snapped and grabbed you by the thighs, sliding you across the desk himself. His palms alone could have enveloped the entire top of your thighs with ease, yet he still remained so gentle.

Ferrus kneeled down on the ground, nudging his chair back so his face was between your thighs. He looked up at you as if to ask you for your permission, only for his pleading look to be returned with a nod. He smiled and pushed aside your robes, gripping your thighs and adjusting so your legs were wrapped around his head. He took a breath and got right down to it, tearing off your undergarments with his teeth and dragging his thick tongue along your clit, eliciting a beautiful noise from your lips.

Throne, you tasted as divine as he imagined. Ferrus gave a throaty growl like a crocodile as you rubbed your fingers through his hair. Another whine escaped your lips as you felt him flick his tongue over your clit once more, eventually sliding it in in a circular motion. He grunted and growled, his massive hands gripping your thighs as he lapped greedily at your cunt. Every whimper and moan that left your lips sent him spiraling further into his carnal desires and hunger. Every greedy slurp and snarl as he ate you out like a five-star meal rang through the normally quiet space of his quarters, mixed with your soft, sweet moans.

Ferrus recalled fantasizing about just how badly he’d wanted this. How bad he wanted you. To hold your thighs around his head as he gorged himself on your tender flesh, to listen to the soft sounds of your moans as he kept his own mouth preoccupied. He wanted you so badly and now that he could finally show it, he wasn’t holding back. The normally stoic primarch was now swirling circles with his tongue on your clit. Thus was his reward for being so resistant to his carnal desires for so long. He couldn’t even begin to imagine resisting you now. Now that you were getting close to that peak, so close to climax merely from his tongue.

All this stimulation from him was driving you mad. So much so that you’d had to squeeze your thighs around his head to signal you were about ready to bust. “Ngh- d- damn- Ferrus-!” That was his name coming from your mouth. It pushed him, driving him absolutely insane. He gave a harsh snarl as his hands groped your thighs harder, allowing you to finish in his face. He huffed, finally allowed to breathe as you let your thighs loosen around his head. Ferrus was licking his lips, finally releasing your thighs. His metallic hands had left clear marks from where he was gripping your thighs like he’d lose you any second. “By the throne, Ferrus- are you trying to kill me?” You huff, face flushed as you looked at the primarch, who was now resting his head on your thigh.

“You’re a pretty woman. It’d be a shame to kill you… I’m starting to see why Fulgrim sent you over here.” He licked his lips one final time, taking your words a little too literally. He gave a hefty grunt, getting off his now shaking knees to meet your lips to his. You drove Ferrus insane for almost a week straight, and now he could finally cave and give in to those carnal desires. He felt like a tremendous weight was finally lifted off his already burdened shoulders.

_____________________________________________

Its done!!! Dear lord this was a big one, and I think I’ve gotten an attachment to Ferrus Manus now. I didn’t even now that was possible. Apologies this took so long, I write on mobile lmao.

[intoanotherworld23]

Proving Them Wrong

Pairing: Reader x Javier Peña

Warnings: MATURE CONTENT NSFW 18+ ONLY, consensual sex, unprotected sex, sex in public, rough sex, use of a desk, mild spanking, swear words

Summary: Javier is told something that really upsets him, and so he decides to prove this person wrong by using their desk with you on top of it

My tag list for Pedro Pascal is always open, so feel free to ask to be added! XOXO

Check out my other works on my Hall Of Hunks

"Javi we shouldn't be doing this." Pulling on his hand as he dragged you over to Ambassador Noonan’s office. "This is wrong."

"Come on she’s not going to know." Opening the door to his office pulling you inside.

"What if she comes in here?" Asking him panic evident in your voice.

"Trust me she’s not going to come in here." Javier shut the door as he cornered you against the desk.

“Shouldn’t we lock the door or something?”

“I’m not locking that door baby. If someone walks in they can watch us.”

Javier was determined and focused right now, and no matter what you were saying that wasn’t going to make him change his mind. He was a stubborn man.

"Now what do you say cariño?"

His eyes were screaming at you that he really wanted this. All he needed was a look or nod which you gave him. Both of you pushing her stuff off to the side giving you room so nothing got knocked over.

Lifting you up on the desk with a squeal his hands on your hips and yours around his waist. Lips entangled with his as he stood between your spread legs. Any worry or fear you had was now long gone.

"God I've wanted you all day." Groaning into your mouth as he started to strip himself of his clothing. "Couldn't wait any longer baby."

He was the one to take your shirt and pants off tossing them somewhere blindly in the room. Not knowing where this sudden lust for you came from.

Suddenly he became red and seething and next thing you know he's pressing his erection into dragging you toward Ambassador Noonan’s office. Clearly something had happened or was said to piss him off.

Wrapping your legs around his waist to tug him closer to you. Something wet wiping against your thigh realizing it was the tip of his cock cum already leaking out. He was ready to go and couldn't wait a second longer.

"Gonna fuck you so hard there gonna hear your screams." Growling his lips on the side of your mouth as he gripped your jaw. "That what you want sweetheart?"

"Yes please." Whimpering as he rubbed his cock up and down your core moving your hips up and down with the motion.

"What do you say?"

He wanted to hear you say it and that's all it would take and you knew what always turned him into an animal.

"Please Peña sir." Lower lips pouting giving your best innocent look you could give him.

"Such a good girl for me." Praising as he moved his hips forward pushing his cock inside of you mouth wide open as you felt his stretching you out.

Standing there for a couple seconds feeling you adjust to his size jaw clenching as he tried not to start pounding into you. Your hands behind you keeping yourself up while his hands were placed on either side of your knees keeping your legs spread for him.

Moving once you gave him the green flag not wasting any time to start slamming into you. The entire desk moving along with your bodies. Hearing one of the legs of the desk creaking along with your little whimpers.

"You look so fucking amazing darling." Complimenting as his hands moved up your legs placing them on your pelvic bones. "Taking my cock like this on ambassadors desk."

Both of your bodies moving the desk rapidly causing some things to fall off and onto the floor. Javier shrugged it off and you could have cared less. The sounds though did make both of you laugh making it a cliche moment.

Leaning forward quickly to attach his lips to yours. His mouth leaving yours every time he would move his hips away from you. Staring into each other's eye taking notice of how dark his became, and how red his cheeks were. Goosebumps on your skin when you saw that evil glint in his eyes.

"I'm a fucking man." He said out loud not looking you in the eyes now. "Nobody tells me I'm not a man."

You wanted to know what he was talking about that was gone when he was relentlessly pounding into you. It felt like your entire body was clenching up and you couldn't move or do anything. He was in complete control of your body right now and you weren't exactly complaining.

"Mhm god you feel so good Javi."

Leaning your body back a little further feeling your elbows starting to weaken. Your shoulders were starting to burn from being in the same position.

"That's it baby." He mused loving to hear your shaky voice speak up. "Wanna hear you scream for me."

Javier’s eyes moved down your body landing on your bouncing breasts. Head moving forward so his hot mouth was breathing on it attaching his lips around the nub. Biting on it just enough to make you whimper a smirk plastered on his face.

Moving to the other breast giving it the same attention. The hairs of his mustache prickling against your skin internally yelling at him for not trimming it. You'd lecture him about it later but right now his tongue was licking between your breasts up to your neck.

At any moment Ambassador Noonan’s or someone else could walk in and see Javier literally pile driving you hard on this desk. It worried you but it was incredibly thrilling at the same time. Especially knowing the fact that he wouldn't stop if you were caught.

Sweat was already forming across his forehead as the room became warmer. Unable to hold yourself up any longer you laid your body down. Hands gripping onto the sides of the desk so you didn't slip off. Javier moved his body so it was now hovering over yours. Arms on either side of your head as he stood on his toes.

"I'm never letting this pussy go." Groaning loudly when he left you clenching around him.

"I'm never letting you fucking go sweetheart."

"Harder baby please." Whining as you leaned your head off the desk to attach your lips to his. "God I need you so badly."

"What do you need cariño?" Javier hummed teasingly as he stood up grabbing one of your legs lifting it up kissing along your skin. "Use your words baby."

"Take me from behind Javi." That was exactly what he wanted to hear.

Flipping your body around so you were now bent over the desk. His cock during them had slipped out leaving you feeling empty. Bending your knees slightly as your pressed your chest into the wood, and your arms stretched out in front of you.

Wiggling your hips to entice Javier as he pumped himself a couple times before pushing forward again. The new angle had both of you panting and groaning at the feeling. His hands grabbing onto your hips as he was pulling you back against him.

"That what you wanted baby?" Cocking his head as he looked down at you. "To take my cock like this?"

Erect nipples scraping against the desk as his hands gripped your ass cheeks squeezing them in his hand. Lifting his hand back to smack them a couple times in a row. Squealing every time his hand came down leaving a stinging sensation on your skin.

"You like that sweetheart?" He asked with another smack this time making you hiss.

"Mhm." Was all you could say biting onto your arm to muffle your screams.

Feeling your hips moving back on their own to meet his thrusts. Javier smirking as he looked down to where you two were connected loving how soaked his cock became because of you. Mouth wide open as he watched you taking him deep.

Spreading your ass cheeks so he could look even closer. When he did that though it felt even better like suddenly he was able to slam into you even deeper. Your pussy clenching around him as you felt yourself becoming closer to your release.

"Something wrong baby?" His tone condescending when he felt you were getting closer.

"I'm gonna cum Javi." Whimpering as you turned your head to the side feeling his eyes on you.

He thought you looked so perfect right now. Your hair was a mess now your mouth was open, panting like an overheated dog, and your eyes glazed over in pleasure. If he could take a picture of you right now he would and keep it forever in his wallet.

"Fuck I know you are baby." His thrusts were starting to slow down themselves not far behind you. "Shit I'm there too sweetheart."

He was trying to hold on for as long as he could but he was getting weaker with each thrust. The sounds of his thighs slapping against your cheeks was enough to drive him wild. Your cheeks feeling like someone was sticking a torch in front of your face.

"Let go for me baby."

A strained gasp leaving your lips as you listened to him your whole entire body slumped against the desk. Completely spent and well fucked you didn’t think you’d be able to stand.

"That's my good girl."

Your entire body felt like it was trembling as your toes curled against the carpet. Javier continuing to whisper praises at you as you felt your eyes drooping.

His cock twitching inside of you before filling you up with his cum. Breathing heavily as his hands moved to ass cheeks spreading them again to watch as both his and your cum leaked from out of you. Groaning as he watched your asshole puckering up wanting to just stick a finger inside.

Pulling himself out slowly hissing as he left your body cum dripping down your thigh. Using the desk to push yourself up to stand on shaky legs. Both of you looking at each other with smirks on your faces. His eyes moving up and down your body licking his lips ready for round two.

"Uh Peña." A quiet voice spoke on the other side of the door both your heads snapping in that direction recognizing it as Steve.

“Ambassador Noonan is looking for you."

[absolutebl]

Hi ABL! After watching episode 1 of Between Us, I was impressed with the level of "thirst" between Boun and Prem's characters in the last couple of scenes. Are there shows or scenes of shows, regardless of actual heat level, that you think did "thirst" well, regardless of how that's resolved at the time? Subjective, I know, but would love to get your take on this!

20 BLs with the BEST Thirst!

Thirst wants to slide a hand under his waistband right tf now and grind. Horny wants to rip his clothes off, and probably pop buttons and laugh about it. Yearning wants to run both hands up his back while they kiss deeply. Hunger wants to lift him by the ass and slam him against the wall.

Raise your glasses please, to THIRST.

I Cannot Reach You - Japan 2023

It's fresh in my mind, so first on this list.

Secret Crush on You - Thailand 2022

This scene in particular sprang next to mind, just because for me it kinda defined thirst in Thai BL. (Also see my #1 pick for sides at the end.)

Jun & Jun - Korea 2023

We Best Love: Fighting Mr 2nd - Taiwan 2021

2 Moons: Ambassador (AKA 2 Moons 3) - Thailand 2022

Eternal Yesterday - Japan 2022

Why R U? - Korea 2023

HIStory 3 - the BL that shall not be named - Taiwan 2019

Bed Friend - Thailand 2023

They sleeping together but King still thirsty af

Big Dragon - Thailand 2022

My Beautiful Man - Japan 2021

Between Us - Thailand 2022-23

Minato's Laundromat - Japan 2022

Ghost Host Ghost House - Thailand 2022

the infamous leg scene alone qualifies them, but they very mutually thirsty in general

My Personal Weatherman - Japan 2023

It's the point.

I Feel You Linger in the Air - Thailand 2023

The oil scene is a stroke of genius.

Well, several strokes.

Old Fashion Cupcake - Japan 2022

I Told Sunset About You - Thailand 2020

Love in Translation - Thailand 2023

Just because of that damn convenience store make-out scene.

Nitiman - Thailand 2021

I find thirst is often (although not always) the provenance of the seme character.

Mutual thirst is really rare.

Side dish gravy

Shorts, side couples, and so forth.

Oh My Sunshine Night - Thailand 2022

Noh appears 2x on this list. He's GREAT at thirst. Possibly the only Thai actor to give Japan real competition. GIVE HIM ANOTHER LEAD!

HIStory 4: Close To You - Taiwan 2021

Gen Y 2 - Thailand 2022

@heretherebedork and I call them PokeTongue for a reason.

Y-Destiny - Thailand 2021

kiss x kiss x kiss: Perfect Scandal - Japan 2022

No shocker that Japan is the only one to field a micro on this list. Usually thirst takes more build up.

Defining THIRST

I make a distinction between thirst and other types of physical desire. This is just me and language.

Thirst usually leaps off the screen and has an edge of danger to it. Like they gonna get caught, or go out of control just from wanting to touch. They gonna die without physical contact. It's pure survival need. Japan kinda specializes in this.

There's no humor to thirst, but horny can get kinda cheeky. It's more fun and mutual (ee.g. KinnPorsche). More want than need. So it's more Thailand and Taiwan.

There's also yearning (e.g. The 8th Sense), which has a more emotional soul tether to it. Korea in particular, but also like GMMTV and lower heat prestige stuff, high school things for example (My School President).

And finally hunger, which I tend to think of as desire but with a nourishment component. It's I want what's MINE. Like Taejung in Cherry Blossoms After Winter.

These aren't mutually exclusive, mind you.

I dithered but they didn't quite make the list

Irresistible Love - China 2016

Second Chance - Thailand 2021

Takara & Amagi - Japan 2022

Love Area - Thailand 2022

Takumi-kun - Japan 2007

Moonlight Chicken - Thailand 2023

My Engineer (RamKing) - Thailand 2020

It's why we're all still mad we never got full RamKing

(source)

This posted dated end of 2023. Not responsible for thirsty BL that happens after. Check the comments for additions and other's thoughts on the matter.

[thetriumphantpanda]

Charlie pls I am here to beg 🧍🏻‍♀️🤲🏻

Smut prompt: ❛ is that how you usually get out of these situations? by fucking your way out of them? ❜

With Javi P

Tysm 🖤🖤

omg no begging required I am all too happy to oblige this one. Thank you for sending it in! 🧡

Pairing | Javier Peña x F!Reader

Word Count | 559

Warnings | This is smut, what can I say? Unprotected PiV in public and that's kinda it lmao. Also I have an ear infection and I'm on meds so.... forgive me for any mistakes, they are my own and I stand by them.

Send me a Pedro Boy & a prompt!

He’s got you pinned up against the wall, legs wrapped tightly around his hips. There’s something digging into your back, something that presses into your skin every time his hips snap into yours, but you don’t know what it is. The sharp pain every time it digs in is nothing compared to the stream of pleasure that courses through your body every time his cock drags in and out of your cunt.

He knew asking you was risky, some paper that should have been signed by your superior’s superior, not the girl who sits behind the desk and answers the phone. You knew it was stupid to sign it without asking more questions. Those brown eyes had begged you so nicely though, plush lips promising he’d take the fall if anything came back from it. So you’d taken it, scribbled your signature on the dotted line and forgotten all about it.

That was, until, you’d been dragged into a meeting, in front of everyone, and asked, point blank why you thought it was acceptable for you to sign classified information. When you’d stood there and stuttered, Javier Peña, sat around the table, had said nothing, kept his eyes trained on his lap, as you left the room, tail between your legs, a wobble to your bottom lip, blurry eyes and a warning that if it happened again, you’d be on the first flight back to the States.

It was a miracle the ambassador had let you come at all, all things considered. Some gala you didn’t understand. Dinner with three sets of cutlery and a dress code and people with trays of champagne. Now, pressed up against the wall, Javi’s thumb running circles over your clit has he fucks you, you find you don’t really care about anything anymore.

“This how you usually get out of these situations?” You ask, breathless, a whine at the end, “By fucking your way out of them?”

You can feel his mouth turn up into a smirk at your neck, mouth sucking on your skin before he’s pulling away, face right in front of yours, “Depends,” He mumbles, shifting his position slightly, angling himself better so on everything thrust, he’s hitting the spot inside you that makes you sing, “Is it working? Am I forgiven, cariño?”

You bite your bottom lip, edging towards a smart reply, when the mixture of his thumb on your clit and the tip of his cock bruising at the depths of you, edges you towards something much better. You let your head drop back, hitting the wall, as your legs clamp around him impossibly tight. You feel yourself tighten around him before the coil snaps, white hot pleasure dragging its way across every inch of your skin as you come for him.

He doesn’t last much longer, his hands gripping at the meat of your ass to keep you upright as he stills inside you. You can feel the white hot of his cum inside you, the subtle throb of his cock as he groans into the sweaty skin of your neck.

“Well?” He asks after a beat, “Did it work?”

You roll your eyes, his hands dropping you gently to the ground, “For now,” You shrug, “You’re forgiven for now, Peña.”

[petricorah]

Zukka Week Day 5—Tending Wounds

“You don’t have to do this.”

They were sitting in the ambassador’s quarters. Well, Sokka was sitting. Zuko was kneeling in front of him, wrapping his injured knee with a soft touch that made Sokka's heart sputter in his ribcage.

Sometimes, it was hard to believe. Sokka remembered when this man chased them all the way across the world trying to burn them to ash, and now those same hands were dressing his wounds.

And Zuko had other responsibilities, better things to do than be here, with him. Sokka was fine. His life wasn’t in danger, he was good. It was just an old injury exacerbated by a fight.

“Seriously,” Sokka said. “You really don’t.”

“I know,” Zuko said.

He moved Sokka’s leg to get a better angle, and Sokka sucked in air through his teeth.

“Apologies."

Sokka shook his head, jaw clenched in pain. “Not your fault. It’s just stiff.” He looked away, and quickly strung along his next sentence. “I’ve kinda…been skipping my exercises.”

Zuko glared up.

“They hurt!” he said.

“That’s the point,” Zuko said crossly. “That's how it gets better.”

Zuko’s thumb smoothed over the bandages, and Sokka’s heart lurched in his chest, a blush scraping over his cheeks.

“You really don’t have to do more,” he prattled out. “It feels better, now, really—”

“Sokka,” he said in a stern voice. It was the one Sokka heard in meetings, the one that stopped his advisors completely. “I said I would do it, and I meant it.”

Sokka closed his mouth, and Zuko kept going until he had used up all the bandages.

“Can I…try something?” Zuko said.

Sokka raised an eyebrow. “…What?”

“Ever since you injured your knee the first time, re-injuring it has been easier. But this time seems really…bad. Like, worse than the other times. It’s been a week and a half and you still can barely use it. You’re weaker.”

“Wow,” Sokka said dourly. “That sure is helpful. Keep it up.”

“No,” Zuko said quickly, shaking his head. “That’s not…I always say the wrong thing. Especially around…you, but that’s not what I meant.” He huffed, looking to the side, bangs falling into his eyes. “It’s just…your knee is worse because Katara’s not here, right? When she’s around, she can do her healing bending, but when she’s gone, it has to heal naturally. But I…I can help. I think.”

“Look, I appreciate it, but I don’t think the pain is going to go away if you set my leg on fire.”

“That’s not what I’m going to do!” he snapped. “I practiced,” he said. “Uncle was correct, about bending becoming stronger when you use tactics from other elements. So I went to the Northern Water tribe, and asked the healers to…teach me.”

Sokka snorted, waving his hand. “What, with that classroom of six year olds?”

Zuko stared at him sincerely. “Yes.”

Sokka blinked. Oh.

“It’s not the same as what Katara does, but I think it could still help.”

Sokka narrowed his eyes. “When did you even do that?”

“After you hurt it for the first time.” Zuko wasn’t quite looking at him, making himself busy with straightening the bandages, even though they were already perfect. “But Katara had it handled, so I never mentioned it.”

Sokka stared at him. “Oh,” he said softly. “Sure, then.”

Zuko perked up, a smile flashing across his features. “Good,” he said. “I’ve been practicing on people in the palace and after I host training,” he said. “And I only burned one person.”

“W-what?” Sokka drew his shoulders up.  

“I’m joking,” he said blankly.  

Sokka used his good leg to kick Zuko on the side, making him chuckle.

“It’ll work,” Zuko said. The eagerness was apparent in his tone. “Heat increases blood flow and helps tense muscles. It will also help with flexibility and pain.”

Sokka could barely hear him explaining it. He was just enamored in how he looked. Whenever Zuko got excited and let his emotions show—which was a rare occurrence—a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes shined. He could be surprisingly excitable when he was comfortable around someone.

“…And so if that sounds good, we’ll begin."

“Y-yeah,” he said. “Sounds great.”

Sokka watched Zuko’s hand glow a bright orange, and the light reflecting on his features. Between his fingertips, flickers of flame began to circle in the palm of his hand. The fire was a variety of colors, spinning with a bright rainbow. Even from far away, Sokka could feel the warmth on his face.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “These flames won’t hurt. Trust me.”

Sokka slowly nodded, and Zuko placed his hand against his knee.

Relief washed over him instantly, and the pain that had been stabbing into his leg for the past week slowly subsiding in waves as Zuko’s flames warmed him.

Sokka let out a slight gasp, and closed his eyes. He was afraid if he opened them, and saw the care in Zuko's expression, he would completely fall apart.

“There,” Zuko said finally, his voice a low whisper.

Sokka opened one eye.

The flames dissipated from Zuko's hand, the warm lighting vanished. He looked up at him, golden eyes still bright, and Sokka’s entire chest squeezed like Appa was laying on him. “That feel better?”

The pain was distant now, and the throbbing in his knee had faded. Even the swelling had gone down. He was able to bend it back a bit easier, even though it was still a bit stiff.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” Zuko said. He stood and brushed off his robes. Sokka didn’t miss the small smile on his lips.

“And to think,” Sokka said. “I voted to leave you to freeze to death in the snow.”

Zuko blinked. “…Well, I’m…glad you didn’t do that.”  

Sokka laughed. “Me too. For a multitude of reasons. But thank you,” he said. “Again.”

Zuko shrugged and gathered up the rest of the materials. He didn’t let Sokka help, telling him to just rest.

But he hesitated in the doorway.

“About…how this happened—”

“Don’t even worry about it,” Sokka said, shooing him with his hand. “I’m just glad you’re here to help.”

Zuko dipped his head, and left.  

Sokka’s knee was still warm from his touch. Zuko had helped, but Sokka wasn’t sure if it was because of the bending or because of…him.

Sokka leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

This was going to be a problem, wasn’t it.

/

It became a habit over the next few days. Zuko taking care of his bandages, using his hands to reduce his pain, just being there for him. And every time he touched him, it almost sent Sokka into cardiac arrest.

It was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

For the sake of his injury, of course.

Today was no different. They were outside, sitting near the turtle duck pond. Sokka’s mobility had improved enough to where he could use the crutches without much pain. He was starting to get a little stir crazy staying inside, and needed some fresh air, and thought the pond would be a good idea.

Unfortunately, in the grass, Zuko was even closer than normal. He was sitting by his side, his shoulder brushing against Sokka’s, and Sokka was finding it hard to concentrate on anything other than the faint smell of cinders in Zuko’s hair.

“Okay,” Zuko said, and with a flick of his wrist, he stopped the fire. “Is that better?”

He turned to him, and he was close.

Sokka’s face flushed, and he blinked back at him.

“Sokka,” he said. “Is that enough?”

Sokka nodded, snapping back to reality. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it’s totally great.”

Zuko suddenly frowned, peering at him. “Were the flames really that hot?” he said. “Your face is all red and botchy.”

Sokka’s cheeks flooded, redness no doubt spreading. He was praying Zuko wouldn’t notice the blushing. It wasn’t his fault. Zuko had spent the last half hour touching him, leaning against him. How was he supposed to react?  

“I…It’s nothing.”

“Maybe I should stay,” Zuko said. “Make sure you don’t faint.”

“No,” he said. “I just…my room was cold last night. Maybe I’m just a little under the weather.”

Zuko hummed, unconvinced, and reached forward, feeling Sokka’s forehead with the back of his hand.

He was close.

Sokka’s face burned, eyes wide. “Does that…work?” he said in a frail voice. “You being a…fire bender and all.”

“I can still feel,” Zuko said. “Fire benders run hot. We don’t only feel warm things.”

“Yeah,” Sokka said. “You’re definitely hot.”

Zuko raised an eyebrow.

The blood drained from Sokka’s face. “That’s not…”

Shit. Fuck. Why is he looking at me like that?

“I should go.” He shoved up on his bad knee, scrambling to get up. Pain overwhelmed him, and he pushed through it.

“What? Sokka—”

Sokka stepped back on wobbly legs, and pain instantly shot through him. He staggered, suddenly feeling like his brain was spinning inside his skull, as his entire leg screamed in pain, and gave out.

“Sokka!”

Zuko caught him in time, his hands on his shoulders to steady him.

“Are you okay?”

“Mhm,” Sokka said, clutching Zuko’s forearms tightly. He was half bent, his head hung as the world stopped spinning and the pain receded slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. You can just go.”

“Go?” Zuko echoed. “You can barely stand. What is with you?” he said. “You’ve been acting weird all week. The past few days you’ve barely looked me in the eye, and every time I want to do stay and talk, you say no. I thought I was helping, but maybe I should just quit. If it’s not doing good, you should just tell me.”

“N-no,” Sokka said. He wanted to flee, but his crutches were still laying in the grass, and he was pretty sure if Zuko let go of him he would lose his balance and fall flat on his face. Not to mention the blaring pain everywhere. “It helps. It does.”

“Then what is it?” Zuko said.

Sokka didn’t answer. How could he say it? That he loved him, and it was impossible to be near him without wanting to blurt out that friendship-ruining fact?

Zuko glanced away, fringe hiding his face. He let go of him, and Sokka almost collapsed, but managed to hobble on one foot.

“Is this because you got injured because of me?”

Sokka’s blood froze, splintering inside him. What?

Zuko’s flames flickered in his hand. “I knew it.”

“No,” he whispered out. “Of course not. No. Zuko, I don’t regret that. It’s not your fault people tried to assassinate you!”

Zuko shook his head. “I knew this was a mistake. I didn’t want you to get hurt for me. You shouldn’t have done that. You should have just left—”

“I wasn’t going to leave you!” Sokka shouted. His foot was barely on the ground, just enough to steady him, but the pain in his knee was nothing compared to the panic stirring in his chest. “I’m glad I was there. I made a choice. And I would make it again, even if it meant I wasn’t standing here right now at all.”

Zuko’s head jerked back, shock rolling across his expression.

“I-is that why you’ve been helping me?” Sokka’s voice broke. “You just feel guilty?”

“Of course not,” Zuko snapped. He stepped forward angrily, the flames singing the grass under his feet. “I did it because I care about you, and I don’t like seeing you in pain. How could you think that?”

“How could you think I should leave you?”

“Because I would rather something happen to me than you, and you just said you were willing to die for me!”

They both glared at each other. Smoke curled from under Zuko’s hands, and Sokka felt like he was going to topple over.  

“Can I have my crutches?” he said, unable to think about anything clearly other than he was about to wipe out. “I’m going to fall.”

Zuko blinked, and bent to pick them up, hurrying so quickly he thrust them against Sokka’s chest enough to almost push him over.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” he said softly. “I’m not so injured I can’t still beat the crap out of you. I told you this wasn’t your fault, and I meant it.”

Sokka wasn’t sure if he saw glassy tears in Zuko’s eyes, or if he was imagining it. The wind pushed his hair in his face, and for a long moment, Zuko didn’t move.

“So it sounds like we’re even,” Sokka said slowly. “We both don’t want to see the other hurt. So can we just…move on from this already?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “Come on, I’ll help you back.”

They walked slowly, Zuko's guiding hand on his back to make sure he didn’t slip.

“If I say this isn’t necessary, is that going to stop you?” Sokka said. He was trying to inject some sense of normalcy into this conversation.

“Not in the slightest,” Zuko said roughly. “...Have you been doing the exercises?”

“Yes,” he said. “Mostly. I mean…”

Zuko glared at him, fire blazing in his eyes, and Sokka held back a laugh, amusement in his eyes.

“It’s really hard to find you threatening when you’re telling me to take care of myself.”

Zuko grumbled under his breath. “Just shut up and do them.”

They stopped at his door, and Zuko let go.

“Can you make it to your bed alright?”

“Yeah,” Sokka said.

Zuko moved to leave.

“Wait!"

Zuko looked back at him, cocking his head.

“To be honest,” Sokka said slowly. “I didn’t even get it a second thought. I haven’t thought about it all week. I mean, you’ve risked your life for me countless times. We’ve been through way worse situations together, and the only reason I got injured at all was because my knee is prone to getting hurt. So I haven’t been thinking about it. And I didn’t mean to be distant. It’s just…the only thing I’ve been thinking about all week is…”

Zuko was staring at him expectantly, and Sokka felt the blush creep up on his cheeks again.

“Uh…”

Shit, he was losing his nerve. He just had to say it. Blurt it out. If Zuko rejected him, he could say he got brain damage from the fight. He just had to say it.

“What?” Zuko said.

“I’ve just been thinking about…you.” He swallowed. “And how…close you are to me.”

Zuko’s brow furrowed. “Oh,” he said. He took a clear step back, withdrawing completely. The spot where he was touching his back felt cold as he let go. “Okay—”

“No, it’s not a bad thing,” he said quickly. “It’s good. I like it. When you’re close to me.” He stared helplessly, Zuko’s blank face staring back at him. “You’re…hot,” he blurted out.

“If you’re cold, I can have the attendants bring more blankets—”

“No! You’re not…warm, you’re just.” His eyes flicked back and forth, but Zuko wasn't helping this torture at all. “I like spending time with you.”

“You’ve been distant because you…like spending time with me?”

“Yes?”

Zuko squinted. “Okay. I’m going to let you…get some rest.” He turned, and started to walk down the hallway.

“I love you!”

Zuko stopped in his tracks, his back toward Sokka.

Sokka stiffened.

“I…” 

“What did you just say?” Zuko said, still facing away from him.

“IthinkIhaveaconcussion.”

“…No,” Zuko said, turning slowly. “You just said you loved me.”

Sokka gulped. He’d gotten pretty good at reading Zuko’s features. He knew his pouty glare from his annoyed one. He knew when Zuko was truly angry, and when he was just low on sleep, and when you should run the hell away. But now, Zuko’s expression was unreadable.

“Is that…one of your jokes?”

Sokka’s shoulders dropped against the crutches. He let out a long breath. “No. It’s not.”

“You…love me?”

Sokka’s skin pricked, and he was starting to feel faint. Why couldn’t he ever just keep his mouth shut? He should have just held his damn tongue—

“I love you, too.”

“W-what?”

“I love you, Sokka.”

“You love me,” he repeated. The grin spread across his face. “You love me back?”

“Yes,” Zuko said. “I do.”

“You love me. You love me—”

He repeated it until Zuko closed the gap between them, hugging him in a warm embrace, and almost knocked them both down.

Sokka laughed, almost tripping up on the crutches.

“I can’t hold you back like this—”

But Zuko just smiled, hugging him tighter, then kissed him.

Sokka let go of the crutches, and pulled him closer.

He was sure if he fell, Zuko would catch him.

----

@zukkaweek

this was my first time writing something a tiny bit longer. I hope people enjoy!

[marshmellin]

Star and Stone Ch. 7 | Where the Shadows Are 🔥

Silence did not seem to be what he sought. His voice was low. Eager. Hungry. “Would you—”

“If you start talking to me instead of touching me, I will muster whatever strength the Valar have left me with and scream.”

He blinked in momentary surprise, the second-guesses seeming to die on his tongue. But his eyes narrowed as he hiked one of her legs to his side, her skirt falling into a pool against her waist.

Rating: Explicit for smutty smut; canon-typical angst.

Notes: Gil-galad lives. Fluff and happy ending. Sort of a slow burn, but we'll get there. Gil-galad deserves a little smooch. He's going to get a lot more than a smooch. Repeat: Happily Ever After; everything is beautiful and nothing hurts. No beta, we die like Mirdania.

Easiest to read and follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60597052

Like this work? Check out the 🔥 practice smut 🔥 for upcoming chapters with Gil-ga-daddy here: "Simple Release."

Explicit content under the cut. We made it, team!

Ch. 1 of 12: Between the Mountains and the Sea

Ch. 2: Mirrored

Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

Ch. 6: Preparations

Ch. 7: Where the Shadows Are 🔥

NEW>> Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

Easiest to read and follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60597052

//

The glow of the hearth was subdued, the flicker of firelight barely reaching the tall shelves and scrolls that lined the walls of Gil-galad’s study. Elaniel stepped inside, her footsteps muffled by the thick rug beneath her boots. Gil-galad looked up from his desk, his expression softening as his gaze met hers.

“Elaniel, you did not need to visit so late,” he said, rising. His voice carried a weariness that he could not hide. He was still in his formal robes, draped in layers of gold brocade, crown still pinned into place but slightly askew. 

Eyes flicking over him quickly, she noticed several things at once: 

He’s still wearing full robes, so he has been in council with ambassadors all day. And likely has not ceased working since morning. That is a tall stack of paperwork. If war is so messy, why is there so much documentation? I doubt he’s had water, much less eaten. He’s broken, mmm, looks like two quills. How long has that crown been digging into his head? It is smaller than what he used to wear, yes, but it still must hurt. 

Valar, he is tired. 

Elaniel voiced none of these thoughts and instead simply said, “You sent a note for me. I assumed it was important.” Moving toward him, she unpinned her cloak and placed it over the chair that had become hers in front of the fireplace. 

“It is important,” he admitted. “But it is not urgent. I didn’t mean to take your time tonight. I’ve heard you’ve been on worksite inspections all day.” He was clasping his hands in front of him, the fingers of one hand flexing tightly around his other hand. A tell of his, she had learned. Something he only did when he was anxious or uncertain. 

“And you’ve been here,” she countered gently. “Shall we both agree to share the blame for overworking?” 

Gil-galad crossed the room to join her, wrapping his arms gently around her in welcome. She popped up on her toes to kiss him hello, before walking toward the sideboard to pour two glasses of water. 

Handing one to Gil-galad to drink, she surveyed the room. 

“How has your week been,” she asked cautiously, taking in the scattered scrolls and books on every surface and chair. 

Her drafting table seemed to be the only surface he had left untouched, which warmed her heart but did nothing to stop the alarm bells ringing in her mind. Typically, the clutter in their shared space was not his but hers; he was not a messy person by nature. 

The study looked like a windstorm had passed through. 

An almost embarrassed chuckle escaped him as he allowed his shoulders to slump. “It has been…difficult.”

“Ah, is your crown part of the important-but-not-urgent conversation you’d like to have?” she asked innocently, reaching out to brush a strand of hair over his ear. “Or can we proceed this evening without it? I find you are tall enough without the enchantment...”

Gil-galad’s brow furrowed and he looked up as though he could see the crown through his forehead. “I didn’t realize I was still wearing it,” he murmured. 

“Mmm,” she hummed in reply, moving his shoulders to spin him around. He obeyed and tilted his head back so she could remove the crown and the two golden pins that held it in place. Setting it carefully on the desk, she reached up again to rake her fingers through his hair, nails gently scraping his scalp as she worked through a few small tangles. He sighed in gratitude before turning to face her again. 

“Thank you,” he said with a smile — a spark of light through the weariness he showed. 

“Of course,” she smiled in return. “I doubt it’s the most comfortable thing to wear.” He shook his head gently, looking over his shoulder toward the desk where the crown now sat. And his paperwork. He started to open his mouth, but she had learned his timing by now. 

“The robe and cloak combination has to be heavy, too, certainly,” she prompted, tapping her nails against the intricate chest piece he wore. “How does this work? I can secure anything you’d like to stone or iron but this is witchcraft to me.”

Gil-galad’s focus shifted back and he paused from the change in topic. “Oh,” he murmured, lifting up a heavy clasp over his shoulder to show her. “It fastens here—“

“Ah!” She said in delight as she mimicked the motion over his other shoulder. The neck piece and cape fell to the floor in a heap behind him. The thud they made indicated the weight was not insignificant.

A small laugh as Gil-galad looked down at the velvet puddled at his feet. “It is more comfortable without it.” 

Murmuring in agreement, Elaniel moved closer. “What about this?” she asked innocently, fingers skimming the edge of an elaborate wrapped belt around his waist. “I am uncomfortable just looking at it. This is why your posture is so straight, you could not bend if you wished.” 

Can he even take this off without help?

Gil-galad raised an eyebrow as his hands settled around her hips, but he did nothing to stop her. She dug at the wrap around his waist. His face showed nothing of his thoughts, but something familiar glinted in his warm brown eyes. “One might think you are attempting to undress me, Elaniel.” 

“One might be right,” she replied with a laugh and another playful tug at the intricately wrapped belt, pulling him so close their bodies aligned. “But not for the reason you hope. This is a ridiculous amount of clothing to drag around at moonrise. Ready yourself for sleep. Go,” Elaniel pushed again at his chest, moving him toward the door to his chambers. 

He sighed and stood still, rendering her efforts to push him useless. 

It’s like shoving a wall. I am not weak. Why is he so solid? 

She didn’t stop trying, though, kneading her hands against him and muttering “go, go,” over and over. Rich laughter echoed through the room, and Gil-galad’s face finally blossomed with the joy she had worked so hard for. 

“I have many more responsibilities to see to tonight before I prepare for sleep. Sit with me for a moment, instead?” he offered as a compromise. Gil-galad moved toward a low couch across from the hearth, gesturing for her to join him. 

She pretended to consider, waving her hand at him. “Belt…wrap…painful thing off.” 

A heavy sigh. “Belt off,” he agreed, deftly — and she could not for the life of her see how he did it so quickly — unwrapping the intricate belt to let it fall to the floor. He now remained in a much lighter outfit; a simple embroidered robe. He gave a muted sigh of relief and she wondered if he realized how much his crown and robes weighed him down.

They sat in silence, his arm wrapped around her shoulders as the crackle of the fire filled the room. 

“I’ve thought about your recommendations for the latest worksite placement,” Gil-galad murmured after a long pause, his voice still laced with exhaustion.

Elaniel reached out, her hand resting on his leg. “There is nothing you could suggest tonight that I can change by morning. The work will wait.” She gave his knee a reassuring squeeze. “Also, I do not allow meddlers to comment on my worksites.”

He leaned back against the cushions, fatigue etched into his features despite the smile on his face. “I am a meddler, now? Quite the downgrade.”

“Either take up your apprentice seat on the stonemasons council or stay off my worksites. If you can’t shape stone, wood or iron, you’re a meddler,” she ended, her tone light.  

Shifting slowly, he laid his head in her lap with a sigh, his long legs dangling off the other end of the sofa in an undignified — but endearing — way. Eyes slipping closed, he breathed out a laugh. “I could fare decently as a mason, given the education you’ve provided. Then again, I have heard the pay is terrible.”

Playing with the collar of his robe, she let her fingers graze his jaw. “Ah, but fear not! For I would not hire you. You don’t really have a craftsman’s build…”

Gil-galad opened one eye to peer up from her lap, a frown on his face. 

Her voice turned to honey, a tone she only used for him. “You have the build of a warrior-king, morconinya. Much different, of course,” she smiled. “Masonry would be a complete waste of your strength. And your wardrobe.”

He gave an exaggerated nod, satisfied with her answer. 

Elaniel threaded her fingers through his hair. The silky strands caught the firelight. “You should rest,” she said eventually, her voice barely a whisper.

“I am resting,” he murmured, his eyes still closed. He rolled his shoulders, settling against her. “You are far more comfortable than my chair.”

She laid a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through her fingers, watching the rise and fall of his breathing. Slowly, she stopped running her fingers through his hair, instead contenting herself with smoothing a few dark strands across her lap, mindful not to jostle him. He shifted slightly, his head falling towards her as sleep claimed him. 

As she sat there, watching over him, she knew this was what she wanted for the rest of her long life — this quiet companionship, this space to be vulnerable. To lay down their burdens. The world outside might become darker, but here, in this room, none of it mattered. She would do everything she could to protect this future, for both of them. 

She would sit up all night, watching over him, if it meant he could rest for one moment longer. 

//

The council chamber hummed with anticipation as Elaniel took her seat at the large stone table, its surface strewn with maps and sketches. The air carried the familiar tang of ink and parchment, mingling with the crispness of Lindon’s sea breeze filtering through high windows. At the head of the table sat Gil-galad, his gaze steady.

Elrond sat to his right, his composed demeanor tinged with curiosity. Halion and Arminas were already discussing…well, who knows what, but there was a lot of gesturing involved. Ristarion leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed, radiating barely concealed disapproval.

Gil-galad’s voice broke the murmur of conversation. “We are here to determine the leadership and allocation of resources for the White Towers at Emyn Beraid and Amon Sûl’s fortifications. Both locations, each housing a palantír, will serve as guardians of communication across Middle-earth and a symbol of unity between Elves and Men.”

Elaniel studied the intricate map before her, noting the placement of the towers along the Gulf of Lhûn. Her focus sharpened as she imagined the soaring spires overlooking the sea. Beautiful. Majestic. 

Elrond nodded thoughtfully. “Amon Sûl is strategically vital. But its current structure is vulnerable. It was built centuries ago for signaling, not to withstand a siege.”

“Elendil suggests repurposing it entirely,” Gil-galad continued. “Reinforced walls, stone foundations, a keep at its heart. He even proposes diverting masons from Annúminas.”

Elaniel tilted her head, her expression contemplative. “The stones of Amon Sûl are sturdy but uneven. If we begin reinforcing without understanding their weaknesses, the weight of additional structures could cause fractures.”

Gil-galad glanced at her, his curiosity piqued. “You’ve studied its foundation?”

She nodded. “When I first arrived in Lindon to determine fortification sites. Amon Sûl’s base is old—crafted by those who prioritized speed over longevity. It has weathered.”

“We just carved Imladris from bare rock,” Halion added thoughtfully. “We can build Amon Sûl. Clear lines of sight, an opportunity to show strength. The fortifications are the kind of work my team is best equipped for. Master Elaniel, do you object?”

Elaniel nodded in agreement. “I agree. My team is more accustomed to watchtower construction than open fortification. With your leave, Master Halion, my teams will develop plans for the White Towers.”

“Aye,” Halion nodded and they both turned to Gil-galad, who inclined his head in approval. Halion continued, “we could map for structural weaknesses and propose solutions for Amon Sûl within the week. It would delay our start, but we will save resources.”

Gil-galad’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Elendil will not like delays, but he is pragmatic. We will begin immediately.”

As the meeting wore on, Elrond brought up logistical concerns. “If we divert masons from Annúminas, what is to become of their fortification projects?”

Gil-galad nodded, his fingers tracing the map. “We cannot strip one city to bolster another. I will write to Elendil to suggest using local labor where possible. Arnor has skilled workers, even if they lack the training of our craftsmen.”

Elaniel leaned forward. “With respect, local workers could learn from Lindon’s masons. It could strengthen ties between Arnor and Lindon.”

Elrond glanced at her and nodded quickly. “An exchange of skills and culture is also a gesture of trust.”

Gil-galad considered this, his expression thoughtful. “Elendil often speaks of fostering bonds between his people and ours, to correct the rift between us. Master Halion, your thoughts?”

Halion held back a sigh – he does not like visitors on his worksites, either – but nodded. “It would be valuable to train them, for us both.”

Ristarion leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “A moment, please,“ he called out, his tone sharp. 

The room fell silent, save for the faint creak of Halion shifting his stance. Elaniel fought the urge to roll her eyes. 

Yes, heconna? We are all eager to hear your uninformed opinion on the matter. 

Ristarion leaned forward, his voice gaining a pointed edge. “So I am sure I understand: we are discussing how to best divide our precious resources to create two new fortifications — Emyn Beriad and Amon Sûl — to help this…Man and his sons house their palantirí?” 

Has he been asleep or….

“Yes,” Gil-galad replied evenly.

“And these seven palantirí, powerful artifacts vital to communication during this time of war, are all to remain entrusted to Men?”

Gil-galad stared at Ristarion. “The seeing-stones belong to these Men. They are not ours to distribute.”

“The seeing-stones were made by the Eldar. These Men use our wisdom to protect their people when no Sindar are afforded such trust. Or power.” His eyes flicked to Elaniel. “Well. Most Sindar are not given such power. Some have sway.”

She could hear the voices of all her foremothers, back to Enelyë herself, telling her to punch the man in the face. 

Elves may be immortal, but their noses broke just as easily as Men’s.

Gil-galad pulled Ristarion’s focus back. “If you have a concern to share, I would ask that you speak plainly, Lord Ristarion.”

Ristarion spread his hands in mock surrender. “I only raise concerns that others share but lack the courage to voice. Surely, transparency is what we all value, High King?”

“We do,” Gil-galad said gently. Dangerously so. “Please, share what you have heard. I would have no secrets between any of us tasked with the safety of our people.” 

“I dare not, High King,” Ristation continued in an innocent tone, as though being asked to break an Oath. “Many speak to me, and I am known for highlighting their concerns with discretion. I bring these concerns to this council – to you, High King – as I have done in the past, because there are those around this table with the same questions who fear to name them.”

“And those questions are?” Gil-galad prompted again, like an elder speaking to a particularly unruly child. 

“We seem to be giving much to Men — our craftsmanship, our resources, our wisdom, our power — to help them flourish. What do they offer in return?”

Elrond tried to interject. Elaniel almost smiled at the effort. The younger elf had truly tried. 

Valar, bless him. 

“Bodies,” Gil-galad replied loudly, throwing down the scroll in his hands, all restraint gone, his volume rising with each sentence. “They offer us bodies, Ristarion. If every elf in every realm in Middle Earth picked up a sword tomorrow, we would yet fall far short of the numbers needed to defeat Sauron. The Men offer us soldiers to wield swords against orcs. They offer to risk their brief lives to stand with us, despite not knowing their fates after death. For that offered sacrifice alone, I will build as many towers and fortifications as they ask of me.” 

Gil-galad’s sharp gaze flicked over the council and he took a steadying breath. Elaniel could see a muscle working in his jaw, open anger on his face. The most expressive she had ever seen him in public. And he was known for being very expressive in public. 

At least, when it comes to frustration. 

“My decision is final and I will not repeat it. Council dismissed. Ristarion, you will stay to discuss this matter with me.”

Noldor anger, indeed. Are you sure you’re a descendent of Finarfin and not Fëanor, morconinya?

Elaniel stood, gathering her papers. As she moved toward the door, Ristarion stepped into her path, his smirk firmly in place. She met his gaze evenly and spoke quietly, for his ears alone, in accented Sindarin. 

I bear ill news, ‘friend.’ He will win. 

Ristarion’s expression darkened, but she didn’t wait for a response. The hallway beyond the chamber was filled with light, and as she walked into it, she felt her resolve burn brighter.

And then she felt Elrond yank her by the arm through the doorway to Gil-galad’s study.

//

Elrond shut the study door behind them with deliberate care, turning to face Elaniel with a measured expression.

Elaniel stood near the desk, her hand idly brushing against the edge as she gathered her thoughts. “He’s trying to make me a weapon against him,” she began, her voice low but firm. “Ristarion wants to use me to weaken Gil-galad's authority. To sow doubt—not just about me, but about his leadership.”

Elrond crossed the room, leaning casually against a shelf but watching her intently. “You are correct. Ristarion is not merely targeting you; he has now moved to dividing fragile relationships between the Sindarin and Noldor realms. if he can frame his arguments in a way that appears to question your suitability, particularly as a Sindarin woman, he believes it will resonate with those who are uncertain. And by provoking him…”

Elaniel exhaled sharply, her fingers curling against the polished wood. “And by provoking him, I risk proving him right.”

Which is why he wrangled me in here.

She turned back to Elrond, a flicker of resolve returning to her eyes. “But we must find ways to shield Gil-galad from Ristarion’s attacks, certainly? He cannot spend all his energy countering political intrigue when there are greater battles to fight.”

Elrond’s expression grew thoughtful, his fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the shelf. “Perhaps we can divert Ristarion’s attention. Give him something else to focus on, something that feels like a victory to him but ultimately serves our purposes.”

Before Elaniel could respond, the door to the study opened, and Gil-galad entered. He carried a scroll in one hand, which he smacked down on the table with a decisive gesture. 

“Well,” he said, his tone dry, “Predictably, that conversation was unnecessarily difficult and accomplished nothing.”  

Elaniel rose from her chair, her eyes narrowing slightly. “What did he say?”  

“He insists that Oropher and Amdir demand a palantír each to formally join the alliance and promise their warriors,” Gil-galad said, dropping into a chair with a sigh. “He paints it as a non-negotiable point.”

“A palantír!” Elaniel and Elrond exclaimed in near-unison, both shocked at the request.

Gil-galad nodded in quiet agreement, holding up his fingers. ���Two.”

“It is odd that such a significant demand would come solely through Ristarion.” Elrond leaned forward, his tone thoughtful but unconvinced. “If the demand is genuine — and the probability is high it is not — Ristarion’s interference might be undermining direct communication.”

“I am surprised to hear Sindar lords are interested in any object made by Fëanor, to be blunt.” Elaniel folded her arms, staring into the flames. “Seven stones,” she murmured. “And none for any elven realms? It’s not difficult to see why that would breed resentment.”

Gil-galad turned thoughtful. “On its face, I agree. But we do not own the stones to sway how they are used. While Elendil’s stewardship of seven is…surprising, to share them with any other realms would be his choice alone. I suspect he will not agree lightly.”   

“And seeing-stones can be dangerous,” Elrond admitted, his tone grave. “They reveal truths and can be used for communication, yes. But they also show half-truths, shadows. A mind untrained can be misled—or worse, fully manipulated by a powerful mind using a paired stone. It is not something every lord with a realm should have access to.”  

Elaniel’s thoughts churned. “And yet you trust Elendil with this power?”  

“Implicitly,” Gil-galad said without hesitation. “Elendil is wise and unambitious. He seeks no dominion, only unity and safety for his people.”  

The room fell silent for a moment, the crackle of the fire the only sound. Elaniel spoke carefully, her gaze steady on Gil-galad. “What if you were to meet Oropher head on? Travel to Greenwood and speak with him face-to-face.”

Elrond shifted in his seat, his brow furrowing. “Direct confrontation might backfire. Oropher is known for his pride. An uninvited visit could be seen as an affront, as though we doubt their intentions and wish to watch them.”  

Elaniel felt a surge of conviction. “The stakes are too high for miscommunication or formal dinners or emissaries. If Oropher and Amdír truly demand palantirí to join the alliance, you deserve to hear it from them directly, king to king. And if they do not, they should be told their names were used to demand them, king to king.”  

Elrond looked between them, giving a small shrug. “It is a calculated risk. If nothing else, it would demonstrate your commitment to hearing their concerns.”  

Gil-galad met her gaze, a flicker of approval in his eyes. “Indeed. I will make plans to go to Greenwood and speak with Oropher directly.”

//

Elaniel shielded her eyes from the setting sun as she gazed up at the towering structure. The stones gleamed, freshly cut and fit together with the precision her teams had worked hard to master.

“They are well on their way,” Alenya said, her voice laced with admiration. She stood beside Elaniel, her posture relaxed but her sharp gaze flicking to every corner of the tower and its surroundings. “The walls look strong enough to withstand a ravisher. Though I wouldn’t bet on those gates around the village yet.”

Elaniel followed her gaze and frowned. The wooden gates hung slightly off-center, the metal hinges not yet properly secured. “We’ll need to reinforce those hinges,” she murmured. “I can speak with the blacksmith before we head back to Lindon.”

Alenya smirked, leaning on her spear. “You’ll have to hurry. I hear the blacksmith is the kind to vanish into the pub after midday and refuse to come out.”

Elaniel laughed. “Understood.” She turned back to the village, watching as children darted between cottages and smoke curled lazily from chimneys. The scene was peaceful. 

As new construction sites were built — far away from the walls of Lindon and Imladris — it made sense to plan villages nearby for the workers and their families. These villages often merged with the fortifications once they were finalized, becoming centers of trade on oft-traveled routes with stationed soldiers for protection. 

“I think it’s beautiful here,” Elaniel said with a sigh. The sight made her miss worksites from long ago, friends made during a few weeks of hard work building something sturdy. “Almost enough to tempt a woman to give up soldiering, eh?”

Before Alenya could reply, a faint sound reached their ears—a distant rumble. Both women turned toward the forest.

“Did you hear that?” Elaniel asked, her voice tight.

Alenya’s expression darkened. “Yes. And I don’t think it’s thunder.”

The rumble grew louder, accompanied by the faint sound of guttural cries. The villagers began to notice, their movements slowing as they turned toward the treeline.

“Elaniel, get back to the village,” Alenya ordered, her spear already in hand.

Elaniel’s heart leaped into her throat. She grabbed the hilt of her sword, her grip tightening as the first orc ran out of the tree line, weapon raised. By her count, eight - maybe ten - orcs. A raiding band. 

“I will not leave you,” Elaniel said firmly, unsheathing the short sword she carried.

“I did not. ask.” Alenya’s tone was sharp, but there was no time for argument. “Get the villagers inside!”

Elaniel turned to the nearest group of villagers, herding them toward the gates. “To the walls! Go, now!” she called, her voice cutting through the rising panic. They obeyed, scrambling toward the gates as Alenya held her ground. 

A few scattered orcs came closer toward them, their cries echoing through the air.

Elaniel’s sword clashed against the first orc’s blade, the force of the blow reverberating up her arm. She grit her teeth and pushed back, trying desperately to remember the techniques she had practiced but never had to use in earnest. The creature’s twisted sword sliced her left bicep and she winced in pain. Blood flooded through her sleeve, drenching her in a warmth that cooled quickly in the twilight air. She could taste a metallic tang in her mouth as she managed to bring her sword around to strike the orc, sending him stumbling back. 

Alenya fought beside her, her movements swift and precise. Her spear darted like a snake, finding gaps in the orcs’ armor. “Keep moving back!” she shouted.

Elaniel barely had time to process the chaos around her — the blood dripping down her fingers to leave splatters on the stone, the screaming as people headed for the gates, the grunts as orcs began slaughtering livestock — when a scream pierced the air. She turned to see a child hiding underneath a heavy cart near one of the cottages.

Her heart clenched. Without thinking, she broke away.

The cart was heavy, its edges splintered, and it was clear it had rested with its load for many weeks through rain. The child, still a youngling, was sobbing, his hands clutching at the dirt. He was begging for his ada.

“It’s okay,” Elaniel said, kneeling beside him. “I’ll get you out.” 

She tried reaching for him first, encouraging him to come toward her, but the fear in his eyes told her she would lose that fight. She wedged her shoulder beneath the edge of the cart, straining against its weight. Pain shot through her as she pushed, but the cart barely budged.

“Elaniel, go!” Alenya shouted, her tone desperate.

“I can’t leave him!” Elaniel yelled back, her voice breaking.

The cart shifted slightly, but not enough. The child’s cries grew louder as the clash of metal drew nearer. A shadow loomed over her, and Elaniel looked up to see an orc raising its blade. Her heart stopped, eyes flicking to the hilt of the sword she dropped. 

She would never reach it in time. 

The orc’s blade never fell.

Alenya’s spear struck true, and the creature collapsed with a guttural cry, falling forward next to her. Alenya stumbled near, her breathing ragged as she grabbed the haft of her spear to pull it from the orc’s back. “Get the boy,” she said, her voice tight with pain. Blood dripped from a slash on her cheek, and her left arm hung at an odd angle. “Go,” she said, her voice softer now. “Please. I’ll hold them off.”

It felt like time slowed. For an eternity, all Elaniel could see was the determination on every line of Alenya’s face. 

They did not speak, but both understood.

Elaniel braced herself against the cart again, making it move back just enough for her to reach the terrified child. She cradled him against her chest, her arm screaming in protest. “It’s okay,” she whispered as she ran toward the village gates, willing herself not to look back. The gates were closing, but she slipped inside just in time. 

She turned to see Alenya retreating, her movements slower now but still determined. Two large orcs pressed closer, but her spear had a long reach.  A volley of arrows from the village guards rained down, driving them back and felling at least one. Alenya stumbled through the gates, and they slammed shut behind her.

Elaniel ran to her in time to see Alenya give her a weak smile. “Told you,” she said, breathing raggedly. “Told you I’d hold them off.”

“I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t,” Alenya interrupted, her voice hardened. “You did what you had to do. So did I. That is the way of things for us, ohtarwen.” She reached out, grabbing Elaniel’s uninjured forearm in a tight grip – a warrior’s grip.

Elaniel nodded, tears pricking at her eyes, her throat growing tight. 

And tighter. 

And tighter. 

And as she fell to the dirt, all she could think was: 

Am I fainting?

Fuck. 

//

Gil-galad paused in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the light from the hall. “You’re supposed to be resting,” he said, his voice low but warm as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The room was dimly lit, a small lantern on the table next to her.

“I am resting,” Elaniel replied softly. “Mostly. Why are you here?” 

His gaze softened as he crossed the room, pulling a stool close to the bed. “Because you are next door to my rooms and I heard you stir. The healers brought you to the palace from the village,” he said, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “You were unconscious.”

“Ah, so my wound is that dire, hm? Not the most unfortunate place to die, really,” she laughed, glancing exaggeratedly around the room.  

He did not laugh in return. If anything, his frown deepened. 

Not in the mood for humor, it would seem. 

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “A scratch, truly.” Elaniel lifted her arm to show him the bandage, her wound already nearly healed. Elves were hardy beings. 

Gil-galad arched a brow, his face leaving no room for argument. “I spoke with the healers. The term they prefer to use is gash. Acquired at the same time as your dislocated shoulder. They said you were quite fortunate the blade did not strike an artery. Particularly because the blade was poisoned.” 

“Yet now I am —“

“Again, to your great fortune, a healer nearby was aware of the signs and provided you and Alenya care until you could be brought here.” His voice rose, frustration blossoming across his face. He seemed to have barely – barely – restrained himself from raising his finger or his voice at her. She saw his hands twitch and he clasped them in his lap, one clenching the other. 

Ah. 

He is afraid. 

“I am tempted to shutter the entire project and bring the workers and their families back to Lindon immediately. Clearly there are too many hazards in the area and no gift for Men is worth the risk to my people.” The anger drained from his voice quickly, leaving weariness in its place. “Or you.”

She wanted to tease him, to tell him that his phrasing made it sound as though she was not one of his people. Or to take the tone of a master stonemason and explain why one orc encounter is not nearly enough of a threat to pause a project of this import. Or to offer some of the many ways the worksites could be made safer. 

But he was not speaking to her as a king. 

So instead, she sighed, her smile fading. “I am safe now. I did not mean to worry you.”

“I know you did not,” he replied. He took her hand in his, careful not to disturb her arm. “Unfortunately, your intent does not make much difference. I will worry regardless.”

For a long time, they sat in silence. She could feel the anger fade from him. The concern was there, still; she could feel it in his hands after he unclenched his own to hold hers. But the intensity of his feelings shifted from bright flames to warm embers. He calmed as he brushed his thumb over her knuckles. 

Elaniel found herself leaning up to meet him, their faces close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin. She raised her hand to his cheek, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“I am likely to do it again,” she warned, mischief in her eyes. 

A flicker of frustration crossed his face, but he softened almost immediately, his hand coming up to cover hers, pressing it gently to his cheek. “I am high king, despite how infrequently you remember,” he murmured. A hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “I could command it.”

She smiled in return. “I’m likely to ignore your command, as well.” A pause before her voice turned teasing. “And on either account, you are the high king of the Noldor, where as I, a Sindar woman, may not recognize your claim–”

He laughed loudly, his mood lifted. “We will argue later, and I will win. Until then – ”

A knock at the door interrupted them, and a healer stepped in to check Elaniel’s bandages. Gil-galad stood and moved aside respectfully, his hands clasped as he watched the healer work.

After a few moments, a few “yes or no” inquiries, the header stepped back. She seemed satisfied. “Your wounds are well on their way to healing. I foresee no problems, and I intend to release you tomorrow morning. However,” she added, giving Gil-galad a pointed look, “you need to keep your weight off your arm and rest.”

Elaniel murmured her thanks as the healer left, stifling a laugh. Once they were alone again, Gil-galad closed the door and flipped the lock — she noticed that specifically and raised an eyebrow. He crossed the room and sat back down, regarding Elaniel with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“You heard the healer,” he said. “One more night of rest.”

“I am not tired and I feel well enough,” she protested, worried the weariness in her voice would betray her. 

Stay. 

Gil-galad smiled and shook his head. Without a word, he kicked off his boots and removed his cloak. He slid onto the bed beside her, careful not to jostle her.

He settled against the pillows and gently pulled her toward his chest. Elaniel relaxed against him, her head resting just beneath his chin. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat calmed her. 

“This is hardly appropriate behavior,” she murmured as she shimmied into place against him, sighing contentedly. “Improper. Unethical. Disgraceful. Rumors everywhere in your court.” 

“I will risk the scandal,” he said lightly, his hand tracing soothing circles on her back. “I may as well live the life I’m accused of having. Sleep, Elaniel.”

“I’m not sure I can go back to sleep, now that you are here…” she trailed off, biting her lip in what she hoped was a subtle play at being coy.

Stay.

Stay stay stay with me. 

Gil-galad tilted his head down to look at her. She saw amusement play across his features. Mild annoyance that she was not going to simply listen to him and fall asleep as she should. And something else. 

She saw the moment she won. 

“I wonder…” Slowly, he leaned forward and pulled her into a deep kiss. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic as warmth spread low in her belly. A broad hand settled on the curve of her waist; his thumb lazily moved in circles over her hip. 

“Would you like help falling asleep?” he asked softly, something low and smoky in his voice. Heat lanced through her. She could smell the salt air on his skin. She wanted to taste him, to lick where his neck met his shoulder and work her way to his ear and back down his chest…

“Ereinion...” Her voice was pleading, but far off, as though she didn’t know what she was asking for. 

A lie. We both know exactly what I want.

Gil-galad kissed her again, his fingers skimming down the side of her body, drawing small sounds of pleasure from the back of her throat as she began to thrum for him. She had learned she was, well, noisy when they kissed, to her false shame and to his thorough delight. 

Moaning softly, she stretched into the growing warmth she felt between her legs, her hips rolling of their own accord as she flattened her body against his. She resisted the urge to hook her leg over his waist and pull him closer. But only just.

“Ereinion,” she murmured more insistently, moving against him more purposefully now. 

Slowly, Gil-galad walked his fingers against her thigh, inch by inch, pulling the hem of her dress toward her waist, fingertips brushing softly against her skin. His hand came to rest on her waist once again, her skirt hiked up, legs mostly exposed. His head tilted, eyes firmly fixed on hers as he waited patiently. 

For her approval, for her blessing, for her command…

The heat in her core grew. She stretched into him again, rolling against the hardness she could feel growing against her thigh. A silent invitation. 

Silence did not seem to be what he sought. 

His voice was low. Eager. Hungry. “Would you—”

“If you start talking to me instead of touching me, I will muster whatever strength the Valar have left me with and scream.” 

He blinked in momentary surprise, the second-guesses seeming to die on his tongue. But his eyes narrowed as he hiked one of her legs to his side, her skirt falling into a pool against her waist. She gasped at the sudden movement, at the vulnerability of being so exposed against him. At the friction against her core. 

“But what if my goal is to make you scream? Surely you would not let me win so easily.” Her cheeks flushed red and he laughed, soft and low. 

“Efficient,” he murmured at her lack of underwear, fingers trailing down the crease of her thigh. She broke out in goosebumps at the sensation, looking at him through half-lidded eyes. Lust thrummed through her.

Effortlessly, he rolled, placing her gently on her back under him, planting a well-muscled thigh between her legs. He hovered over her on his forearms, and she craned up to kiss him again. Long brown hair fell in curtains around their faces, blocking out the rest of the world.

Elaniel bucked, his thigh providing the pressure she desperately sought. She wasn’t fully in control of the motion and that fact clearly thrilled him. She started panting softly as her body found a rhythm against him. Her hands snaked down his stomach to palm the length of him as he rutted against her hand, kissing her frantically. She sat up, ignoring the twinge in her shoulder to wrap her arms around his neck, but he groaned and pulled back.

Her eyes fluttered open, confusion on her brow, as she dropped her hands. 

“You are supposed to be resting your arm, not leaning on it. And…” A faint blush rose to his cheeks, his voice so low she could barely hear him despite the keenness of elven ears. “I wish to learn which sensations you find pleasurable.”

Her eyes glinted. “If helpful, I know which sensations I will enjoy.”

All of them. Any of them. Pick. Just touch me. 

He gently guided her back down to the bed and began kissing her again. Down her neck, her collarbone, her sternum, earning more noises from her as he did so. 

“Mm, indeed,“ he nodded, pretending to look thoughtful, his brow furrowing as he kissed his way softly down her body, hands roving anywhere his lips did not. “You would know. Therefore, it would seem I need to learn. Hands-on experience. You’ve always been a patient and thorough instructor.” 

He tugged at the neckline of her dress, gently freeing her breasts as he murmured appreciatively, fingers trailing across her exposed skin. She broke out in goosebumps again at the sensation, whimpering for him as he took one of her nipples in his mouth. 

Still, despite the ache building between her legs — and the fact that she would beg for him, right now, in any way he asked her to — she managed to tease him. “If this is how you would like to spend your evening, I am happy to indulge you.” 

“Thank you for the learning opportunity,” he replied innocently, stilling for a moment above her. She flushed again, suddenly shy – and keenly aware she was bared to him while he was fully dressed. She gazed up at him, biting her lip, and tugged at the hem of his tunic. 

Too much clothing. Let me see you.

Seeming to understand, he straightened above her to undo his belt and tunic, ripping the tunic over his head in one smooth motion to drop it to the floor. His skin almost glowed in the firelight and she drank in the sight of him, broad shoulders, firm muscles, and gods, his arms. 

He stared at her with the same appreciation, hungry brown eyes seeming to memorize every line and curve of her. Finally, he leaned down and shifted her legs above his shoulders gently, a hand wrapping around her thigh to hold her in place. Kissing his way down her legs, his head dipped between her knees. He nuzzled deeper, opening her legs more until his nose was almost buried in her curls. Her body writhed slowly, straining to reach him, desperate for contact. 

She was already aching for him, wetness running down her leg. She whimpered again — a last resort. Cheating, and she knew it.

Gil-galad laughed and his hot breath fanned against her, causing another spike of desire. She almost glared at him for it. He paused to press more kisses into her skin, so close to her. So close…Elaniel swallowed, holding her breath, waiting to feel him, to feel anything. Every muscle was taut, straining for his touch. She thought she would shatter. 

This time, her whimper turned icy, frustrated, and she tilted her hips up to chase him. 

“Stubborn,” Gil-galad chided teasingly. His warm tongue suddenly found her, swirling softly against her clit. He brought her body closer, dragging her hips up and burying his face against her to lick her open. Giving her the friction she desperately craved. 

Elaniel inhaled sharply, her hand flying to his hair. She forced herself to hold back the wild feeling thrumming through her, to not grab him, ride against him, pull him up…

He hummed against her as her hips jutted again, her body begging for more, faster, harder. 

He lifted his head — she huffed at the loss of his tongue —  and brought up his hand, locking eyes with her. He put two of his fingers in his mouth, wetting them without looking away from her, the thumb of his other hand still swirling lazily around her clit. He paused, waiting again for her approval. 

Her eyes closed again and she murmured “yes, yes, yes,” like a melody. 

He glowed under her praise, his own eyes closing as he slid a broad finger into her— oh. so. slowly. Achingly slow. She had to stop herself from chasing his hand, to let him take his time. 

He added another finger, teasing her again slowly, his knuckles brushing against the inside of her thighs as he sank into her, She stifled a moan and clenched around his fingers, the aching growing deeper within her. 

Softly, he started murmuring praises as he maintained a steady rhythm into her, pressing kisses inside her thighs. His voice was hoarse with want as he told her how wet and warm she was, how beautiful she was, how much he loved her, how he thinks of her — only her — when he touches himself, how he always finished with her name on his lips, how she tasted like honey and he had known she would. 

Another white-hot flash bolted through her as he found some…hidden…spot…. inside her with his fingertips and firmly stroked it. She inhaled sharply, seeing white, clawing at the bedsheets. Her thighs almost snapped shut against his arm, and he used his free hand to gently tap her hip, asking her to spread legs apart again. 

As soon as she did for him, his head dipped, tongue twisting into her again, wet and hot and silky. His hand joined his tongue again and mercifully he kept a steady pace this time, fingers curling upward again as his mouth moved over her. Soft hair brushed against her legs, adding to the ocean of sensations she was drowning in.

She clawed at his forearms, his shoulders, clinging to him, holding him in place as she finally came, heat cresting over her. She sang for him without thought to how loud she was — shuddering as the hot, swollen ache inside her turned into silken relief around his fingers, coaxing her through each wave until she lay panting. Her muscles trembled from the strain and release, heart hammering in her chest. 

Her mind slowly floated back into her body, a tingle coursing through her, every nerve overstimulated and simmering and satisfied. 

Gil-galad reverently moved her legs to rest on the bed, arranging her limbs with a very self-satisfied grin plastered on his face. She felt him crawl up next to her, his weight shifting her slightly. He faced her and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to his chest, still mindful of her wrapped arm. He sighed as she sank against him. “And now, perhaps you will sleep.”

Even in her blissful, half-asleep state, she could not stop herself. “High King, I urgently request your counsel. I have been lied to.”

Gil-galad chuckled as he arranged the blankets around them both, ensuring she was covered and warm. “Your king is at your command. What manner of lie have you been told, my Lady?”

She nuzzled into his chest, her eyes drifting closed as she took in the scent of him, his heartbeat still thudding. “That was not the work of an unlearned elf,” she teased. “Far too good. Experienced,” she mumbled in an accusatory tone, gently poking a finger into his shoulder.

A small, light laugh. “No, not experienced. But…perhaps I learned from a book, mmm?” he whispered in a conspiratorial tone, drawing a sleepy laugh from her. 

“If that was the attempt of a novice, then I am most eager to help you master your craft…”

He shushed her gently. “Sleep. Tell me when you wake.”

As she drifted off, his hand lingering on hers, she felt a sense of peace wash over her. She knew he would stay by her side. 

They will face tomorrow together. 

//

Author’s Notes:

Regarding the laws and customs of the Eldar: How I am skirting it. 

A.K.A How Elves Get Down 

Many a writer out there *waves arms broadly* working with elves in Tolkien’s universe may feel the need to write them as a pretty straight-laced race of beings: no open lust, no sex outside marriage, unbreakable oaths. These are aspects aligned with the way Tolkien portrays elves, and so many fics featuring some of our faves will pair elves with OCs who are their betrothed or intended or spouse – a relationship that fits within the provided framework of elven marriages. Sometimes writers will make some complex (and cool!) rationales to allow this character to enter a relationship that way with x character despite abc reason.

Love these fics. LOVE THEM. Give me all the betrothal and intended and sneakylink hijinks you can.  ….but don’t keep these lovely people sexually repressed unless you want to.

I will have a separate post on this that I'll come back and link, but my big work-around is "The document says bodily union. Define that for me."

//

Ch. 1 of 12: Between the Mountains and the Sea

Ch. 2: Mirrored

Ch. 3: Fair and Free

Ch. 4: Countless Stars

Ch. 5: Silver Shield

Ch. 6: Preparations

Ch. 7: Where the Shadows Are 🔥

NEW>> Ch. 8: Long Ago He Rode Away

Easiest to read and follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60597052

[jamneuromain]

Wild Child Chapter. 5

Series Summary:

As the granddaughter of the sole Duke in your country, you know that you were going to marry some douche prince, because it is the only way to solidify the grasp the future king has on the Upper House. On the flight home, you come up with a brilliant plan to defy your upcoming matrimony.

Bringing a random man to your grandfather's place, and say you have a boyfriend already.

"Is there anything else I should know about? Before I meet your family?" Ari cocks his head to the side, watching you adjusting your cerulean Valentino dress when you wave your hand dismissively.

"Just say we're in love and help me get out of marrying this D-bag."

Ari Levinson x You

#i didn't know he is my fiance-douchebag-prince

#when i did, it was too late

It was not the first time that he met you, while on the plane. Ari jogged his memory by going through the photobooks (back when printed photos and digital cameras were a thing, Christ, he sounded like someone from the 70s). He stared at a small photo which had you and him on it. It was the only photo of the two of you, at the start of the royal ball, where he was ordered by his family to act like a prince and agree to all photos taken for him.

Ari flipped to the next page, where people gathered at the end of the ball to take a picture together. He saw your father right next to his father, both smiling as fake as possible. But he couldn’t find you in this picture.

Where had you been?

That ball happened a decade ago, when you had just reached your teen years and he was ending them. Looking back at his early twenties, He wrote essays about the burden of the king, and why people should vote for a functioning government rather than rooting for the royal family. Ari knew that he despised the monarchy back then, even though he was a prince.

Naturally, he was just as obnoxious regarding the planned marriage. Attending his coronation and the celebration ball with reluctance, he tried his best to maintain a stoic expression when his parents – the King and Queen – nudged him to smile and wave.

“I need a breather.” He grumbled as soon as the guests started dancing, ducked from his mother’s hand and slipped out from behind the curtains, turning a blind eye to his mother’s warning glare, stepping into the royal garden.

He hated the fucking crown. He hated the photo shoot before the ball that made him look like a monkey up for display. He hated the first dance with his mother which made him feel like he was a 6-year-old boy. He hated his fiancé who was allegedly six years younger than him, which means when he was starting his sophomore year at the University of Ancetol, she had just finished her 8th grade.

How on earth could he marry a fucking child?

He mumbled these questions to himself, but they travelled in his head and returned with no answer as he ventured further into the royal garden, surrounded by bushes and trees, in the middle of a small track.

“I know. It’s unimaginable.” Spoke a voice from his left softly, “You’re Ari, right? I’ve heard about the plan to arrange a marriage between you and the Y/L/Ns.”

Ari turned his head in your direction. He vaguely remembered you had taken photos together, meaning you were either a daughter of the ministers and ambassadors, or one of the young kids from the noble family.

Ari hummed, neither confirming nor denying what you said.

You didn’t look rejected by his indifferent gesture, merely opening the little purse in your hand and extending it to him, “Want some mini-burgers? I snuck them from the tables just now.”

Ari led you to a stone bench in the corner, facing the roses and tulip bushes, where you shared the slightly squished mini-burgers in your purse in silence. Faint music of the ball could be heard, but people were too busy to mingle, he guessed, that no one bothered to enjoy the clear moonlight and the beauty of the Royal Garden.

You patted the crumbs from your sparkling dress and stretched your arms and legs, untangling the buckle from your high heels before landing on the pebbled ground with your bare feet.

A few simple movements made Ari close to smiling. Glad to know he was not the only one who found the royal rules a huge pain in the ass – or in your case, feet. You looked like a kid, really, no younger than ten but definitely not as mature as a 20-year-old. Maybe somewhere around 13?

“Your parents set you up with someone else too?” He asked.

“Yeah.” You sighed, “My father said it’s all for the best, but…”

“But?”

“He’s full of bullshit.” You swatted the invisible dust from the hem of your pink fluffy dress, “And I don’t believe him.”

Perhaps it was the food that you shared, having Ari feel like he was some kind of big brother, somewhat obligated to help, to resonate with your worry, “It’s probably wrong for me to say this, but have you thought about running away?”

You scoffed, eyeing him with a strange expression on your face, “I have no money, no skill to support me, and no connections that I can use and get away with. I’m 15, you can’t be serious about trying to persuade a teen to run away from her home.”

Damn, he sounded like a creepy kidnapper.

“Have you ever thought about running away?” You asked.

“All the time.” Ari let out a dry chuckle, “Can’t, though.”

“Let me guess, your skill set is too custom-made for being a Prince?” You cocked your head to your side, lifting the corner of your lips.

“Something like that, yeah.” Ari spared a glance in your direction. He didn’t notice that he was smiling too, which was … weird.

It felt odd, to have his spirits lifted so easily. Like you were meant to be close.

Ari felt like you were meant to be family. Brother and sister.

He’d love to have a sister like you.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.” You flipped your carefully styled hair to the back, looking into his clear blue eyes under the moonlight, “Go ahead.”

“Do you know Y/N Y/L/N?”

His face burned for a moment. Deep down, he knew he should have met his fiancé and not probing answers from someone he had just met for fifteen minutes. But he’d rather have a fresh pair of eyes who could provide something more than the standard answer, “a proper lady”.

“Yes.” You lowered your head, so that he couldn’t see your widening eyes, filled with panic. If your thoughts could make noises, it’d be blasting sirens all over the Royal Palace by now.

“What’s she like?” His question grew more hastened. It was rumoured that his fiancé spent most of her childhood on the outskirts of Ancetol, and had recently moved back to the family house downtown. He missed the first few balls and banquets in which she took part, resulting in never meeting his future wife in the 20 living years of his life, and he was frightened over the possibility that his fiancé was indeed a “proper lady”, which scared him more than if his fiancé has eight legs like a spider (Don’t laugh, he once had a terrible nightmare about his spider-fiancé when he was 15).

“Do you want the truth or a lie?”

Your question caught him off guard. Noticing that you were not looking at him, Ari furrowed his eyebrows and answered, “Truth, please.”

Hope Mr. Prince will like the truth then, “She’s … stubborn. A thick-head, if you will.”

“Sounds like you don’t like her.” Joked Ari.

“I don’t. And she’s not a Princess material.” The first two words sounded heavy in your mouth, which was why you lowered your voice and continued the vile comments you plastered all over your image – your image as his future wife.

“What, you are?” Ari threw the question back to you.

“No.” You sighed softly, your nails fumbling with the diamond necklace around the base of your throat.

“Then what are you?”

Call Ari intrigued, but he did want to know you better. At least he wanted to know you better than his future wife. Hell, maybe he would ask you for your company at later events such as royal dinners and celebrations.

Considering that he still had zero clue as to who you were, you answered with sincerity, dropping a slice of sarcasm here and there, “A rebel, a black sheep, a wild child.”

“Wild?” Asked Ari in a tone of disbelief.

“My parents want me to study Art History – Hey, don’t get me wrong,” You raised your hands, a gesture of peace-making, when you heard him snorting out a laugh, “I love art and painting and stuff, but I love debating more. I want to be one of those sharp-minded broadcasters in the future, or reporters, taking down bad guys.”

The faint music of On the Beautiful Blue Danube reached Ari’s ears. As reluctant as he was, reacting to this music, knowing that it signalled the ball coming to an end after the next song, he must put this lovely conversation to a halt.

“I’m afraid that’s my cue.” He grimaced at the waltz piece, standing up from the stone bench. His legs were slightly numb from sitting still in the same position for too long, but he didn’t mind. The little fragment of time where he could let go of the prince’s duty was precious and worthwhile. Sadly, he had to pick the duty up again. “Would you like a dance?” His eyes lit up, and he extended a hand to you. It would be a brilliant defiance to his father and mother, dancing with someone who was not his fiancé.

“Maybe next time.” You shook his hand as if turning a blind eye to the gesture of starting a waltz, “Nice to meet you.” You lifted the hem of your dress and made a curtesy, “Your Royal Highness.”

After that, you turned your back towards him, put on your heels, and disappeared into the trees and bushes of the Royal Garden.

He hadn’t seen you since.

Ari knew now that while he was studying at the University of Ancetol, you had applied for your undergraduate programme abroad. After that, he was dispatched to the Army to serve the country and also learn about the skills to command soldiers during battle.

By then, you had started your graduate programme at UCLA.

He seemed to have missed every event you attended, and vice versa.

Until now.

Putting the photobook back into place, Ari strode to the full-length mirror in the closet room, checking the two suits he had in mind to wear for today. Your text had sprung on Ari last night, informing him that your father has requested to see him, catching Ari completely off guard.

The business casual navy blue one, or the formal black one.

He did not want to intimidate your father, though that was what he preferred, knowing that your father treated you terribly because of this engagement. And the sudden “meeting” your father demanded was, without question, not your idea, or you would have warned him.

Or was that your purpose all along?

Maybe your father, after Ari called, thought you were joking about the new boyfriend? Maybe your father did not buy your carefully woven lie after all?

Ari threw these doubts to the back of his head, and finally decided upon the business casual one.

By the side of the large mirror stood a small table with a few things on it. His family ring - the golden crest with a lion, spear, and shield, a bottle of cologne he preferred, a folder with almost all of your information since birth (it might sound creepy, but you gave it to him), and last but not least, the to-be presents he had for you.

A small bouquet of roses, or a sapphire necklace.

The problem was, that he could not hold both gifts at the same time, while he was hoping that he would deliver his gift as a surprise.

A blonde emerged by the door to this closet space, clearing her throat, indicating her arrival.

"Do you think she'd appreciate the flowers more? Or this sapphire necklace?"

Ari consulted Rachel, his head security, who was standing by the door with her hand crossed. She could easily be mistaken as a statue if it weren't for her breathing.

"I think she would appreciate whatever you prepared for her, Your Highness."

"Less official answer, please." Ari shot her a pointed look.

Rachel sighed deeply.

Ballenia was going to be ruined by this hopelessly romantic and that cluster-fuck of a noble family.

"Based on the intel - the more sparkly one." Rachel pointed towards the velvet box on the table.

Despite the fact that you were raised away from your father and grandfather, you never lacked any material upbringing. You went to the best schools, the best universities, and had some of the best teachers the royal family could find for your education as a future Princess. Whenever you went out shopping for some gala, banquet, or ball, the jewellery store would be the first stop to visit – you liked sparkly gems and stones indeed.

And this necklace that he chose, with a dewdrop-shaped sapphire pendant and a ring of diamonds surrounding it, would look marvelous to go with your dress.

Still, he could not shake the feeling that you would appreciate the roses as well.

The roses seemed cheap and cliché, while the necklace seemed sparkly and expensive.

He should have gone with the necklace, right?

To guarantee his safety, Rachel had two other cars escorting His Royal Highness’s vehicle while she flew a helicopter over his head. Due to Ari’s protest, she did not come along as she was supposed to – in case you recognized this dutiful Royal guard, and as a result, him, Ari argued – but chose her dutiful second-in-command, a man named Ethan to be Ari’s temporal bodyguard slash driver.

Ethan was just as quiet as Rachel on the way to your home.

It was an ancestral building since the 1800s and took quite a few renovations to be as modern as it could. However, your family was on the verge of losing the house around the 1950s, until your grandfather made a deal with Ari’s grandfather, helping him to stabilize the Upper House, and in return, asked for a marriage for one of his children.

You were waiting by the fountain in front of the house when Ari stepped out of his car, wearing a blue dress tailored to your shape.

“Morning.” You welcomed him with a warm hug, whispering, “Have to keep up the pretences. My father is probably watching by the window right now.”

“Morning.” His hand landed on your back with a soft pat, chuckling, “What do we have today, Miss. Girlfriend?”

You took a step back, quickly shoving a velvet box into his pocket, “The usual. Family drama, that sort of thing.” You eyed his bulging pocket as subtly as possible, “A watch. Give it to me after we meet my father. Shall we?” You gestured towards the house.

“One second.” Ari returned to his car, fishing the rose bouquet and the necklace from the backseat, and presented you the necklace first, “A gift.”

Ari popped open the larger velvet box with care, dazzling you with the necklace.

You blinked, stunned at first but quickly shook your head, refusing the gift, “You really don’t have to. We agreed that-”

“But I want to.”

The answer slipped out way faster than his brain could process, Ari added hastily, “I know what we agreed upon, it’s just that…”

After spending years learning how a diplomat and a proper prince would talk, Ari, for the first time in his life, was speechless, in front of someone he barely knew.

He wanted to give her something that could belong to her, not that the watch she prepared couldn’t, yet there was a minor difference that he perceived. The necklace was something he could have a say, something that looked good on you, he was certain, but different, from the watch.

He wanted you to have it, no matter if the marriage works out or not, even though this piece of jewellery could be interpreted by you – supposedly his real identity was unmasked – as bribery.

… a faint proclamation that he cared. He cared about you.

Thousands of thoughts ran through his head, but Ari simply said, “Considering what you offered, I’ve been taking your advantage.”

You raised your eyebrows, dragging your tone lazily, “So this is your getting even?”

“This is my thank you.” He murmured, making up his mind to shove this stupid necklace into your bag if given the chance. Or throw it in the darkest corner of the Palace. Whichever comes first.

Not intending on dwelling for long, he pulled the bouquet of roses out of thin air, twitching the corner of his lips.

“And the other thank you.”

You gasped in surprise, the twinkle in your eyes was visible like the sun in the sky, shining brightly.

You hugged the roses into your arms, dipping your chin to feel the soft pedals caressing your skin, blooming a large smile on your face.

“I like it.” You watched as he reciprocated your smile, your voice faint as the teary glint in your eyes, “I like it a lot.”

A sharp inhale and the water in your eyes evaporated. You held the roses in your arm, and made sure every hair on top of your head stayed in place, trying to present the best in you before your father.

"Is there anything else I should know about? Before I meet your family?" Ari cocked his head to the side, watching you adjusting your cerulean Valentino dress when you waved your hand dismissively.

"Just say we're in love and help me get out of marrying this D-bag."

“Where have you been?” Queen Olivia, his mother, hissed in his ear, “You got me worried sick – Hello, thank you for coming. It is a great pleasure to have you here.” Forcing her face to form an impeccable smile as another guest approached and bid her and King Victor good night.

“A stroll in the garden. I came back, didn’t I?” Young Ari challenged her nerves when the Queen clenched her fists, “Anyway, I met -”

Fuck, he forgot your name. He forgot to ask. Well, he’d ask when you come up in front, to bid the King and Queen good night.

A servant whispered by the queen’s side. His mother glared daggers at him, announcing with a tone sharper than usual, “… Prince Ari’s suit has been stained; therefore, he went to another room in the palace to clean up just now.”

Behind one of the pillars of the ballroom, masked by the loud waltz, where the Royal family could neither see nor hear, your father slapped you hard across the face, “Filthy little liar. You heard that? The prince was changing his outfit just now. God knows what pig you have been flinging yourself to. Fucking imbecile, I gave you one simple task…”

He ordered one of the servants to bring you to his limo, for you had nearly disgraced and embarrassed him, while he straightened his tie and went greeting the Royal family.

Taglist (also tagging those who might be interested: @irishhappiness @patzammit @identity2212 @lokislady82 @petalj @thezombieprostitute @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @magnificentsaladllama @xx-rennyxx @cringeycookies @autumnrose40 @hawkeyes-queen @vonalyn @theliheat @boo8008 @mrsevans90 @bradfordmyworld @delldenaro @molisighs @otpcutie

Find the Wild Child Masterlist here 👈

Questions? Comments? Requests? 👉Send them to my inbox 👂

[dreaming-medium]

Animals Without Direction

Chapter Twenty Two - Of Course

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Masterlist

“Am I supposed to fit in that?” Your voice held a hint of humor in it as you stared at the elegant gown draped over a mannequin in the center of the room. 

Jisung laughs from behind you and comes around your right to look at you. “It is going to fit. It has the same measurements as your armor.”

You bite your bottom lip and take a few more steps towards the gown. 

Deep purples and blacks make up the colors of the dress. It sits off the shoulders with bell sleeves. Lace embellishments cover every inch of the fabric. The plunge neckline of the corset dips down a bit to reveal some more skin.

The waist is tight and then poofs out slightly in an expensive show of velvet and tulle. Tiny black and purple gemstones litter the fabric to draw the eye and reflect light. 

But the part of the dress that grabs your attention is the slit that runs up the leg to the upper thigh. It’s classy enough that when you stand still, one would not be able to see the split in the fabric, but once you moved around, it would be apparent. 

“Seungmin will wear a matching suit made from the same fabrics.” Chan speaks up from your left. “Do you not like it?”

“It is gorgeous…” you trail off and step closer to the dress. Both men watch you closely. 

You circle the mannequin, the back of the dress is just as elegant as the front. Your fingers come up and gently run over the fabric. The velvet is soft under your touch.

“I have never worn anything as beautiful as this before,” you whisper softly, not taking your eyes off the dress.

A black masquerade mask sits on top of the mannequin. What look like black vines make up the structure. It has purple embellishments all over it. 

Everything ties together perfectly. 

When you finally look up, you see both Chan and Jisung staring at you with soft smiles on their faces. The Jarl has his hands clasped behind his back as he watches you with sparkling eyes. 

They’re both in comfy tunics and pants, hair fluffy and curly. 

After breakfast, the two of them had asked you to follow them to another room before going back to pickpocket training with Seungmin and Minho.

As soon as you walked into the room, your breath was taken away by the gown before you.

“The seamstress still has some final adjustments to make before you take it with you tomorrow,” Chan informs you. 

“I do not believe I have ever been this jealous of Seungmin,” Jising teases and looks over at Chan.

The Jarl laughs along with him and walks closer to get a better look at the dress himself.

“I do agree, Jisung.” His tone is more wistful than the diplomat’s was. His expression conveys more sadness than jealousy.

Jisung steps right up to the mannequin and gives it a once over. “The split in the skirt sure is something. All of the other ladies are going to be envious of you.”

Chan laughs and cocks his head to the side. “Minho suggested it, actually. He mentioned something about being able to strap a dagger there.”

You raise an eyebrow and stare over at him with a baffled look on your face.

“Really?” you ask with a laugh under your breath.

“Aye, he quite insisted, actually.” Chan reaches forward and pulls the skirt a bit to the side. The slit is on the side of your good leg. “Protection is usually his top priority.”

“I do not believe anyone is complaining,” Jisung teases and bends his head to stare at the slit himself. “You are supposed to get the ambassador’s attention after all.”

The two of them look at the dress without any shame. Their eyes rake over the mannequin like lions looking at a steak.

Your face grows hotter by the second with a blush. “I did not think that I would get a man’s attention just by showing a small amount of skin.”

Comically, at the same time, both of their eyes flick up to your face and stare at you like you said the dumbest thing ever. 

“That is, in fact, the quickest way to get a man’s attention, Y/N.” Jisung states simply.

You huff and cross your arms over your chest, looking to the side. Suddenly, the wall was the most interesting thing in the room. 

“How old is this ambassador anyway? Am I showing off my legs to an eighty year old man?”

“I have only met with Inuin’s ambassador once,” Jisung tells you, his eyes doing one more once over on the dress before walking back to a desk in the room. “He is younger, but still older than any of us. Perhaps around thirty to forty years of age.”

“Married?” asks Chan.

“Nay, never. He has had several women in his life, though. Prefers younger ones on his arm at all times.”

“Easy target, then.”

“The easiest, I can see why Seungmin was pushing for this. We really will never get a better chance for a distraction; especially with how most of the guards will be down in the ballroom instead of by his office.”

Chan nods and moves his hands behind his back once more.

“Plus, if any are near the office, I am sure that Seungmin will have no issues taking care of them.”

“He never does.”

Everyone in the room falls silent. The gown is stationary in the center of the three of you.

In just a few short days, you were to squeeze inside that corset and seduce a man older than you just to steal something from his pocket.

“Jisung,” a voice says from the doorway. All three of you turn and look over at the guard standing there.

“Yes?” he responds and turns to face him.

“A letter from Daefall has arrived.”

“I will be there in a moment.” Jisung says.

The guard nods and leaves after bowing at the hip to Chan.

“I will see you all at lunch, then.” Jisung smiles and follows after Chan, closing the door behind him. 

Chan and yourself stay silent for a few more moments, his eyes watch you fiddle with the dress a bit more. 

You trace small patterns in the velvet top, the fabric getting darker when you swipe it one way, lighter when you go the other way.

Thank The Six this is happening during the colder months, the fabric is so heavy. 

“How goes the dance and pickpocket lessons?” Chan asks, breaking the silence between the two of you.

You don’t look up at him, you keep your eyes on the dress. “In the beginning, it was easy; the dance was simple, Minho taught it well. Seungmin then began to teach tricks about pickpocketing by introducing small lessons, that is when it began to become a bit more difficult.”

“I heard last night did not go well.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “How am I supposed to pickpocket someone when they are expecting it?” A pause. “Plus, the two of them can be rather ruthless.”

Gentle laughter comes from Chan. He’s still standing on the other side of the mannequin, but he’s not looking at the dress at all.

“I do know what you mean, having just one of them as a teacher would be a lot, but both of them…” he trails off.

“Growing up, I also never was great at admitting when I was not good at something. It is tirelessly frustrating to be bad at pickpocketing. And to have the added stress of all of this?”

You motion to the dress, Chan’s gaze finally drops from your solemn face to look down at the gown again. 

“There is so much riding on this ability.” You shake your head and let your hand drop from the fabric. “I do not know what will happen if I cannot do this.”

A long few moments pass between the two of you. Thoughts run through your mind like wild animals. What happens if you can’t learn to pickpocket? You leave tomorrow morning with Seungmin, you need to be able to pull this off. The future of the war depends on this.

“You sound like Changbin.”

You look up and meet the Jarl’s eyes. His sad smile pulls on your heartstrings. 

“I know you heard his ramblings for yourself, I cannot imagine how much worse they became before the first attack on Fort Mire.”

At the thought of the commander, your heart aches for a moment. You miss him so much; the same goes for Jeongin, and even Hyunjin. For as much trouble as the mage gave you, the two of you developed a special bond. 

The nights spent in front of the fire were special to you. You both never talked, just sat in each other’s presence. Sometimes you just need to know there’s another person there with you to feel less lonely. 

With Changbin, he brought you this sense of comfort and safety that you’ve never found in another person. Maybe it was the fact that he was a tower of bulging muscle, but really you knew it was beyond that.

It was who he was.

“Yes, but I knew he had the ability to lead us the way we needed, he did not need to learn a new skill in just a few days.” You swallow a lump in your throat.

“He had never led an army to war before.” Chan replies.

Your mouth opens and then quickly shuts. Any retort you had fell out of your mouth and through the floor.

“It is different,” you mutter. Your tone has lost its strength– you know Chan is right.

He just laughs. “I do not believe it is. But regardless, I have faith in you, the entire court does.”

Again, you scoff and smirk. “That does not help, what if I let you all down?”

He doesn’t answer you for a long moment, so you look up and make direct eye contact with the Jarl. 

A genuine smile is on his face, his brown eyes shine with the fire light from the sconces on the wall. His dimple is on full display with his grin.

It makes your heart flutter.

He looks so soft right now. How is he the Jarl? If you saw him in a tavern, you would easily mistake him for a farmer or an adventurer if he had a sword on his hip.

“You could never let us down, Y/N.”

His voice is even softer than his appearance. His words wrap around your soul and squeeze, they make your cheeks feel hot and your throat constrict with so many different emotions. 

Just a few months ago, you would’ve never gotten near Miroh, but here you were, talking with the Jarl as if he was a close friend, confiding your fears to him.

Again, you gulp down the knot in your throat. “So, if I was to come back to Miroh without having successfully pickpocketed the key off of Inuin’s ambassador–”

“We would be happy that you came back to us in one piece.” He finishes your sentence and then continues. “Y/N, your health and safety– both you and Seungmin’s– is my number one priority. I care not if the mission is a success or not as long as you both return to this keep unharmed.”

His eyes look back and forth at your own, never once breaking eye contact.

“My court is my family, you included. My only desire in life is for my family to be safe.”

Unable to hold his searing gaze, you look down at the floor.

Family. You were a part of his family .

“Family,” you repeat in a tiny whisper, but you know he heard it.

“Aye, you are my family, Y/N.”

Family.

You had a family? How long has it been since you had a family…? How many years since you were tied to another person?

After your parents, there was Allerick, but he was more of a mentor than anything. He skidded along the lines of a caretaker sometimes, but never anything more than that.

You bite the inside of your cheek to hold back the tears. 

By The Six, you’ve been crying entirely too much lately. Can you just have one day where your feelings are stable?

Emotions swirl within you, you feel every single one floating around in your chest fighting its way to the surface. It sends your mind into orbit.

Unable to communicate any of them, you nod your head and force yourself to look up at the Jarl.

Words get caught in your throat. All of the muscles in your face twitch with each passing thought that cycles in your mind.

A family. You have a family. And a big one at that. Full of big personalities that rival one another. 

Chan stands in front of you, watching every one of the emotions that cross your face closely. You can see him analyzing every move carefully. 

The Jarl of Miroh, your Jarl, your employer, your boss. Your lord.

But he’s more than that, isn’t he? He’s more than just a title? Yes, he becomes the Jarl when he needs to, but beyond that, he’s just Chan.

Chan whose heart is bigger than his chest.

Chan who is a fellow half elf.

Chan saved you from a past life full of sorrow and grief.

Chan who would give you, or any one of your court members, the sun if you asked him to. 

“Thank you…” you hesitate, the next word gets stuck in your throat.

Why can’t you just say it? 

His eyebrows lift, he knows what you’re trying to say. He can see your lips forming the word, forming his name. 

Chan’s lips part and his breathing seems to stop for a moment. 

Your mouth opens again. 

Someone knocks at the door. 

“My lord.” It’s the same guard as before. Chan’s entire face falls, he has to physically tear his eyes away from your face with a heavy heart.

“What is it?” he asks rather harshly.

“Your presence is being requested in the throne room. A villager requesting aid.”

His shoulders sag forward. “I will be down in a moment.”

The guard nods and leaves.

Chan turns and looks back at you. Your mouth is shut firmly, lips pressed in a thin line. Heat rises to your cheeks and your ears turn red in embarrassment. 

“Will you be at lunch later?”

“I know not, we will see how thief lessons go.”

He nods, his hands clench into fists and then unclench a moment after. “I will see you for dinner then.”

“Aye, my lord.”

His expression falls, you can practically hear his heart shatter. But you just do not possess the strength to call him something other than his title anymore. The confidence that came over you previously went out the door when the guard opened it and never returned.

The Jarl hesitates. “Chan,” he murmurs.

“Of course,” your voice strains out.

Chan stands there for another long moment before nodding once and making to leave. He pauses at the door. 

“The key to pickpocket one of them is to do it when neither of them are paying attention, there are no rules. Who said you need to carry it out during the dance?”

He shuts the door behind him with a resounding click.

You stand there for a minute, weighing his words carefully. 

Oh. Clever.

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

You steel your nerves as you walk into the ballroom. After talking with Chan, you came up with some semblance of a plan. He certainly started the gears in your mind.

Before the dance even starts, you’re going to take the key from Minho’s pocket. He always winds the music contraption up before you begin. 

That’s when you’ll do it. 

Pushing open the doors, you notice that neither of the men are here yet. 

Perfect. 

Crossing the room, you walk right up to the music box, eyeing it closely. 

Plan aside, you were rather curious as to how it works. Minho would wind the side lever for a bit and after releasing it, the top disk would spin and music would come out. 

Carefully, you lift your hand up and run it over the black disk on top. Grooves ran through the entire thing. 

An arm with a pin at the end sat beside the disk. Minho would place it on top of the disk after it spun and music would come from the large horn at the top. 

Its design is mind boggling to you. 

Your head cocks to the side and you stare at it. 

Was it some sort of magic item?

“It is called a record player,” Minho’s voice comes from right behind you. 

Your hand flies over your chest as you gasp in surprise. How did he sneak up on you so easily?

He has the same fancy outfit on as yesterday complete with a pocket watch and chain. 

The advisor sure knows how to present himself, that’s for sure. He always has an air of confidence around him.

You look back down at the record player. “How does it work?”

Minho chuckles. “I know not exactly how it works, really. To my understanding, it is a lot like a music box.” He comes up and stands directly next to you. “The record on top has dips and grooves that when the pin goes over, sound is produced and amplified through the top here.”

“And it turns after the side is cranked?”

“Aye.”

You hum, weighing his words. After a moment, you step closer to him and reach for the lever, spinning it around. Small clicks sound from inside the box the more you spin it. 

Minho makes no move to step away from you. 

“How fares your leg?” He asks quietly, his voice close to your ear. 

“Alright now,” you answer without looking at him. “Felix came to my room last night to stitch it back up.”

“Back up? It reopened?” His voice shakes for a syllable. You almost didn’t catch it.

“Aye, do not worry too much. I know not to push myself anymore.”

The lever clicks into place, you take that as your sign to release it. From behind you, Minho reaches over you and moves the arm to place the needle on the record. 

Instead of retracting his arm, he grabs the edge of the record player, caging you against it from one side. 

The hairs on the back of your neck stick up and a shiver tears down your spine. 

You stand straight, looking down at the record spinning. The waltz music loudly comes through the horn. 

Since it’s pointed a different way, it’s not as loud as it would be if you were directly in front of it. 

Minho’s chest brushes against your back when he takes a particularly deep breath. Something hard pokes against your shoulder blade. Jackpot.

“Felix told me you came to him.” You don’t turn around to say that to Minho. 

He sighs through his nose, the exhale hits your neck. 

“Aye, I did.”

Slowly, you turn around to face him. 

He looks down to meet your eyes, his face only a few centimeters away from you. His hand tightens on the record player and his jaw clenches. 

“I was worried about your leg,” he murmurs. His dark eyes swirling with something unknown. 

You hesitate for a second, keeping your eyes on his. He tenses up.

“Thank you, Minho.”

He looks shocked for a moment, as if he was expecting you to scold him for reaching out on your behalf. He looked like he was prepared to defend himself even more. 

One of your hands lifts up and you run it lovingly down the lapel of his jacket. Once more, his jaw clenches. 

“I had a talk with Felix,” you tell him lowly. “I have not been relying on you all as much as he wished I did.”

While your gaze goes down to where your hands trace, Minho’s stays strictly on your face. 

“I know now you are just looking out for me. You would do the same for any of the court members, hm?”

He hesitates. “Aye.”

Again, you hum. Your other hand comes up to mirror the other, both palms planting on his chest as you look up into Minho’s eyes. 

He’s watching you so closely. The look in his eye keeps flickering between something sharp and dark, and then to something soft and light. His eyebrows jump and twitch. 

You can see his internal argument with his own emotions and how to feel about your proximity, about your words and touches. Even with the inner turmoil, he keeps his body in front of yours, caging you in his warmth.

Lips set in a firm line, Minho’s other arm comes up to properly pin you against the edge of the record player. 

“I saw the dress,” you tell him suddenly. 

He studies your face more for a telling reaction. 

“I loved it.” A genuine smile crosses your face. He glances down at your lips and then back to your eyes. The corners of his mouth twitch. “I especially loved the slit in the skirt; it is smart.”

His ears immediately turn a deep scarlet color. 

Slowly, while he’s distracted, you slip your hand closer to the inside of his pocket. It’s the closest you’ve ever been to victory. 

“The Jarl said it was for a dagger,” you look away from his eyes for a moment. “But I am not so sure with you, Minho.”

You come back to look at his face. His eyes are still as sharp as ever, analyzing every muscle in your face. One of his eyebrows lifts. 

“What do you mean by that?”

Inch by inch, you move inside his jacket pocket. The key is so close you can taste it.

“I believe you are just trying to get me to show some more skin.” Your body moves impossibly closer to him. 

He smells so good.

Every hair on his head is perfectly kept. This man is the image of perfection. 

Minho’s eyes narrow. “If I wanted you to show more skin, why would I include it in a dress that I will not even see you in.”

You huff, your hand inside his jacket, fingers brush against the brass key and curl around the warm metal. 

“Because,” Your face inches closer and closer to his. “I think you thrive off the chase of it all. And I think that knowing that another man will be touching me and looking at me boils your blood in the most intoxicating of ways.”

Minho swallows thickly. He absentmindedly parts his lips the closer yours come to his. 

His knuckles are turning white his grip on the record player is so tight. It’s taking every ounce of strength he has to contain himself, you can tell. 

“Correct me if I am wrong, Lee Minho, but I believe you have been infatuated with me from the moment we met.”

The key is in your grasp, your movements so painstakingly slow to not alert him. 

Minho stops breathing. All of his muscles tighten and grow taught. 

Where did this sexual confidence come from? You’ve never had to seduce a man to get what you want before. You’re completely flying blind, the words seem to come naturally. 

Your heart is racing out of your chest from his proximity.  

Are you really putting on an act at this point, though?

The music swells in the air. 

Minho lets out a strained, shaky exhale. But he doesn’t respond. 

“Is that why you are so concerned with my affairs with other men? Because you want it to be you?”

The key is out of his pocket and in your hand. Carefully, you turn it and slide it into your shirt sleeve. 

Your other hand slides up his body and cups his tightly clenched jaw softly. His teeth might shatter if he keeps this up. 

“You said it yourself that jealousy can make a man crazy.”

You feel like prey under his piercing brown eyes. They’re swirling with danger. 

Standing up on your top toes, you make for his lips, you hear his breath hitch in his throat. 

“All you need to do is ask, Lee Minho.” 

At the last moment, you turn your head and kiss the corner of his parted lips. 

“But I will not do anything until you tell me how much you want it.”

From deep within his throat, it sounds like Minho growls .

But before he can do anything else, the door opens, revealing Seungmin in his fancy gala clothing.. 

“Are we quite prepared for lessons then?” he asks with a playful smirk.

Minho finally releases you and takes a few steps away. 

“Aye,” you say sweetly, walking away from the record player and towards Seungmin. “Quite ready.”

Seungmin looks at you for a moment and then over at Minho. When his eyes leave you, you slip the key into your pocket. 

It’s hard to contain your excitement at your victory, but you keep it together. 

Both men take their places on the dance floor. Seungmin asks for your hand first with a bow. 

“You will tell us if you are in pain.” He demands mid-bow.

“Aye, I will.” You answer, dropping into a curtsey. 

The dance begins with the rogue. 

You’re just as handsy as you have been with him. He has the key in his lower left pocket. When you’re dipped down, you feel it press into your hip. 

Smirking, you let yourself be spun into Minho who holds you tighter than he ever has. His grip is possessive and controlling. 

He leads you through the dance like a commander would lead an army. 

You can’t deny that his bruising grasp does something to you. A fluttering feeling curly in your lower stomach. 

His dip is sharp, a hot exhale fanning over your neck before you’re brought up and spun to Seungmin. 

You let both of them dance you around for a bit. You don’t want it to be too obvious when you took the key. 

Seungmin leads you through the waltz. 

“When I get the key, what am I to do with it?”

“Ideally, you would slide it into my own pocket the next time I have you as a partner.”

You nod and continue with the dance. It feels nice to be able to dance around with them without feeling immense frustration from failure after failure.

At this point, you’re just getting in some dance practice.

Three more rotations until you successfully slide the key into Seungmin’s right pocket. 

“How is your leg?” Seungmin asks after another rotation. 

“It is alright, but we can stop now. “

Abruptly, he stops the dance and looks down at your leg, expecting something to be wrong. 

“It does not hurt,” you chuckle. 

Seungmin looks back up at you questioningly. 

“Hmm,” you hum. “Check your left pocket, my lord.”

His eyebrows shoot up and he pats both of his pockets down. 

Minho’s hand immediately flies up to the pocket that originally held the key. 

At the same time, they shoot you shocked expressions. Seungmin’s expression brightens considerably with a proud smile. His eyes shine brightly in the dim light of the ballroom.

You smile and curtsy again. “All before lunch too. Must be our lucky day.”

[lya-dustin]

The Dornish Lady

It's probably not what you expected @maidmerrymint ,but it is what came out sorry.

Aemond x older!Dornish!witch (because lets face it, witch milfs are his canon type)

Rated: slightly M for smut 🔞

Gif by @gameofthronesdaily

You came with the Dornish contingent, serving as the true Ambassador as well as court seer.

Had you not been so untouchable, his mother would have delighted on putting you to trial and burning you for witchcraft.

But people feared you and worshipped you as if you were the Maiden and the Crone wrapped in a beautiful package.

You were also the life of the party and slowly chipped away at the austerity his mother instilled.

You have a beautiful laugh, a sultry thing that has him coming to your rooms even if propriety didn’t allow for him to visit you without invitation.

“Do not lurk about, your highness, I do not bite.” You tease and beckon him to come closer to where you and some friends drink and talk things that would have his mother running at you with a lit torch.

The only available seat is on the couch you had draped yourself on like a Rhoynish goddess.

You do not keep your tanned legs on the floor for long, as the conversation and Dornish wines flow he finds himself alone with you and your legs on his lap.

Eventually every guest at your quiet dinner leaves and the two of you are finally alone.

“Go ahead, your highness, I see the way you look at me. Tonight is your only chance, my sweet boy.” You say with a voice as smooth as silk.

He wants you, has wanted you from the second you came into court and refused to cower in submission to his mother and grandsire.

But nothing stirs the fire in his loins like the way you call him sweet boy.

You are not much older than him, well, not enough to cause scandal anyways.

And yet you act as he, at nine and ten, is merely a boy playing at being a man.

“Tonight is your chance to prove me wrong, if you so wish it.” You whisper as if you read his mind.

Perhaps you did, at court you defy the Seven by reading fortunes in cups of tea and playing cards and palms.

Mother wanted you gone because you told her something she did not like.

“If you came here for a look into your future, you could just say it.” There is a tinge of disappointment when you say it, as if you hated how your ability is what people see not your charm, sharp wit and political ability.

“No, that is not all I want from you, my lady.” He said feeling himself too awkward to even speak to you of such base desires.

Deep inside he is not the confident prince who is better than his elder siblings in every way.

It is all a façade you peel off like a knife cutting the thin peel of an apple.

And yet he gains confidence when your dark eyes shine with desire as his cool fingers trail up the firm and silky shaven legs underneath the wine red dress you wear.

“I am afraid you are too overdressed for this, my prince.” You say breathlessly.

You are thrice widowed.

And wonderfully experienced, or so he concludes as you, a godsless woman, rides him like a prized thoroughbred.

Aemond has never felt more alive as you reach your pleasure and your dark eyes roll into the back of your head.

And yet when you come back to your senses, your hands shake in terror and your beautiful face weeps not from ecstasy but out of pain.

“It is not a crown they will put on you and your brothers, sweet boy. It is a noose.” You say as a tear slid down your eye and onto his pale cheek.

[elmundodeflor]

This wasn't supposed to happen, he tells himself. He shouldn't be doing this, he repeats, — and it seems like it's the tenth time he's said that ever since they've left the house.

It was Connie the one who had shrunk half of the Ambassadors' suit-uniforms, anyways. Why couldn’t he be here, then, instead of him? All he wanted was to spend his day off lazing in bed. Maybe, even revisit his long-forgotten sketch-book for a new draw.

But not this.

"I was covering up for your hangover ass!", Connie had said, in his own defense. And it was true. Back in headquarters, they had equally divided the list of chores between all of them. Armin cooked on Mondays, Reiner made the beds on Tuesdays and he did the laundry on Wednesdays.

Still, it wasn't his fault that Pieck's pair of trousers looked like those of a toddler's. At least, not directly.

"Jean.", she calls him out of his train of thought. There's a suit pastel yellow dangling from the hanger between her hands. It's bundled up with a white shirt and a matching pair of pants, all too colorful to use at any diplomatic meeting. "What do you think of this?"

He furrows a brow. She can't possibly be serious, — and yet, the look on her face tells him that she totally is.

"Well...", he starts. If there's anything he's learnt during his time living with the Ambassadors, is that Pieck is never afraid of having fun with her fashion. Sometimes, he recalls, she'll wear pineapple-stamped blouses around the kitchen. Others, it'll be the neon-pink socks peaking from under her long, pleated skirts.

"I guess that'd be a great choice if we wanted to look like a duck's thrown up on us..."

She rolls her eyes at him.

"You're a boring-ass man, Kirstein."

He shrugs, and stares at her for a moment; — the triumphant smile that brightens up her features. The spider-web earrings that show through thick, black hair. It amazes him, really, how irremediably different they are. He’s all slick-shirts, shiny shoes. She’s the type to throw some sneakers underneath her dresses.

"I've been told worse.", he says. And that is true, as well.

Pieck chuckles, then puts the suit back to where she’s found it. She looks ridiculously tiny, floating around the shop in her green, wide-legged trousers. Jean knows, right as he watches her again, she’s an enigma, sure enough. A five-foot-two paradox he can’t quite figure out just yet.

He shakes his head. The boutique Armin's sent them to seems awfully empty for a week-day afternoon. There are roads of folded clothing to cover up the walls, gowns neatly placed by size and color. Normally, they'd have a tailor do this for them. But with the new peace treaties incoming, they had no other choice than to run in emergency.

He takes a grey suit from the hanger, feels the softness of it between his fingers. He remembers the first time they'd been in Marley, back when hope was intact and the world was new. It all appears to be a distant blur now; a gleaming daydream lost within the alleyways.

He’d actually worn something similar to it at the time, he figures. They’d been shopping with Levi and Hanji the week before departing, and it’d been quite the adventure. They'd acted like an old pair of lovebirds, he tells himself now, looking back on it. They'd pick up outfits for Armin and Eren, — call out Sasha for spending her loan in food instead of clothing.

“What about this one?”, he shows Pieck, then.

She makes a face, but ends up giving him a small push, up towards the dressing rooms, after.

“Off you go!”, she says, as she takes a suit that matches his, and disappears behind the curtains herself.

Jean can’t help but roll his eyes. If there’s any other thing he’s learnt about living with the Ambassadors, is that Pieck’s weird, — hard to read as letters carved on stone. It’s not only because of how she dresses, but also due to everything else. Truth is, she’ll make odd noises when she laughs at Reiner. Put cheese between two walnut cookies and call it a day.

“Well, didn’t I tell you we’d look killer with thi—?”

He stops himself.

Outside her dressing room, she stares back at him, — makes a little pose in front of the full-body mirror that they share. She wears a white, simple blouse, tucked inside a long, grey skirt, that she’s paired with a plain linen blazer. She’s utterly gorgeous, achingly delicate and elegant, there— standing under the stage lights.

It takes a minute or two for Jean to regain his composure.

"Meh,", she shrugs, but it’s just to poke fun at him, at last. "I'd say it's alright for someone with such a boring taste."

He bites his tongue. If a single glance could kill, then, he swears, Pieck Finger would be dead and buried. She turned out to be quite the expert at getting on his nerves, after all.

"So, how you’d make it better, huh?"

She says nothing. At least, not at first. Instead, she spins through the store and goes to the tie-section, — grabs one that's navy blue.

"Hm", she holds it up next to Jean's face. The bright spotlights cast a golden sheen in her hair. Make it seem as though her eyes are fresh dew on an early morning. "Guess this one could go."

Jean raises a brow at her, but doesn't really reply, whatsoever. She's gotten close to him now, — so much so, he can count the specs of violet that dapple in her irises. Name the tiny freckles that dot over her cheeks, and that he'd never even noticed were there before.

"You really think so?”

Pieck nods, then gets up on her tip-toes.

"Yeah", she wraps the tie around his neck, first. It's a funny image, Jean thinks, as she tries to make up a knot — her stretching up, while he has to crouch down for her to reach him. To be fair, he has to be thankful that they're the only two people in the store at the moment. "I genuinely do."

He goes back to looking at her. He can feel the warmth that oozes from her body. Sense the trickle of her fingers against his neck, his shoulders. She’s beautiful like this, — cute, even. Her hair’s a mess, her eyes are drooped and tired. But she smiles at him like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Touches him as if he was made of the thinnest of glass, way too fragile for her clumsiness.

It is nothing like the first time that they saw each other, he notices. Not only because she was in her Titan form, but because he’d thought, then, that her hands could only be made for killing.

“Hold still, idiot.”, she laughs at him, and Jean straightens himself up. He sees it as fascinating— that her knuckles are all caked-up in battle-scar. Her palms are rough, baked in pink linings that turn gold under the sunset. But something soft can bloom from under them, —something tender. It’s in the way she holds him, with such care, — like he’s precious. How she tickles him in the tiny spot behind his ear, plays with him like they’re kids.

“Pieck…”, he sighs. His hand brushes a black lock off her face, — does it in a way that’s slow and delicate, as if time had stopped, right there and then. Matter-of-fact, he doesn’t even know why he’s done it, or when, — just that he felt like it. That his body acted on its own, without ever warning him of what it’d do.

She smiles at him.

“We should…”, she stutters. The bridge of her nose is flushed of a light shade of rose. Her cheeks scorching, twinkling beneath the afternoon-hours. “We should get goin’…”

Jean nods, but doesn’t pull away, at last. Pieck’s hands are on his neck, locked in around the tie, still, — his are on her hair. It’d been too long since he’d last felt like this, — as if his heart could jump, do flips inside his chest. If anything, he finds that, maybe, her palms build things back to life, as well. That they’re not only meant for destruction, but are capable of love. Of holding him like he’s broken, and they’re there to put him back together, after all.

“Yeah, right”, he says, finally, after a second or two; a small smile pulling from his lips, too. “I guess we should.”