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lovebugism · 6 months ago

Note

thigh riding Carmy because he isn't paying attention to you please please please 😭

summary: carmy misses date night and finds a way to work and make you feel good at the same time (2.2k)

pairing: carmy berzatto / f!reader

contents: established relationship, thigh riding, public setting (ish), dirty talk, smut with sprinkles of fluff 18+

Carmy’s office is a windowless concrete cage of chaos. There are a million papers stacked and scattered across his desk, half-hidden beneath books that are flipped open to random pages. You’re not sure how he’s keeping up with any of it. Though, to be fair, you’ve never been able to completely understand his mind.

You know him better than anyone else, but he’s still such a mystery to you sometimes — like a language you can read perfectly but can’t speak all the way.

You don’t know why he runs himself aground with work even though it kills him, even though he swears the enormity of his desire brings him back to life again. You just know to try and save the drowning man from himself from time to time, and not to let him strangle you with his panic in the process.

“Bear?” you call gently into the amber-lit office, knuckles rapping against the opened door. “You ready?”

Sitting slouched over his desk, you can hear the faint tap tap tapping of his pen against the paper, an anxious tick for his ever-fidgeting fingers. “No. Not— Not yet, baby. I’m fuckin’— I’m drowning in this paperwork right now.”

He lifts his heavy head from his tattooed hand and glances at you over his shoulder. The sight of you makes his breath catch — leaning against the doorframe, all pretty in the lamplight, wearing the dress he bought you.

The deep emerald silk drips over your body like summer rain. It dips low at your chest and flows just above your knees, fitting you like a total dream.

Carmy, for a flicker of a moment, forgets to be anxious.

While his eyes dart over your form, the rest of the world disappears — it could be entirely falling apart for all he knows, but all he can see now is you. Your stormy eyes, your soft skin, and your quiet sensuality. Your ruby lips, your cheeks like wine, and your gentle voice.

His mouth falls agape to say words he can’t make out. His ocean eyes go wide, glimmering a deeper blue in the low light — which casts dark shadows over the sharp edges of his face. His gaze is like the sea. You feel yourself drowning in it accordingly.

“It can’t wait?” you press gently, lifting yourself from the doorframe and sauntering slowly towards him. Closing the door behind you, you drop your chin to your chest and flash the boy a sheepish smile. “All the restaurants are gonna close soon.”

Carmy huffs. He knew better than to plan a date. He’s far too busy — or, rather, he doesn’t allow himself to be anything other than busy because there’s a voice inside him that just won’t be still. Working himself to death was an art he did exceptionally well, which hadn’t bothered him so much until he met you.

“I gotta get this done, babe,” he answers sympathetically, tilting his chin to keep his eyes locked with yours as you near him.

Your familiar scent sets the stagnant air aglow. The warmth of your perfume cradles his senses when you loom beside him. Your hand rises to his shoulder, fingers fidgeting with the swathe of curls at the nape of his neck. His wide palm smooths over your hip — softly calloused against the satiny fabric.

You smile softly down at him. “So I got all pretty for nothin’?” you tease with a scrunched nose.

“Well, you got all pretty for me, actually,” Carmy corrects.

His pink lips curl in a faint smirk. Your grin widens tenfold. The subtle act of possessiveness, coupled with the strong hand on your waist, makes your chest sparkle.

“Yeah, I did,” you hum proudly, bending at the waist to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. He tastes fleetingly of nicotine and sweet plum wine — a maddening concoction.

You rise to full height again. Carmy pats your hip twice before his fingers fall away. He turns back to his desk, and you feel half-invisible again. It’s hardly his fault, though. There was something deeply intense about his stone-blue eyes. You feel strangely held when he looks at you, left inevitably mourning every time he turns away.

His pen darts across the gridded page in chicken scratch you can’t make out, worsened by his wrist smudging the ink. Your arms wrap loosely around his neck. You bury your nose in his chestnut curls and inhale the familiar scent of grill smoke and cedarwood.

“You know I don’t care actually about going out, right?” you mumble there.

Carmy hums, half-distracted. “Mhm.”

“Just wanna spend time with you… Don’t care what we’re doing…”

You press a kiss to his temple. He leans instinctively into your touch. “Well, I’ll make you the best damn PB&J Chicago’s ever seen when we get back home, alright?” he muses with a quiet smile. “How’s that sound?”

“I’m holding you to that, Bear,” you say, grinning into his curls.

“I’m countin’ on it.” Carmy chuckles and lifts his free hand to squeeze your wrist. His touch slips away soon after when he turns back to his work.

Quiet returns, heavy and deafening, filled only by the distant clanging of pots from stragglers in the kitchen. It makes you strikingly aware of yourself — of the space you’re filling in this tiny office, and the distracting weight of your arms around his neck. Feeling more like a burden, you clear your throat and pull away.

“I’m, uh— I’m gonna see if Richie left yet. Maybe he’ll let me bum a smoke or something.”

Carmy mourns your warmth the second you’re gone. He spins in his swivel chair to face you, laughing to cover up his ache. “What happened to us spending time together?”

He knows how you think. You think he gets so involved in his work that he doesn’t spare you a single thought. But really, he’s so strongly devoted to you that it feels like the emotion could rip him open from the inside.

You squint. “Watching you sign a bunch of paperwork while you pretend I’m not here is not spending time together,” you argue, laughing despite yourself.

“Don’t go. C’mon,” Carmy pleads, very distantly begging. He tilts his head and blinks at you with wide, pleading eyes. “Come sit,” he tells you.

“Sit where?” you scoff.

“In my lap.”

“I’ll squish you,” you insist, giggling.

“Shut up and sit down,” he commands, still playful but leaving little room for argument. His wide palms smooth slowly up and down his denim-clad thighs. Your heart lurches into your throat.

You walk the short distance to him with a huff of feigned annoyance, dress swishing around your knees. Carmy pushes away from his desk to give you space to sit. You take a seat on his lap, just like he asked you to, but he stops you with a pair of strong hands grasping your hips.

“Not like that,” he murmurs.

Your brows furrow in response. “What do you mean?”

“On my thigh,” Carmy corrects, swatting playfully at your clothed hip. “C’mon. Sit right.”

You rise slowly, with a hesitant squint in your eyes. “What are you playing at, Bear?” you wonder lowly, legs spread slightly to welcome his thigh between them.

Carmy bounces his shoulder in a lazy shrug. His tattooed hands creep up the hem of your dress to urge you down onto his lap — the proper way. “You’re the one always sayin’ I’m too busy for you, right?” he responds, hardly expecting a real answer, as he helps you straddle one of his thighs.

The angle is awkward. The old chair leaves little room for the both of you. You’re forced to keep one leg on the ground while the other bends at the knee between his legs. You hold tight to his shoulders, trusting him to keep you steady. Your dress bunches at your hips in the meanwhile. Carmy raises his thigh until it’s flush against your clothed cunt.

Your breath catches, and he smirks.

“So… You’re gonna cum on my thigh,” he continues casually. “…And after that, we’ll go home, I’ll fuck you like you need, and then I’ll run you a bath… How’s that sound?”

Your stomach swirls with a familiar warmth — which you can feel pooling in your panties now. “What about the PB&J?” you joke in a quiet voice that trembles only slightly.

Carmy scoffs a faint laugh. “After the bath.”

“What about in the bath?”

“Whatever you want,” he assures with a smile. “You just gotta ride me first.”

The lighthearted air turns bone-crushingly sensual in a flicker of a moment. His light eyes pierce you mercilessly, peering into the depths of your soul. You melt for him, going uncharacteristically soft and subservient, just how he likes.

Carmy helps you with a few passes over his thigh. You’re obviously unsure, and he can tell by your hesitant movements. His free hand squeezes your hip, urging you up his leg and down again, until you find your own rhythm. Then he turns back to his work and tries to focus. The soft sound of your breathy moans entwines with the scribbling of his pen.

You rock your hips in measured thrusts, trying to find the proper pace. The delicate fabric of your panties ruts along the rough denim of his jeans — catching your clit perfectly when you buck your hips just right. Lightning strikes down your spine, then. Both alleviating the ache between your thighs and creating a new one all at once.

Your breath hitches. Pitiful whimpers sound in your throat instead. You bury them all in Carmy’s neck as you hide your face in his shoulder, with your warm cheek pressed to his ear and your fingers balling his shirt in your fists.

There was something foreignly erotic about all this. Being in Carmy’s office, the door unlocked, with Syd and Richie meandering elsewhere in the kitchen. The fear of being caught made your movements quick. Careless. Wild.

And there was something about Carmy, too. The way he’s got you getting yourself off, with little help from the boy himself, while he busies himself with paperwork. You can hear him scribbling away still, flitting through papers with the hand not holding you. All while you hump his thigh, so desperate for attention. It’s pathetic. And something about it made you feel good.

Your pretty whimpers turn into deeper, breathier moans. Carmy smiles to himself. He can feel the warmth of your cunt despite the layers between you. It makes him wonder if you’ve left a stain on the denim. He prays you’ve left a stain on the denim — wants the mark of your honey stamped there forever.

“You close?” he murmurs when he notices your legs starting to tremble.

You bury a whine in his neck. “Fuck, Bear—”

“Hey,” he hums, pulling away from his paperwork for the first time in several minutes to look at you.

His long fingers rise from your hip and curl into your hair. He tugs softly at the strands to urge your head back so he can admire his work. Your eyes are lidded and glassy, your lips swollen and parted — already fucked-out, and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

“I asked if you were close,” he repeats, unsmiling.

“Yes,” you manage through a whimper.

His grip on your hair slackens. His touch returns to your hip, encouraging your rapid movements. His pink lips quirk in the faintest hint of a smile. “Good,” he praises. “Good girl. Keep going.”

You bury your face in his neck again, lips curling around your teeth to stifle the moans swelling there. Your hips lose their rhythm as the threat of your orgasm grows. Your clit pounds like a second heartbeat. You briefly wonder if Carmy can feel it, and the thought alone sends you reeling.

“Carmy,” you keen, voice wavering. “I’m gonna cum.”

You feel him nod against you. He licks his lips and turns his head. His nose squishes your temple; his wet mouth brushes your ear.

“Do it, then. C’mon,” he mumbles against you, coaxing you closer towards your pleasure — not because he’s a pro at the whole dirty-talking thing, but because he knows how much you like it. “Be a good girl and cum on my thigh. Come on.”

You last two more passes up and down his lap before you tense on top of him. Your hips still as you whimper into his shoulder, shuddering hard when your orgasm washes over you.

“Atta girl,” Carmy praises. “Keep cumming for me.”

He drops his pen and finally turns away from his work. He grips your hips with both hands and works you the rest of the way through your orgasm. You let him, for a few agonizing moments, until your high fades and leaves you achingly sensitive.

You inhale sharply through your nose and reach suddenly for his wrists. “No more,” you plead, then exhale a breathy chuckle.

When you part from his neck, Carmy ducks his head to catch your averted gaze. His wide eyes dart over your pleasure-stricken features. “You good?” he wonders. His words have lost any hint of sensuality. He’s always serious about checking in on you.

You nod and swallow hard. “’M good,” you promise, then freeze when your knee nudges his half-hard cock. “Are you good?” you parrot.

Carmy scoffs a breathy chuckle. “I’m almost done here— go bum a smoke from Richie, alright? I’ll out in a second.”

He kisses you softly. A chaste kiss that’s perhaps too innocuous for such a honeyed moment. You rise on tired legs, and he swats playfully at your side. “How’s that for spending time together, huh?” he calls over his shoulder as you wrench open the office door.

“You’re an idiot, Bear.”

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zwhoreo · 1 year ago

Note

Luffy accidentally eating/taking aphrodisiac and reader has to deal with the results.

HAPPY 2024!!! :D here’s my longest fic ever as a celebration

can’t come down - aphrodisiac luffy x f!reader

smut with some angst

summary: thinking it was regular chocolate, you accidentally give luffy several doses of a potent aphrodisiac. now he needs you to take care of him

contains: accidental intoxication, luffy in discomfort/distress, tears, some uncomfortable sex, overstimulation, luffy and zoro in a brief sexual situation

words: 4.8k

_______________________________

It’s all your fault. You’ve hurt him, the little angel. A pleasant but burning pain, he’s attached to you, drooling on your neck and he’s been going for hours and he’s rubbing inside you ceaselessly, you’re dripping with him. He’s whimpering, this sweet boy. His eyes are blown out and hazy and he won’t stop just gazing at you, open-mouthed whimpers while he rubs inside you so deep and rough that god, you can feel it blooming and aching in your stomach, squeezed as you breathe so with every breath he moans in frustration and desire. Luffy just wanted chocolate, it’s all your fault.

______________________________

This town is seedy and dark. You like it because you can’t find these sorts of shops in regular port towns, places selling hallucinogens and fake medicine and alcohol for 100 berries a bottle. The sex shops don’t even board up their windows, that’s why you and Nami thought why not, let’s explore.

It’s not a serious shopping trip, more of a chance to laugh, tease each other, indulge in curiosity. This store’s set into the ground, beneath a metal stairway, it’s starting to rain so you two run for cover in the most interesting place.

The sex shop, which is very dim, all lantern light, is filled with things neither of you had ever seen before or thought to consider. The salesman is pushy, coming from behind the counter to try to sell you things you certainly hadn’t come there for. You laugh and walk around and whisper to each other. And even though you’re in a loving relationship these aren’t things you’ve thought to consider. Luffy wouldn’t like any of this. You would never do something to hurt or confuse him, not when you’re both vulnerable like that. But these low prices intrigue Nami who tells you that hey, why not get some cute lingerie?

“They’ve got a whole wall of it!” She points to the colorful selection of lace and silk and you do admit, it’s beautiful. It’s not something Luffy would care about really but you’d feel pretty in it, maybe. They’ve even got these cute little translucent night dresses that look so comfortable.

So you approach the salesman with your arms full of lingerie and he looks eager to be selling to two beautiful women. He keeps talking about deals and discounts, and with a little wink he throws in a special offer, with those two night dresses you’re buying you get free aphrodisiacs. Chocolate aphrodisiacs in a little white box and he keeps telling you these things are powerful. It’s a special deal, just for you. And with laughter and encouragement from Nami you say why not. You take them, even though you don’t think you’ll ever use them.

___________________________

Weeks go by. That little box, it rests forgotten in some dresser drawer. You tend to forget things at sea.

And there’s this island, more of an ocean mountain really, with jagged cliffs for beaches but there’s a small jungle on top, there might be food or resources up there. So Sanji and Zoro are going to go, and Luffy absolutely insists on coming with them. He’s all excited about it, hyper, rolling on his feet because he’s been kept away too long on the ship and he wants to explore.

But he’s not feeling quite himself. You’ve been short on food and Luffy’s had it bad, never satisfied after meals for the last couple days. That’s why this ocean mountain is the center of your universe with only the promise of a grove of mango trees, a flock of quail. So he’s begging you, pawing at your knees as you sit in bed and begging to get something to eat before he goes exploring. You try to help, maybe there’s something in a drawer, you get to your knees and dig through your dresser while Luffy crouches behind you, leaning on your back, you feel his warmth through your shirt. He’s impatient so he bites the back of your neck, tender but sharp.

You find the little box. You have no memory, in that moment, of where you got it. There’s no label, and you later think to yourself why the hell was there no label? but of course it doesn’t cross your mind right here. It’s a little box of chocolates and before you even have a chance to remember, Luffy snatches them out of your hand and says thank you and kisses you quickly on the cheek, cupping your face, his lips wet from hunger. And he sprints away, leaving you blushing, sitting there on your floor with a little smile.

_________________________

He’s beginning to feel very warm but it’s just the sun, probably. He takes off his cardigan, carrying it on his arm. His skin glistens golden in the light, a perfectly burnt brown, but now he’s going red with flush creeping from his face to his shoulders. Luffy’s breathing is irregular now, shuddering. He looks around, the trees wavering just a bit in a cloudy haze through his eyes.

“Sanji?” And he reaches for Sanji’s hand because for some reason he craves contact right now. But Sanji pulls away, feeling the layer of sweat coating Luffy’s palm. “I feel weird.”

Sanji’s eyes wander him. He can sense there’s something not right in Luffy’s stare, something dulled and far away. Something’s wrong, what’s wrong?

“Luffy?” Sanji doesn’t know what to do in these kinds of situations. “You should go see Chopper,” he says finally with his hand on Luffy’s shoulder, gingerly.

“Don’t wanna go back yet.” Luffy’s complaining despite the discomfort. And when he sees that Sanji won’t tell him anything he wants to hear, he turns and disappears into the underbrush, maybe water will help, something cold.

So he comes to this little pond, crystal clear and dappled by sunlight, there’s frogs on the lilly pads. If he wades to his thighs he won’t pass out, probably. There isn’t much care for himself in this moment, just a need to get rid of this burning. So he strips off his jeans which helps, strangely. A breeze hits his now bare body. He feels raw in a way he never has before.

That’s a yearning need to touch himself, but no, Luffy doesn’t think about that. He’s hot so he needs to get in the water. He stumbles on the rocks because his vision isn’t quite right. He shouldn’t go to his waist but that’s where the burning is. Ankles then knees then thighs, ripples lap between his legs, he’s left panting and tingling, that water is hitting nerve endings and with every wave comes friction that makes his body twitch. He wants more.

His hand flies to his cock as if by impulse, all of a sudden. There’s no thoughts now, just need, his hand rubs himself messily even though Luffy has no control, no concept of what he’s doing or why.

God, please.

He bends over a little, head down. Beads of sweat from his brow speckling the water as his whole body shakes back and forth and his muscles spasm. Frustration fogs his mind, with every pump it only stretches his skin, not enough friction, his hand is clamped down so tight that it’s doing nothing for him. He feels like crying. He hates that he wants to go home.

But this isn’t home. And as Luffy moans unabashedly this sounds like cries from pain, which they are, a bit. So it’s Zoro who hears him and without a second thought he’s tearing through the underbrush, tripping over his own feet, led blindly by his worst sound in the world — Luffy crying.

He shouts his name and crashes through the trees, he’s in the clearing and looking around desperately but what he sees makes him yell again. There’s Luffy, the love of Zoro’s life, completely naked and wading in the water of that crystal clear pond and moving sporadically as he rubs his cock, so painfully rock hard, over and over in this animalistic desperation as he cries and whimpers. He doesn’t know where he is or who’s around him and he doesn’t see Zoro.

Until he’s shoved from the side, a powerful push that sends him tumbling into the water, cruel cold water that sucks him in and starts a familiar panic within his heart that makes him forget for a moment about that burning inside him.

“WHAT THE FUCK, LUFFY?!” Zoro pulls him by his hair, shaking him, throwing him on the rocks and looking at Luffy with these stricken eyes, unable to comprehend what he’s seeing. His composure in that moment is shattered, his fists are clenched.

They’ve seen each other naked so many times. They’ve bathed and held and carried each other with nothing between their skin, it’s just how it happens sometimes when you’re that close. But this intimacy, this state Luffy’s in, it’s like nothing Zoro was prepared to see or could even really imagine out of Luffy. Something is horribly wrong.

“Zoro…” and Luffy’s taken up in his arms because no disgust or awkwardness comes before helping a friend who’s hurting. “I feel… I dunno… what’s- …”

Luffy’s voice is so slurred, his body is tense and so solid but yet somehow he’s still melting. Zoro’s finding it hard to look at him, do anything other than just sit there and hold him, uncomfortable at how he can feel that heat from between Luffy’s legs radiating and blooming condensation on Zoro’s skin. He has absolutely no idea how to even begin to approach this situation. So he’s rough and sloppy as he dresses his friend, his cardigan’s on and his sandals are on and his hat has been slammed over his eyes. But Zoro, teeth gritted, has to shove Luffy’s cock in his jeans himself because this boy is useless like this. He’s silently vowing to never talk or think about this moment again, how sticky his hands now feel, how Luffy moans as he’s touched and leans into Zoro and how his cock twitches with an overpowering need to fuck anything that’s close.

Zoro won’t think about this again. He just picks Luffy up and carries him away without saying a word.

______________________________

You’re just looking out the window. Unmoving sun, unmoving sea. You want to eat or go somewhere and maybe you should’ve begged and made them take you on the island.

Is it the island, or do you just miss Luffy?

But it’s not long before your door is kicked open, you jump, eyes wide, whipping around to find Zoro cradling your boyfriend, who looks sick. Fear shoots through you and closes your throat especially when you see Zoro’s eyes, vacant and upset and he looks dissociated, blank.

“Oh god, Luffy.” You run to him and your hands go to his face and just stroke his cheeks, he’s sweaty and burning up like he’s caught in a deep fever. “What happened?” Your eyes are wild and scared as you turn to Zoro.

“I don’t know what you gave him. Just… deal with it.” Zoro dumps Luffy into your arms and you stumble as he curls up into you, drooling all over your neck. And Zoro gives his shoulder one last squeeze and turns away, closing the door behind him, running off down the hall, somewhere where he can’t hear that crying anymore.

And yes, Luffy’s crying. You set him down on your bed, rubbing the back of his head and holding his hand. “Hey, hey, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“Dunno what’s happening…” Luffy’s eyes are pleading and endlessly deep right now. His legs are kicking against the air and he keeps shifting around, he can’t sit still.

With his free hand he’s rubbing between his legs like he’s scratching an itch, but he doesn’t stop, your gaze follows him and oh, oh fuck. He’s got this tight, obvious hardness in his jeans. Straining so hard the zipper is shaking with tension. You’ve never seen anything like this.

Your mind is racing, this isn’t just horniness, Luffy has never been sexsick like this before.

You trace it all back and nothing was wrong when he left. Just bright eyed innocence, affection, nothing strange. And suddenly it hits you, that box, those chocolates.

Oh god. Oh my god.

You fed him an aphrodisiac. An aphrodisiac from a sketchy shop in an old-town basement, a powerful drug, just one would keep you up a whole night.

And you let Luffy eat them all.

“Lu… god, I’m sorry,” is all you can say as he crawls into your lap and breathes on your face. You take off his hat and ruffle his hair. How can you even explain this to him? He’s not going to understand. “I’m so sorry. This is my fault, I gave you an aphrodisiac by mistake.” You’re choked up. You hurt him.

“…” Luffy’s mouth is hanging open, drool coating his chin, dazed, so confused. “Hm?” His voice is even gravelier than normal.

“Those weren’t normal chocolates. They make your body… ready for sex? It’s supposed to be a fun thing. B- but I forgot they weren’t just normal chocolates! God, I’m so sorry.” You’re breaking down, you’re cuddling with him now, head on his shoulder.

“Oh.” You can’t really tell how much he understands. And his voice is quiet when he asks, “when’s it gonna go ‘way?”

“…I don’t know. I’m gonna try to help, ok? Let’s fuck for a few hours and get it out. It’s gonna be ok, Lu.”

His pupils expand when you say this, his eyes going from brown to deep black. He wants that so, so bad. He’s just sort of figuring that out now. “Heh, yeah.” He squirms in your lap, cock so hard you can feel his zipper sliding down on its own, as his breath gets heavier, this desperate ball of energy spasming in your arms.

Then he smiles. And he attacks.

He flips you onto your back and groans, hips thrusting into yours as his lips find your mouth, saliva leaking past your lips, you swallow as they part. You’re wearing these soft cotton shorts and you feel his aching cock smacking the fabric as it pushes and strains to break free from his pants with every motion. He moans so loud you know everyone can hear. Now he’s drooling again, spitting on your face because he’s lost control of his jaw, you’re winded but you grab his face and kiss him, he didn’t even know he needed this.

He falls on you now. He’s all splayed out and whining and just kissing you as if he’s been challenged, teeth and tongue working through every part of your mouth. He’s loud when he kisses, and now every breath is a groan of want.

“Undress me…” you whisper to him, grabbing the back of his neck, he seems like he’ll explode if he keeps on like this without being deep inside you.

With a strangled “Mh,” Luffy’s fingernails scrape your skin in a desperate attempt to pull off your dress. He’s ripping cloth, damn, you can hear him ripping cloth. Nothing you can do now.

But you can tell as your skin shines bare and he tears his own clothes from his body, as his sweat drenches you and that heat like a tropical hurricane all over but especially where it pools between his legs and oh you’d be scared if you looked there now, you can tell he’s about to just go in you with no thought or reason and harder than he’s ever gone before. So — and you hate to do this — you grab his shoulders. You stare him in the eyes.

“Luffy. Listen to me.”

your eyes reach his soul, he tries to look at you with anything close to coherence, he wants to follow your lead, he doesn’t understand anything right now. But there’s a hailstorm inside his mind. But he tries to listen.

“Don’t be too rough, please, can you promise?” Your voice is shaky because you’re not sure what he’s about to do. Luffy would never intentionally hurt you but he’s powerful, his body is strange, he works in ways neither of you understand. He has the power to really, really damage you and the carelessness to not see it happening. So you beg him with your eyes.

“I promise,” he gasps softly, one hand curling behind your neck, and he presses his face against your cheek, trying to harden his eyes in the gentle seriousness of the moment. Luffy is incapable of feeling sadism towards you of any kind and he’s at war with his body and the energy bursting within him right now. But he promises.

You smile and your feet rest on his hips and thighs, you feel him sizzling beneath your touch. The surface of his skin wavers before your eyes from the heat, you understand now the idea of mirages, he looks covered in amber rain even as his skin burns beneath your hands.

“Slow,” you ask softly in his ear, making Luffy whine in hunger.

There it is. What you don’t dare look at you can feel. Swollen and throbbing it feels like a whole other animal is just clawing there beneath that rice paper skin. You can feel his heartbeat in the tip of his cock as he touches you and it speeds up thousands of times in an instant. His thighs clamp around yours and his nails are sharp and Luffy groans in your ear. He’s made of nerve endings that send him twitching writhing with every tiny movement. He needs you now.

He pushes himself in and every bit of friction sends him convulsing against you, squeezing you tighter. You can feel the struggle in his muscles to hold back but that deep, tangible yearning for relief. He’s in and you’re both gasping for air. You’re not used to the size or the heat or that artificially induced power that’s overcome his body. But you’re proud of him and you tug his hair to tell him a quiet thank you, you’re ok, he’s keeping you safe.

All your touches are too much. His hips move messily against you like he doesn’t have the capacity to understand what to do right now. But he’s just going to follow that deep primal craving so he rocks into you with all his weight, crushing you again and again, eyes closed, mouth trying to find yours.

It’s the movement but also the way you’re being held. It’s a scary heaven. He’s going deep and he’s not pulling out just throwing himself against you over and over as if there’s any more he has to go. He’s whimpering and his body is shaking in need.

But he goes faster and now this is what you’re scared of, weighted rubber moves and stretches with momentum, he’s squeezing you tighter and tighter and with each slam against your body his cock buries into you so impossibly deep as his skin stretches and snaps within you. You whine and try to steady him but Luffy’s in this cloud right now. His teeth are digging deep into your neck and he’s drooling all over you, saliva dripping down your shoulder and chest.

When he cums it’s so hot it feels like lava. There’s so much of it. That relief at the slowness, liquid soothing beaten flesh, that’s heaven as you lay beneath him, wrapped in his arms. Is it over? No, no it isn’t.

But first, while he’s stunned and unable to move, you squish his face in your hands. “Luffy,” you breathe heavily into his mouth, “be more gentle. Please. You’re gonna hurt me.”

His eyes are wide and concerned. “I hurt you?” he whimpers from his swollen, shiny lips.

“I’m ok, don’t worry, just please be more gentle.” And you smile at him. That sets something off in his heart and you feel him harden again inside you.

He grins, lifting you back so you’re pressed against his chest, on his lap. And he shoves you down against him as you squirm in his arms, he rolls your hips on his as his strong hands take total control of your body, hungry eyes gazing at you with deep, immeasurable lust. From this new position he has so much control, he’s using your body for his release in as loving a way as possible, biting at your skin. You’re left to twitch in his grasp and hug him, letting yourself bask in this incredible tsunami.

The bouncing and stretching of his cock isn’t as bad in this position although you’re still impossibly full, limp in the overwhelming motion. But that heat is becoming uncomfortable, your cheek from its rest on his shoulder is covered in layers of sweat and you feel it pooling around every point of contact. He smells like burning rubber and thick, palpable sweat. His skin begins to sear your hands and you only realize what’s happening when he starts to steam. Billowing steam clouding your room and soaking you in hot, wet air like you’re in an erupting volcano. You’re not sure which gear he’s changing to and you don’t want to find out.

“LUFFY!” You yell through your haze and hit his back and it’s so hard to talk to him like this, his moans are drowning out your cries, he’s moving faster and faster and his hair and mouth and the area between your legs is already lost in clouds of white steam. “STOP!”

He yelps and rolls off of you. Your words cut his heart. You’re both drenched and your bed is soaking, your hair in your eyes dripping down your face mixed with tears you didn’t even know were there. Luffy looks confused, disoriented, he’s still steaming but it’s slowing now, his skin is dulling to its usual hue, his hair falls back over his face. He doesn’t know what to say.

“You were changing gears,” you murmur under your breath. “Luffy, that could’ve been bad.”

“I’m- I’m sorry…” he whimpers and looks down at himself. There’s still a cloud of blinding steam circling up the shaft of his cock, blooming from his tip and shimmering in droplets rolling down the red, tight skin. He looks at you with puppy eyes, needing your arms again.

You let him crawl to you. You let him place his head under your hand to be pet and comforted. He feels terrible but he feels sick, too, a sickness only cured by the deepest and most indescribable pleasure. He’s melting in your arms, as needy as when he was given to you, eyes blurry. You let him rest his head in your lap and drink in your scent, blankets tucked between his legs for the slightest friction.

“It’ll feel better if you don’t go so fast,” you say softly, stroking his wet hair. And he nods.

“Can I have more now? I’ll be better to ya. I really promise.”

His hands feel gentler now. You let him climb your body and capture you in another deep kiss. And with your legs crossed behind his back you let him fuck you again and chase his second orgasm and he’s right, he’s better now. He’s fighting with his body but he’s better.

When he cums again it feels boiling hot. It’s shot after shot deep inside you and he tugs your hair, bites your shoulder, strokes your lower stomach before moving down to rub at your clit which is incredible because he never thinks of that. This drug is making him different, his mind is overwhelmed by sex in a way it never is. Part of you likes it a lot. It’s new. It’s fun.

It doesn’t take him long before he’s hard again and dragging his cock through your walls in deep, deliberate strokes with his tongue in your mouth. Luffy is a million miles above the earth. With every orgasm his world shakes and crumbles for an instant before it’s rebuilt again in waves of desire that send him higher, higher. He’s a million miles above the earth and even as hours slip by and his body is drained again and again, he can’t come down.

__________________________

At some point the ship has set sail again. Clouds crawl by the porthole and the ocean rocks you both but you and Luffy stay in that soaked bed and get lost in each other for so long that you don’t even know what’s real anymore. You can’t tell sensation from sensation. Neither can he but he can’t come down.

There was that perfect sweet spot where you had just swam in each other in bliss and peace. You didn’t have to stop his gear changes anymore because his body had adjusted to this new universe. And you were in tune with each other. But now, now it’s bad again.

But in a different way.

Luffy is exhausted but so desperate still. His tears have started again and he doesn’t know what to do and he can’t even move and every part of his body aches. You’ve never seen him like this during sex, he’s never weak or tired. But his body is drained.

But that drug won’t let go.

“You ok?” you’re whispering, hand on his face. You lift Luffy in your arms and place him on his back. His eyes won’t leave yours, he’s starry eyed and love struck through his tears.

“Mh…” is all you can make out. He looks down at himself, his body is dripping wet and his cock is hard again, throbbing hard in overstimulation.

Every touch seems like it’s painful to him now. But he wants more so, so bad. So you place a pillow under his head, you curl up against his body, and you rub him with your hand. Your arm gets tired but you keep going for as long as you possibly can. And sometimes Luffy will open his mouth in a silent, breathless moan, sometimes his body will convulse and his cock will twitch. But his orgasms are dry now. There’s nothing left in him.

The last one, that’s when he grabs your face. With his last bit of strength he rolls onto you and clutches your cheeks in his hands and just stares at you, not letting you move, his thighs squeezing your leg. He rubs himself off on you one last time and with a final shudder he’s done. It’s all gone. It’s over.

He collapses into your arms, too tired to breathe anymore. You expect him to just sleep right there but instead he twists onto his back, batting at your face with his palm lazily, playfully. He giggles. He looks dreamy and dazed. But happy, actually. Really happy.

“Feeling alright?” You’re worried. You’re guilty, still. You’re praying nothing hurt him or made him sick.

“Mhm. Feel good!” Luffy’s beaming as if he already forgot everything that happened. He’s glowing, chest rising and falling heavily. But he tilts his head questioningly, “you?”

“Yeah. Just sore.” To which he rolls onto his elbows, kicking his legs in the air, he holds your body, he gives your hips a soft kiss. He’s appreciative, he’s so soft now, honey skin glowing in the sleepy sunshine.

But everything is wet. Your clothes on the bed next to you, the sheets, your bodies and hair. So with your arms around his shoulders, because it will be hard to walk for a while, the two of you throw on robes and step outside. You forgot the smell of fresh sea air after that mist of sex and sweat. Luffy’s heart beats against yours, calm and healthy, steady.

He sets you down and you take him in your arms, now, laying him against the mast. You take a towel to his hair, drying him, the sun on the wind sending the dewdrops you’re made of falling away from your shoulders in rainbows. You’re glittering, you and Luffy.

You should get you both some food soon, you should give yourselves a real bath, you should go and comfort Zoro and assure him that you’re both ok. But not yet. You don’t want that yet.

You avoid the eyes of the others as they pass below. You don’t want to talk about this with anyone but Luffy right now, the boy who looks like an angel resting below you, chiseled glistening body, sunlight divinity. He opens his mouth, he kisses your fingertips as you brush hair from his cheeks.

He wants to talk to you at first but he finds that his eyes are too heavy. He just yawns instead, and bares his teeth in a smile. And he holds your hand tightly with this deep, profound gratitude. You hear him whisper, beneath his breath, that he loves you.

#luffy x reader smut #one piece smut #luffy x reader #one piece #luffy #one piece x reader #one piece fanfiction #luffy x y/n #luffy x you #luffy smut #aphrodisiac luffy #luffy x f!reader

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kojitheopossum · 4 months ago

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plz show more wof? plz? *gives adorable puppy eyes*

Here ya go anon o7

The premise is just what if the watchers were an animus dragon who randomly chose all the life series members to fight to the death (queen scarlet style)

Full assignment list under cut, i will defend most of these to the death

bdubs: mud

bigb: rain/night

etho: ice

gem: ice/sky

scar: night

grian: rain

impulse: night/sand

martyn: sand

lizzie: sea

mumbo: sky/sea

pearl: silk

ren: sky/mud

skizz: mud

scott: sea

joel: mud/leaf

jimmy: sand/sky

tango: sky

cleo: sea

#etho #bdubs #tango #ethoslab #bdoubleo100 #tangotek #wings of fire #hermitcraft #the life series #trafficblr #hermitblr #asks #my art #giving up on tags now

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yandere-daydreams · 1 year ago

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tw - implied non/con, nonconsensual drug use, obsessive behavior, and gn!reader.

It was starting to rain.

When you’d let yourself into Neuvillette’s office, the sky had been clear and blue, the sun shining so brightly that you’d had to squint whenever you were facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the wall behind his desk, but clouds had gathered since then, smothering the light and casting the world in a dull, grey hue – only interrupted by the occasional bolt of webbed lightening or crack of thunder. It hadn’t started to fall yet, but it would. You’d lived in Fontaine long enough to know that storms never stopped at just an overcast sky.

You tried to find a window, to check if you could see the haze of rain in the distance, but your body ached at the thought of moving, a sharp shock of pain running from the pit of your stomach to the back of your throat. With some difficulty, you managed to turn your head, but a gloved hand wrapped around your chin and dragged you back into place before you could so much as hope to check on the storm’s progress. You let your eyes drift back to Neuvillette, a small frown tugging at the corner of your lips, but he seemed unaffected, too busy rutting his hips against yours and groping at your waist to notice your disappointment. He was probably distracted. Even in his best moments, he tended to be more oblivious than his stoic demeanor would let on. You loved your job, treasured the opportunity to tend to such an extensive archive, but your boss could be airheaded, prone to burying himself in his work for days at a time and taking hours to do little more than admire the way the sea broke against the shore. Things like your petty, mortal concerns weren’t really worth his attention.

…it was Neuvillette above you, right? You were still in his office, splayed across one of his velvet-lined love seats, and you could remember sharing a cup of tea with him after you stopped by to drop off the case files he’d requested, but this didn’t feel like something Neuvillette would do, and it didn’t look like Neuvillette above you. You could recognize a few disconnected features – silver hair, fine clothes, porcelain skin – but they were all misplaced, all distorted to the point of complete unrecognizability. His hair was unbound, falling around you in thick curtains and casting the world around you in a bleary haze of ivory, and his clothes were in a similar state of disarray, silk and leather wrinkled and disheveled, his shirt and undercoat torn open to reveal his heaving chest. His skin was worst of all, stained with a dull pink flush and marred with sweat and drool. His lips were bruised, swollen, and you could see a thin line of azure scales creeping up the side of his throat, slowly infecting his—

That pointed, acidic pain ran through you again, but you tried to ignore it, to block it out, to think about other things. Things you could understand. Things like the rain. You could hear it, now – pattering against glass, creating a near-deafening fog of numbing white noise. In the absence of anything else to occupy yourself with, your mind turned backward, first to the strange, bitter taste of the tea he’d served you, then further, to when you started your work with Neuvillette and how comforted you’d been by his steady hand and gentle smile. Eventually, you uncovered a well-buried conversation you’d had with your neighbor when you first came to Fontaine, something about a saying her children liked to repeat to the point of nausea when the rainfall forced them inside. It was about a monster, or... was it a dragon? It was hard to remember. It was hard to think.

You felt something wet fall onto your cheek. A raindrop, you figured, even if you couldn’t imagine the Palais Mermonia ever springing a leak. There was another, then another, raining down freely until you managed to lift a hand, finding Neuvillette’s cheek. “Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon,” you mumbled, your voice rough, hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Please don’t cry.”

A hitched sob, a face buried in the dip of your shoulder, Neuvillette’s skin cold as ice against your own. You couldn’t bring yourself to care about the chill, the dampness, the throbbing ache now stitched into the fabric of your being, what little energy you still had waning until you couldn’t bear to keep your eyes open, until you were just some limp item underneath him. It was all you could do to hope that, by the time you woke up, the Neuvillette looking after you would be your own, that you’d be able to do more than blink and dream.

It was all you could do to hope that, by then, the storm will have passed and you’d be able to see the sun again.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere drabble #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #genshin x reader #yandere genshin imagines #genshin imagines #yandere neuvillette #neuvillette x reader #yanderecore #yancore

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punk-in-docs · 4 months ago

Text

A song of brides and hounds: part III

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 4.3k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW: for this chapter - mainly violence and some gore, also Caracalla being a nasty little bitch -- enjoy!

The servant girls’ hands are kind.

They undress you softly, and handle you with such reverence. Strip from you the ruined stola and tend your wounds.

They wash your feet, ply your cuts with a herbal paste of yarrow and uva ursi, wrap you in bandages. They rub new sweet smelling oil onto your unwounded skin.

Pick off your old jewellery and finery to be discarded. Slip you out your shoes. Lay you bare. Stood before them in naught but your skin as they tend you.

One is wetting, oiling and combing your netted hair to silky serenity again. Another is cleaning the wound on your elbow. All traces of dirt - and your previous life along with it - slowly removed.

Stood you in a shallow golden tub of warm water that laps at your ankles. Milky with oils and soaps. They put rose petals in the water. You watch them swim and dip.

You beg for one of the girls to keep the fibulae broaches that held your now damned dress to your shoulders. Your very last essence of home. Venus was enshrined in those very broaches. They gave you hope. Carrying a small kind piece of goddess with you. Laying your devotion to the majesty of the ocean on your simple shoulders.

They guided you to rooms draped in blue and gold. Stars moulded on the ceiling with the ornate marble that drips from every wall and corner. Giving the false illusion of a night sky. The flat ceiling between them clouded with bursts and puffs of dark blue that indicated churning night clouds. Boundless skies. Endless seas.

It felt like showing all the maps of the world to a caged bird.

Soft feminine blues befit these chambers. Statues and devotion to goddesses crown the walls and doorways. Urns of large stemmed white flowers. One wall holds a table lined with a huge offering of fruits, dried and fresh. Some bread and cured meats and oiled small fish. And an amphora of wine and goblet for after your bathing.

The air in here is scented all floral herb and clean. Too clean. No hint of sea salt or dried weed that tumbles on the shore to bake in the sun. It’s unfamiliar.

The huge slab of the cushioned bed is draped with silks and gauzy canopy curtains the colour of dove feathers. You don’t want to look at it. You dread thinking what will happen in it tonight.

A large maw of balcony gapes at another side of the room. This shows you the wall of rain outside. The violent tumble of thunder that must be shaking the very hills and peoples of Rome.

You feel as if the sea is raging because you’ve been stolen from it. Now it seeks vengeance on the land. Lashing and storming mercilessly until you’re found. Back where you belong.

Unlikely. It will have to rage on.

You stand, undressed, unseeing. Uncaring for the wealth of the room you’ve been pulled into.

The maid behind you, Oriana, a sweet and silent blonde, is scooping your hair back from your neck to comb and ply it with vanilla and orchid oil. Dark sweet musk.

Geta had specifically requested it.

Your head servant is a maid called Aeliana.

She has an accent you can’t place. It’s pretty, her tone husky. She had wonderful raven hair spilling silky and free over her shoulders, eyes dark as cassia bark, almond shaped. Long lashes. The epitome of tranquil beauty.

The colour of her dress is different to the rest of them. Indicating her higher status. Rusty red and it readily compliments the natural darkness of her skin. She wore golden bangles threaded on each wrist, and her touch is cloud soft.

She has a scar that intersects down from the middle of her forehead, across her left eye and cheek and ends there. Skin twisted and healed shiny. An old wound. It makes her striking to look at.

Worse still; She catches you staring.

Lowers her eyes as she tended you. Layering the sticky wet herbal treatment to your wounded elbow.

“Does my appearance displease you, my lady?” She lapses into silence for a moment or two.

“If you’d prefer I could send for another handmaiden to come tend you-“ She asks. Not harshly. There’s a hint of shame to her tone.

You look to her. Fearful of offence.

“I am not displeased. Forgive me. To stare so openly is rude.” You mutter. Eyes falling to your feet again. You watch rose petals sway on the water. You swallow thickly.

If she’s amused at your asking her, a servant, for forgiveness, she doesn’t show it. She calmly counters;

“You are Empress Salacia of Rome. You are allowed to stare at whomever you wish.” She tells you plainly.

Your eyes water. You bite inside your lower lip before you respond.

Not yet I’m not. And I don’t want to be.

“How came you by the scar?” You ask. Knowing full well you won’t like the answer. She gently washed your shoulder with a cloth.

“The Emperor.” She tells frankly.

At your doe eyed expression of horror she elucidates.

“Not Emperor Geta. His brother, Caracalla. Emperor Geta’s temper may be foul and quick to boil. But, Caracalla he is… far crueler.” She explains.

Your mouth purses into a thin line.

Oriana has finished oiling your hair. Now she was styling it into waves. Decorated with ornaments of netted gold. Geta requested it down as opposed to the normal bridal style. Emperors have what they want.

“What was the reason…” You sought. Fearing the answer.

“I was too slow in bringing his wine one night.” She offers. Plucking a vial of oil from the side table and coming back to rub it into your bare arms.

You squeeze your eyes closed. Ignore the tickle of tears that threaten your scrunched eyelids.

This is the savage world you must inhabit now. Try to navigate with sharper hungrier teeth and deadlier instinct. You don’t feel ready. You must become lionhearted and fierce. Carry knives. Be ruthless.

You hear your mothers reverent voice in your head. Sweet sea child. You were not made that way.

“I am sorry for your pain. Aeliana. But I am grateful for your warning.” You decide.

She nods. “I thank the goddess’ for you. Empress.” She smiles at you.

Before going to the side to fetch your tunica recta, and the belt you’d wear on your waist in a knot of hercules. Which tradition dictated only Geta was allowed to undo.

Your husband.

You wince. Aueliana notices.

“Your majesty?” She seeks. Sensing your unease.

“I am nervous.” You tell her. You confide your worry in this woman with kind eyes and soft hands.

“It is expected of a bride to be nervous.” She awards you.

“I’m not a normal bride.” You confirm fearfully. She can see them shaking in your gaze. Threatening to breach your lash line.

She nods in understanding. You’re sure they all knew. The reason that placed you here. Spread like wildfire on dry plains through the servant halls.

“I know little of managing a husband. Of… starting a family.”

“If I may, your majesty. Your family is a noble one, yes?” She asks.

You nod. You lived in one of the richest houses in Corsica. You were never lacking in money or ribbons and new jewels. But at best you were a senators daughter. Not the ideal stock for an Emperors wife. Not the type to be governing one great nation.

“My grandmother is a well known seer in these parts. A healer. Purveyor of white magic. Many a time she has seen things that have yet to come to pass…” She explains as she wraps the belt around your waist. Speaking as she does.

“She foretold your arrival. Said the future of Rome would be written by rain and storm, when blood spills on the ancient serpent stone.”

Serpent. Synonymous with the Traitor. Two faced and shedding skin. Blood spilling, the death of your Brother. Rain on the rocks- this storm hammering down. You can’t believe it.

“What if Rome is your destiny?” She explains. Her voice kind and brave as the candles flicker and the storm rages on.

“Then I pray the goddess’ convey me the strength to survive it.”

“I will pray too.” She takes your hand. It feels like kinship.

They stepped you out of the tub and began to pat you dry with cloths and then dress you.

With each pass of their hands wiping the water from your skin, it removed you further and further from yourself.

Aeliana rubs a sweet balm like texture onto your pebbled nipples before she robes you. Said it was to increase your fertility. She also lines your eyes with burnt kohl.

They pulled your dress on around you. Let it fall into beautiful waves. You stood sedately and let them manoeuvre you.

Your skin positively draped with as much fragrant oil as it could take. Anointed with your new life as it drips off you in unbearable sweetness. Decorations not of your choosing put into your hair, on your ears, around your neck, on your arms. Strangled by someone else’s finery.

Slid fine golden sandals onto your feet. Aeliana brought a flame red veil and pinned it in place over your head. It floated down to your shoulders. Securing a crown of myrtle flowers over it.

It may have been gauzy fabric; rich and fine. But it felt like iron to you. Iron veil and a crown of thorns.

When they finish readying you, they bow and leave you alone to eat the fresh bread and fruits. Drink the sweet wine. Night closes in around you.

You didn’t ever picture the night before your wedding being like this. Alone and noiseless save for rain. You pictured the noise and gaiety of your sisters, dancing in their fine dresses. How they’d carry golden stalks of wheat to signify your prosperous marriage - how it would bear fruit. Be blessed by gods and fortune.

Your mother would bind your hands to the man you’d marry. To the man you’d love.

And you are here. Miserable in cold indifference. Clothed in perfumed oil and silence. With only your dour thoughts for company.

You pick at your offering of food. Feeling the milky eyes of those female deity marble statues watching you carefully. Judging. Maybe even disappointed.

When the doors next shudder open as the guards outside push them open, a divine older woman comes striding slowly, surely, into the room. Confidence woven into her steps like the very fine lavender purple cloth folded around her shoulders. A beautiful sage green palla. Her hair is dark and braided masterfully on her head. Shot through with bolts of silver.

You recognise her from coins. From statues. The Dowager Empress of Rome. Julia Domna.

She looks wise as Minerva. Goddess of education indeed. All of Rome had heard tale of not only her beauty, but her mind. Sharp as an arrowhead. A gentle mediator between her rabid sons.

Out of sheer politesse and nerves, you bolt out your seat and bow your head to her. Words shrivel on your tongue. Royalty is stood before you. Here you are plucked from the dungeons. You feel unworthy.

“Rise, my child.” She bids you. Holding out a hand laid with jewels on nearly every finger. Standing before you. Close enough to discern some of your beauty through the veil.

She examines you. Not unkindly. The way you’d expect a mother to examine the vessel that will carry her sons legacy. She’s discerning.

“Let me see my sons choice then…” she bids. Hands crossed in front of her, diplomatically, as she lets her deep set, serious eyes become acquainted with all of you.

Choice? Or chattel?

She walks around you. Eyes your hair. Your build. Your hips. The way you’ve been presented like a prized sacrificial swine before the crowds on Saturnalia.

And she doesn’t appear to find you lacking

“Goodness. You really are beautiful.” She says. It sounds mournful. Introspective. As if she didn’t intend on you hearing it.

“He’s made a fine choice.” She lauded

“Corsica, I hear you hail from?”

“Yes, Dowager.”

“I want to know one thing.” She says. Voice hard as newly forged steel. A shiver runs your spine. So she could be terrifying if she wishes.

“Are you a traitor against Rome?” She demands. “There are spies who would conspire to align themselves with this great house, under false guises, to murder my sons.” She speaks, crossly. Eyes aflame.

She has bite after all. Lions teeth and knows full well how to use them.

“I am no spy. I am not a murderer I have no guise. Like you. I only want to protect those whom I love.” You answer calmly. Placid easy waves. Gently now.

She smiles. Though something curious still lurks in her eyes.

“Then we are on the same page.” She awards slyly. You feel as if you’ve passed a test.

Her smile crooks on one side. Relieved.

She turns to the doors. The great sway of her earrings are big as chandeliers as she moves. Stunning gold. Bands of gold also cross her well formed upper arms. Every inch a woman of gentility and riches. She is perfumed with lavender. Oil made from dried plants fetched all the way from purple fields in Aquitania.

“My son grows impatient to see his bride. Come. Salacia. It is time.” She offers her arm to you.

Apparently your destiny lays in wait.

The wedding was a short and simple affair. The Dowager Empress led you to the grand rooms where they were to be held.

Grand, just like the rest of this humongous sprawling palace.

When you see Geta, he is clad in so much gold and armour. A blinding white cloak draped off his form. Armour golden. Carved with gods and victorious hero’s of battle. Golden laurel crown adorns his head. His smile at the sight of you makes you blush with attention.

You are suddenly grateful for the veil. It manages to hide you from every stranger in this room. You can make out Caracalla. Some other senators. Other guests you’ve no idea who.

The celebrant, a rather portly priest, ordered the evil spirits away. Asked for the fire spirits to bless you. He invoked Janus to watch over you from single people to a joined couple. New beginnings.

When it is time, he takes your hand and carefully threads an engagement ring on your finger. It is weighty, pure gold. An imitation of two dog heads joined together. A round sapphire cradled between their mouths. As if they’re fighting for it.

Remus and Romulus. It reminds you of him already.

You dare to meet his eyes as he does it. He looks ravenous. Umbra catching you where you stand. Swallows you whole. You don’t think you can get used to it yet.

“Wherever you go, there also go I, as your wife.” You speak.

The dowager Empress binds your hands together with blood red linen as the rest of the vows are read. The way his fingers turn and grip the inside of your forearm - firm pressing, hot like a brand - it makes you shiver.

Then comes the time for the marriage to be sealed with a kiss. Hands freed.

Your stomach is squirming unpleasantly as your stranger of a groom steps forwards to lift your veil. When he lifts the red gauze from your vision, you keep your eyes lowered until the last moment.

You feel the urging of his eyes. You could hear the fierce nature of his words as if he’d spoken.

Look at me. Salacia.

He looks entirely too boastful. His perfect little nymph. Caught and landed at last.

Hepulled you in by your waist. Locked his hand around your back. Gave you a kiss that was certainly gentler than before. Softness of his lips was maddening when the rest of him was all armour and metal. But you still felt the edge of his teeth on your lower lip. Bursting new pain from where it had split.

It was official. You had been dragged out a golden net cast in the sea. And now property of the Emperor of Rome.

You had no time to let your thoughts wander. There’s been quite the celebration planned for after. He walks beside you as congratulations ripple around you from nobles, senators, generals and high officials of the courts.

You ignore the way Caracalla sneers a particularly vile look your way when you pass him. Plotting.

You are lead to an opulent triclinium. Open to one huge side, guarded by pillars, which overlooked a garden where fountains trickled and plants bloom even in the storm that’s still brewing. Spitting rain on the landscape.

There are torches at the sides of the rooms, huge bowls boasting orange flames that lick at the walls, and freshly plucked flowers, still green branches and fronds sit in urns to the side. Filling the room with petals and heady nectar scent.

There’s a huge swarm of lectus’ in the centre of the room. Bronze laid with cushions. All pointing towards a huge table were bread and wine goblets awaited. You’re not used to how the room echoes. Unused to the sheer amount of people and formality that fills it.

The wine is poured freely by silent servants who sweep in and out. Some of them carrying plates as huge as carriage wheels. A whole roasted boar with grapes spilling out its mouth is brought in. Trays upon trays of cooked moray eels, cod and oiled anchovies. A whole platter of stewed nightingale birds, arranged around stalks of herbs and plums.

There’s fruit and bread the like of which you’ve not seen before. White bowls filled with cut purple figs and waxy oranges. Apples and yellow golden pears on tiered stands. Grapes and dried apricots heaped in dishes. It’s dazzling. So much wealth thrust before you.

You have a cup of sweet honey wine and take some of the unleavened bread. Watching as others around you gorge and toast with their goblets. Drinking strong wine and telling jokes and bawdy stories.

You feel disjointed from it all. You feel the Emperors eyes pass over you. The dowagers too. You are a source of mystery and intrigue.

Plucked from misfortune and placed here at the feet of gods.

You do feel when your new husband slides some pieces of fruit, or fresh breads onto your plate. A small bunch of sweet red grapes. His head may be cocked to conversation in this room. But his attention remains somewhat on you.

“Eat. Wife. I do not wish to force you.” He commands you. Prodding food and more wine in your direction.

Nursing his own cup and barking at the servants when he wanted more. You know his tongue must be stained with the taste by now. Sour purple. You wonder if you’ll taste it later in another of his animalistic kisses.

It feels like there is a boulder in your stomach. You swallow. You sip. You try to breathe. It all feels too restricted.

“Refill my wife’s cup.” Geta demands of the nearest servant. You flinch at his cutting commands.

You meet the servants eyes for a second and flicker them a smile. They look to the ground as they fill your cup. Their poor hands shake. You thank them. They don’t respond.

You’ve a feeling his plying you with wine has more than one ulterior motive. To make you loosen. Make you pliant. Make you slip down easier in his crushing grip.

“I have no appetite.” You admit weakly.

You can’t stomach the way the fat on the meat before you glistens. These poor stewed birds with clipped wings. The gutted boar. Glistening fat and dead meat. Same as the way of those poor flayed men in the coliseum.

Butchered animals. One and the same. The way blood sprayed out on the biscuit brown dirt under the sun. The way viscera glistened bright when spilled free from once living flesh. How these animals looked served on a platter. There’s no difference.

You take some grapes. Pick them from the vine. Bite into some apricots. The fruit rots on your palate. Fine sugary flesh and it bursts on your tongue like ripe putrefaction. You place it gently back on your plate.

“Do they not have fruit in Corsica?” He asks. It’s vaguely mocking.

“We had lemon trees in the gardens. An olive tree in the courtyard. Over 200 years old.” You state quietly. Not taking your eyes off the plate in front of you. You picked and prodded at it.

“You have more now. You are Empress. You have anything you want.” He impressed on you.

“I miss the ocean. The sun on the shoreline. My sisters.” You mutter.

“Don’t risk sounding ungrateful.” He threatens.

Geta followed the path of your reluctant hand with his eyes. He then scans across all of his guests. People of the senate. Rich merchants. Fellow royalty.

They come to snipe and drink wine and watch this new wedded spectacle.

“They are all dull.” Geta decided.

You wonder if the only source of amusement he could delight at was seeing people being beaten to black and blue paste in the coliseum. To have to see the spray of blood to feel something.

“They are intrigued. Their Emperor has placed a traitor in his marriage bed.” You comment.

Geta turned to you. “That sounds like treason to my ears.” A warning.

“Perhaps.” You answered. Boldly.

“But is it inaccurate? It is what they are all thinking.” You add. “You’ve wedded yourself to someone disloyal. Someone who is not their kind. They are curious.”

Geta scans his eyes over everyone again. Their laughter. The flow of wine. The way they stab and cut into food and fruit like they’re half starved. None of them quite meet your eyes.

Perhaps they don’t wish too.

His hand finds the meat of your thigh. Flesh firm and warm.

“They will believe what I tell them too. Wife. You only need worry about your loyal duty to me. Nothing else.” He makes clear.

You go back to pushing bits of fruit around your plate. Taking no more sustenance.

“No doubt you are unused to such finery.” Caracalla pipes up. Seeing you toy with your food. “I wonder what they eat in Corsica. Peasants sea food?”

You meet Caracalla’s eyes across the tables and mountains of rich food.

Getas eyes were dark. Fired by lust for you. That’s what you saw in them when he looked at you.

The same could not be said for Caracalla.

You saw nothing. Just darkness and his love of cruelty. Geta unnerved you. But it was Caracalla who scared you most. It was like gazing into a tomb. A bare skull eye socket. You’re certain nothing but darkness refracted back. Splintered twisted darkness. The purest distilled form of malice.

“Perhaps you are jealous, brother. The fact that I will have heirs meant for the future of the empire. And you will… not.” He snaps. Petulant.

“If she makes it that far.” Caracalla sneers. Daggering a smile right at you. A sneer that make you feel cold. He’s twirling a dagger in his other hand. Eyeing you with sick lustful interest.

He wants your goodness too. He wants it so he can spoil you for himself and ruin Getas legitimacy. By whatever means necessary. Geta has cruelly inserted you into this feud.

“And who’s to say the heir will be yours… who knows where her eyes will stray.” He jabs. Eyes widening as he leers.

Geta stabs into his food. Glaring at his smaller twin all the while. Eyes dark as shadow cloaked black jewels.

When some servants near you move from pouring wine, the sight of the persons impeded by them, slowed your world to a halt, ringing gongs in your ears when you caught sight of someone you recognized.

Macrinus.

The food in your mouth turns to ash which you can hardly stomach swallowing. Your gaze locked on the man as he lays content at your wedding feast. Drinking wine and roaring laughter with Caracalla. Garbed in robes of rich Aquarian blue trimmed with gold pattern.

Exactly the gracious easy way he had been when he dined with you and your father in his home.

His smile remains as he locks eyes with you. And raises his glass in a toast in your direction. You hear him drink to your new name with a blazing smirk aimed your way. “Empress.”

You mumble a pithy excuse. You don’t know if anyone hears you or if they’ll even look up from their plates when you get up and rush to leave.

Caracalla snorts as you race from the room on the verge of tears.

“She’s a flighty one. Your Empress. So full of tears.” Caracalla comments loudly. Cruelly. Turning his head to meet the acid stare of his brother - and the Dowager Empress as she lowers her goblet from her lips. Eyes cool as metal.

“Maybe if you shoved your cock into your broodmare, brother, as you doubtless plan to do this night. Maybe that would settle her down? Or maybe a good beating from the guards will see her right, make her see her place… maybe let a few of the guards bend her over a lectus and see to her first? Loosen her up a little for your uses.”

“Caracalla. Enough.” The dowager snaps. Lightning power in her voice. Tone fashioned from a fury storms could envy. Her dark eyes glow with it.

She turns to Geta and lays a gentle pacifying hand to his arm. “See to your bride, dear. She looked unwell.”

Geta sighs a snarl. Glaring at his brother as he does as mother suggested.

She watches him leave. Turns to her other son with barely concealed ire.

Caracalla snorts into his wine with the other guests. Making sneering, high handed remarks.

“Such marital bliss.” He mocks to the guests. Twirling his favourite silver dagger in his other hand. Laughing as he played with the dead meats on his plate with a sneer. His tooth winked golden in the light.

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

#punkwrites #joseph quinn #emperor geta #geta x reader #geta #gladiator #gladiator 2 #violence tw #death threats tw #blood tw #nudity tw #i would die for this man #geta is gross #but caracalla is worse by far

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gendrie · 2 months ago

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arya and melisandre are really interesting foils to me. i don’t think it ever gets discussed, though. theres not really a lot of overlap between arya fans and team dragonstone fans i guess lol. but arya and melisandre are the only female povs to truly practice sorcery. theres so much to compare and contrast between them. at the start of the series arya is only 9 years old. she is just a child and the youngest female pov. melisandre is much, much older. we don’t even know how old, but she’s been practicing magic “for years beyond count” so...she’s the oldest pov by far.

they're represented by contrasting elements: water and fire. melisandre has a serene aura. arya has a more wild temperament. melisandre is statuesque. arya is petite. both are described as being slender and graceful. they speak several tongues including high valyrian.

While the boy was gone, Melisandre washed herself and changed her robes. Her sleeves were full of hidden pockets, and she checked them carefully as she did every morning to make certain all her powders were in place. (Melisandre, ADWD)

Last of all she threw her cloak across her shoulders. It was a real mummer's cloak, purple wool lined in red silk, with a hood to keep the rain off, and three secret pockets too. She'd hid some coins in one of those, an iron key in another, a blade in the last. (Arya, TWOW)

they’re both fairly unconventional for their gender too. neither could be called a “proper” (ie: submissive) lady. they are driven and dangerous. melisandre comes to be seen as stannis’ “true queen” but she views herself as a knight in her own way. she casts an illusion to look very appealing and yet she’s also deeply intimidating to most. stannis is impressed with melisandre’s ability to inspire fear even in grown men.

“I have ships . . . and I have her. The red woman. Half my knights are afraid even to say her name, did you know? If she can do nothing else, a sorceress who can inspire such dread in grown men is not to be despised. A frightened man is a beaten man. And perhaps she can do more. I mean to find out.” (Davos, ACOK)

Gendry and Hot Pie did not question her choice. She had the map, after all, and Hot Pie seemed almost as terrified of her as of the men who might be coming after them. He had seen the guard she'd killed. It's better if he's scared of me, she told herself. That way he'll do like I say, instead of something stupid. (Arya, ASOS)

arya has a fierce reputation to those who know her but she’s only a small child and vulnerable so most don’t view her as a potential threat. she shares her soul with a ferocious direwolf and aims to embody those traits herself. she is a leader by nature. arya has gotten boys to follow her command despite being younger and a girl.

Melisandre paid the naked steel no mind. If the wildling had meant her harm, she would have seen it in her flames. Danger to her own person was the first thing she had learned to see, back when she was still half a child, a slave girl bound for life to the great red temple. It was still the first thing she looked for whenever she gazed into a fire. (ADWD)

relatively speaking, we don’t know a lot about melisandre, but we do know she was a slave at one point and likely from humble origins. she has devoted her life in service to r’hllor. whatever connected her to her old life is a distant memory.

“We are but servants of the God of Many Faces." "Valar dohaeris." All men must serve. "You know the words, but you are too proud to serve. A servant must be humble and obedient." "I obey. I can be humbler than anyone." (Arya, ADWD)

arya has been enslaved too, but she was born the daughter of a great lord and lady. as her house has fallen arya is driven across the narrow sea to the temple of the many faced god. she is trying to be a servant of god, but the results are mixed. arya has a lot of previous allegiances because of her place in the world. she will not be able to make the sacrifice in the end.

"A shadow is a thing of darkness." "You are more ignorant than a child, ser knight. There are no shadows in the dark. Shadows are the servants of light, the children of fire. The brightest flame casts the darkest shadows." (Davos, ACOK)

"All gods have their instruments, men and women who serve them and help to work their will on earth. “ (Arya, AFFC)

both of their storylines are deeply involved with religion. arya is in religious training currently and she has significant interactions with all the major religions in asoiaf. arya is tolerant and curious. even if she is a bit skeptical of the gods in general. the gods she truly follows of the old gods of the north.

Through the leafy canopy she could see the bone-white branches of the heart tree. It looks just like the one in Winterfell from here. If only it had been . . . then when she climbed down she would have been home again, and maybe find her father sitting under the weirwood where he always sat. (Arya, ACOK)

for a character who hasn’t stepped foot in the north since her first chapter weirwoods are an important symbol in arya’s storyline. they represent her faith and culture, her identity and her family, her past and her future. they show up in every book for her in one form or another.

The weirwood was the heart of Winterfell, Lord Eddard always said . . . but to save the castle Jon would have to tear that heart up by its ancient roots, and feed it to the red woman's hungry fire god. I have no right, he thought. Winterfell belongs to the old gods. (Jon, ASOS)

melisandre would have burned the weirwood at winterfell if jon had accepted stannis’ offer to become jon stark, lord of winterfell. that’s why he rejected it.

The red woman walked round the fire three times, praying once in the speech of Asshai, once in High Valyrian, and once in the Common Tongue. Davos understood only the last. "R'hllor, come to us in our darkness," she called. "Lord of Light, we offer you these false gods, these seven who are one, and him the enemy. Take them and cast your light upon us, for the night is dark and full of terrors." (Davos, ACOK)

melisandre is not tolerant or curious. she views any religion that is not r’hllor as false. arya is familiar with r’hllor too. she has seen men rise from the dead before. she knows thoros of myr another red priest who receives visions too.

Soon she could even feel the heat in the air, as red R'hllor's worshipers lifted their voices in prayer. "For the night is dark and full of terrors," they prayed. Not for me. Her nights were bathed in moonlight and filled with the songs of her pack, with the taste of red meat torn off the bone, with the warm familiar smells of her grey cousins. Only during the days was she alone and blind. (Arya, ADWD)

a major factor in this faith is fear of death and darkness. that is what melisandre preaches. she is terrified of the dark and won’t even let the lights go out in her chambers. which i think is a fascinating character trait for a character as old as her. fear of the dark is a trait associated with children. but arya, the child, learns early on to not fear the darkness.

She had no time for sleep, with the weight of the world upon her shoulders. And she feared to dream. Sleep is a little death, dreams the whisperings of the Other, who would drag us all into his eternal night. (Melisandre, ADWD)

mel is afraid to dream and rarely sleeps because of it. she associates both with the great other.

Some mornings Arya did not want to wake at all. She would huddle beneath her cloak with her eyes squeezed shut and try to will herself back to sleep. If the Hound would only have left her alone, she would have slept all day and all night. And dreamed. That was the best part, the dreaming. She dreamed of wolves most every night. A great pack of wolves, with her at the head. (Arya, ASOS)

even if she sometimes struggles with nightmares(/depression) dreams have been a great source of comfort for arya more often than not.

“The night is dark and full of terrors, the day bright and beautiful and full of hope. One is black, the other white. There is ice and there is fire. Hate and love. Bitter and sweet. Male and female. Pain and pleasure. Winter and summer. Evil and good." She took a step toward him. "Death and life. Everywhere, opposites. Everywhere, the war." (Davos, ASOS)

the stance that melisandre takes is somewhat extreme. she subscribes to a completely black and white morality. melisandre's entire mission is to fight against death. she has done a better job than most. but even melisandre the red priestess of asshai cannot escape death forever.

The kindly man chuckled. "He is a man like any other, with light in him and darkness. It is not for you to judge him." That gave her pause. "Have the gods judged him?" (Arya, ADWD)

the faceless men are, obviously, a problematic institution, but they are teaching arya valuable lessons. the order is represented by the colors black and white - but they’re not at war. they are in balance. imo, this is going to be the outcome of the war to come. you cannot beat death. the faceless men are right when they say “valar morghulis”

"You are safe here. This is the House of Black and White, my child. Though you are young to seek the favor of the Many-Faced God." "Is he like the southron god, the one with seven faces?" "Seven? No. He has faces beyond count, little one, as many faces as there are stars in the sky. In Braavos, men worship as they will . . . but at the end of every road stands Him of Many Faces, waiting. He will be there for you one day, do not fear. You need not rush to his embrace." (Arya, AFFC)

the hob&w, according to the kindly man, is “a place of peace” where death is “not the worst thing” and “always gentle”. the many faced god is the god of death and is therefore, likely, the great other from an entirely different perspective. death, despair, darkness are all parts of the human experience. they are often painful and scary, but everyone has to face them.

Jon Snow turned to Melisandre. "What sorcery is this?" "Call it what you will. Glamor, seeming, illusion. R'hllor is Lord of Light, Jon Snow, and it is given to his servants to weave with it, as others weave with thread." [...] She made it sound a simple thing, and easy. They need never know how difficult it had been, or how much it had cost her. That was a lesson Melisandre had learned long before Asshai; the more effortless the sorcery appears, the more men fear the sorcerer. (Melisandre, ADWD)

"This will hurt," he warned her, "but pain is the price of power. Do not move." "Mummers change their faces with artifice," the kindly man was saying, "and sorcerers use glamors, weaving light and shadow and desire to make illusions that trick the eye. These arts you shall learn, but what we do here goes deeper. Wise men can see through artifice, and glamors dissolve before sharp eyes, but the face you are about to don will be as true and solid as that face you were born with."

She probed around inside her mouth with her tongue, but found no holes or broken teeth. Sorcery, she thought. I have a new face. An ugly, broken face. (Arya, ADWD)

they might be on opposing teams but the skills they use have quite a bit of overlap. both utilize sorcery and bloodmagic. these are difficult, costly, painful things to learn. melisandre is a very impressive sorceress because she’s studied her craft for so long. she is able to work several glamors at once. she’s also able to do her whole shadow baby assassin thing.

if arya stuck around with the faceless men long enough she would learn glamor too. it’s not the faceless men’s trademark, though. they use bloodmagic from valyria to create disguises that cannot be seen through using the faces of the dead. arya’s been trained and has a sharp eye to begin with. i think if her and melisandre met arya would be able to see past her glamor which would be a really cool perspective.

"The heart is all that matters. Do not despair, Lord Snow. Despair is a weapon of the enemy, whose name may not be spoken. Your sister is not lost to you." "I have no sister." The words were knives. What do you know of my heart, priestess? What do you know of my sister? Melisandre seemed amused. "What is her name, this little sister that you do not have?" "Arya." His voice was hoarse. "My half-sister, truly …" (Jon, ADWD)

“I told you that the Lord of Light would hear your prayers. You wanted a way to save your little sister and still hold fast to the honor that means so much to you, to the vows you swore before your wooden god." She pointed with a pale finger. "There he stands, Lord Snow. Arya's deliverance. A gift from the Lord of Light … and me." (Melisandre, ADWD)

arya is completely unaware of melisandre’s existence, but the opposite is not true. melisandre has become an important figure on the wall. she is the one who comes up with the idea to send mance south to rescue “arya”. it seems melisandre is going to become a valuable ally to jon snow (she’s gonna bring his ass back to life lbr) and in the fight against the others.

The king would only want to marry [Arya] to one of his own men, Horpe or Massey or Godry Giantslayer, and the gods alone knew what use the red woman might want to make of her. (Jon, ADWD)

it’s likely her and arya will cross paths at some point. it’s one of the meetings i’d be most excited to see.

#asoiaf nonsense #this has been in my drafts #for a long ass time #i just reread it and was like damn this is good lol

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iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia · 10 months ago

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Vesuvia Weekly: What it's like to hold the M6

~ my submission for this week's prompt - have some sappy headcanon drabble ^.^ ~

Julian

The sounds of leather folding and bending and creaking, of a pent up sigh, of a noble, anxious, too-big-for-its-own-good heartbeat fluttering against those thin, bird-like ribs

The smell of - yes, more leather - with a slight hint of sweat and the faded scent of the crushed herbs used to stuff doctor's masks

The feel of a well-worn, weather tested, oversized coat falling around both your frames, a cold set of bony fingers tangling into your hair through protective gloves

The sight of folded black cloth and slightly dulled metal buttons, a pale neck cradling your forehead, auburn stubble shivering over a bobbing adam's apple

The bitter taste of sea-salty lips, self-sacrifice, and coffee

Asra

The sound of an airy chuckle, a curious whisper, a deep, relaxed sigh, a heartbeat that touches your own with every gentle thump

The smell of smoking incense, sparkling spices, and syrupy vanilla, lurking beneath the petrichor of sunny spring rains on the dust of a far-off highway

The feel of a soft shawl on your cheek, sturdy linen body-warmed and slightly rough under your arms, heavy, heated hands running soothing pathways along your spine, cloud soft curls on your ears, a deceptively slight frame

The sight of golden metal and silvery blue stone on smooth skin, the barely-there rise and fall of a body slowly relaxing into yours

The taste of smoky tea, home, and desperate dedication

Nadia

The sound of rustling silks, the quiet clink of bracelets and rings, the hush of long, thick hair falling over chiffon-clad shoulders, a contented, throaty hum, a lofty heartbeat

The smell of jasmine, rose, pepper, and amber, of warm silk and chilled white wine, of flower gardens and powdery cosmetics

The feel of a heavy curtain of hair against your face, body warmth passing quickly through thin, gauzy sleeves wrinkling under your movements, of strong fingers tilting your chin into her collarbone

The sight of glinting gemstones and finely crafted metal, intricate embroidery stitches swirling across lustrous fabric, scalloped hemlines along sculpted shoulders

The taste of spiced fish, wine, and plush, commanding adoration

Muriel

The sound of heavy, rough cloth slowly dragging across itself, breaths hitching deep and slow, a grumble quiet and low enough to shake the earth, a nervous, powerful heartbeat

The smell of myrrh hanging around you like a cloud, of warm fur and chilly forest air, of falling leaves and running water and smoke

The feel of muscle and scruff, of radiating body heat, of massive, calloused palms alternating between gently splaying over your shoulders like blanketing weights and hovering cautiously around your waist in fluttering, feather like touches

The sight of thick, dark hair falling in choppy lengths over stubble and scar tissue, of thick green cloth over sinew

The taste of grilled forage and mead, of healing and steadfastness

Portia

The sound of an excited giggle, springing footsteps and jingling keys, a happy gasp and unstoppable heartbeat, a mischievous secret getting laughed into your ear

The smell of air-drying laundry and soap, hair oil and cocoa butter, fresh bread and sizzling butter and caramelizing berries

The feel of strong forearms, small, calloused hands, the push of energetic bouncing against your shoulder, of hair flying around your face, the plush squish of a no-holds-barred bear hug

The sight of fiery curls spilling over clean, pressed cotton, freckles speckling creamy skin, the occasional grey and white cat hair clinging to black ribbon, the dusk of a happy blush

The taste of yeasty bread, and the comforts of adventure

Lucio

The sounds of nearby dogs panting, a cutlass clanking in its sheath, the mechanical whir and musical hum of an alchemical arm, a confident, snorting chuckle and a devoted heartbeat

The smell of fresh sweat, warm metal, cinnamon alcohol in a journeyman's flask, hair gel and worn cologne

The feel of a padded, quilted vest, the quick rise and fall of an active chest, the slight tilt of a shoulder forever sloped in favor of a heavy arm, the sinewed grip of a warrior's touchstarved fingers and the cool, metallic touch of a careful clawed hand

The sight of sharp collarbones and glinting curved gold, fine flaxen hair at the nape of a snowy neck, crimson cloth and leather straps

The taste of grilled meat, traveler's wine, and new beginnings

#vesuvia weekly #hold the LI #ask arcana brainrot #the arcana #the arcana game #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

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novaursa · 12 days ago

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Between Pride and Fire (royals)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Paring: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: heirs of a lion

- Next part: matters of the realm

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark

The sun burned bright as the banners of House Lannister approached the gates of King’s Landing. For days, rumors had preceded their arrival—of gold-filled wagons, knights in polished crimson armor, and the princess with her twin babes, lions and dragons alike. The city’s smallfolk had come in droves, lining the narrow streets and hanging from windows to catch a glimpse of the splendor.

And splendid it was.

The Lannister host poured into the city like a wave of red. Rows upon rows of knights marched in gleaming armor, their crimson capes rippling like living blood. The horses they rode were draped in gold-threaded barding, the lions roaring boldly across their backs. Banners fluttered high above the procession, a sea of Lannister colors rising into the sky as trumpeters heralded their arrival with loud, triumphant blasts.

Jason Lannister rode at the forefront, his hair catching the sunlight like a crown. His armor, polished to a mirror’s gleam, was trimmed in gold filigree, and a red cloak billowed behind him, fastened with a clasp wrought in the shape of a roaring lion. He looked every inch the lord of Casterly Rock—swaggering, proud, and unmistakably confident.

Beside him, you rode atop a pale mare draped in black and crimson silks. Your gown matched the colors—rich Lannister red kissed with black dragons and amber lions embroidered in gold thread. It clung to you in the wind, accentuating the Valyrian beauty that drew stares from every corner of the crowd. The sun seemed to catch your hair, cascading like moonlight as you held yourself straight and regal. And in a grand, open-topped carriage behind you, nestled in swaddles of silk, lay the twins: Leona and Loren.

As you passed, the crowd erupted into cheers. Women tossed flowers into your path, children clambered over one another to glimpse the babes, and men called out blessings for House Lannister and House Targaryen alike. Coins—Lannister gold—rained from the wagons, and smallfolk scrambled to catch them as Jason turned to you with a smug grin.

“Look at them,” he called over the noise, his green eyes glinting with satisfaction. “You’d think we’d just conquered the city.”

You gave him a sidelong glance, though a faint smile tugged at your lips. “You’ve always enjoyed the sound of your own roar, my lord.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” he quipped, guiding his horse closer to yours. “This is as it should be, wife. Us, side by side, for all to see.”

You shook your head fondly, though you couldn’t deny the grandeur of it all. The Lannisters were not subtle; their presence was as loud as Jason’s laughter, and their wealth shone as bright as their armor. Yet as you entered the shadow of the Red Keep, a quiet fell over the crowd, the splendor giving way to solemn awe.

The gates stood open, and beyond them, King Viserys waited at the steps of the keep. He was regal in his black and red finery, his crown catching the light, though there was a warmth in his face that softened his royal bearing. Beside him stood Rhaenyra, radiant in her white and silver gown, though her smile was polite and cool as her gaze lingered on Jason’s grand display.

When Jason dismounted, he did so with a flourish, landing lightly on his feet and sweeping into a bow so deep it nearly mocked itself. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice ringing clearly through the courtyard. “House Lannister comes in honor of this great occasion, bearing fire, gold, and—” He turned, extending his arm to you. “—the greatest treasures of all.”

You accepted his hand, dismounting with practiced grace as the crowd held its breath. The silence broke when the twins were lifted from the carriage and carried forward, their tiny cries faint against the murmurs that swept through the gathered lords and ladies.

Viserys’s face transformed entirely when his gaze fell upon the babes. He descended the steps of the keep, his movements quicker than they had been in years. “Bring them closer,” he commanded, his voice low and full of wonder.

Jason nodded, stepping aside to allow the king to take Loren first. The boy fussed in his silk wrappings, his small face scrunching up into an unmistakably Lannister scowl. Jason grinned as Viserys chuckled, cradling his grandson carefully.

“By the gods,” the king murmured, his expression softening as he traced Loren’s cheek with a calloused thumb. “A fine boy. A lion’s pride.”

Jason, who stood just a pace away, smirked. “Stubborn as a Lannister already, Your Grace. He clenched his fists the moment he was born, ready to fight the world.”

Viserys barked a laugh, shaking his head before he turned his attention to Leona. The little girl lay quieter in her swaddle, her silver hair catching the light. “And this one…” The king’s voice grew softer still. “She has your hair, Y/N. A dragon’s beauty.”

You inclined your head, unable to suppress the warmth in your chest as Viserys cradled her close. “She takes after her grandsire, I think,” you said gently. “She’s calm, where her brother is fierce.”

Viserys smiled down at the babe, then looked between you and Jason. “You have done well. These children are a blessing, to both your houses and to me.”

Jason stepped closer, placing his hand at your back. “Our blood, Your Grace,” he said proudly. “Bound together.”

Rhaenyra chose that moment to step forward, her white gown flowing as she studied the babes and then you with a faint, polite smile. “You’ve made quite the entrance,” she said, her tone careful. “The city will speak of it for days.”

Jason, never one to miss an opportunity, grinned broadly. “Good. Let them talk. They should know the strength of our Houses when they see it.”

You gave Rhaenyra a faint smile of your own. “Did you expect anything less, sister? My husband has a flair for entrances.”

Rhaenyra’s smile thinned ever so slightly, though she said nothing, her gaze flickering briefly to the twins. “They are beautiful. Truly.”

Before the moment could grow tense, Viserys turned with a booming laugh, clearly pleased. “Come! There is wine and food to welcome you, and I would hear tales of the Rock. You’ll find the feasts in King’s Landing a pale thing compared to yours, I suspect.”

Jason laughed loudly, bowing low once more. “Your Grace, you know me too well.”

The crowd began to disperse, the lords and ladies whispering amongst themselves as Jason offered you his arm, his smug grin unshakable as you ascended the steps of the Red Keep together.

“Was it too much?” he asked under his breath, though he clearly knew the answer.

You shook your head with a soft laugh. “You wouldn’t be a Lannister if it wasn’t.”

“And you wouldn’t be a Targaryen if you didn’t love it,” Jason replied smugly, his hand resting protectively at your back.

The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the arched windows of Rhaenyra’s private chambers, casting a warm, golden glow over the room. The air was filled with the faint scents of lavender and rose oil, mingling with the quiet rustle of silk and the soft murmur of voices. The princess’s handmaidens flitted about the room like moths, their arms laden with bolts of fabric, pearl-studded pins, and golden thread as they worked diligently to perfect Rhaenyra’s wedding dress.

You stood beside your sister, carefully adjusting the folds of the ivory gown that clung to her form like liquid moonlight. The fabric was heavy with embroidery—pearls sewn in delicate patterns of dragons and sea serpents, symbols of House Targaryen and House Velaryon united. The dress shimmered faintly in the sunlight, though the woman wearing it seemed less than pleased.

“Hold still, Rhaenyra,” you murmured, smoothing the fabric over her shoulder with steady hands. “If you keep fidgeting, it’ll never sit right.”

Rhaenyra let out a faint huff, her gaze fixed on the floor as one of her handmaidens knelt to adjust the hem of her gown. “I don’t see why it must be this dress. If it weren’t so damned heavy, I might actually enjoy my wedding.”

You arched a brow, offering her a small smile as you stepped back to study the fit of the gown. “You’ll be the Realm’s Delight walking down that aisle. Surely you can endure a little discomfort for one day.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line as she glanced at you, her violet eyes sharp. “You sound like Father.”

You tilted your head slightly, noting the edge in her voice. She had been prickly since your arrival in King’s Landing, her smiles brittle and her words measured. Even now, surrounded by handmaidens who would swear eternal loyalty to her, Rhaenyra’s shoulders were tense beneath the heavy silk.

“You’ve been angry with me since I arrived,” you said softly, careful to keep your tone light. “Are you going to tell me why, or must I guess?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered toward you, her expression unreadable. “I’m not angry,” she replied curtly, though her voice betrayed her. “You’re imagining things.”

“I know you too well to imagine anything,” you retorted gently, stepping closer to her. The handmaidens continued their work in hushed silence, careful to avoid drawing attention to themselves. “You’ve hardly said two words to me, and when you do, you look at me as though I’ve offended you.”

Rhaenyra exhaled sharply through her nose, her shoulders stiff as she stared at her reflection in the tall mirror. “It’s not you, sister,” she muttered. “It’s him.”

You blinked, surprised. “Jason?”

Rhaenyra’s expression darkened as she turned to face you fully, the heavy train of her dress pooling behind her. “Your lord husband and his grand entrance have cast a shadow over everything. This is supposed to be my wedding, my moment, yet everyone in King’s Landing speaks only of the Lannisters’ gold, their knights, and the twins.”

You let out a quiet sigh, understanding dawning as you stepped closer to her. “You’re upset that Jason drew too much attention.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened as she turned back to the mirror, avoiding your gaze. “He did not need to arrive with half the wealth of Casterly Rock in tow. You should have tempered him.”

A faint smirk tugged at your lips, though you quickly suppressed it. “No one ‘tempers’ Jason Lannister, Rhaenyra. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Rhaenyra shot you a sharp glare through the mirror, though it lacked true heat. “He parades through the city as though he owns it. And those twins…” She hesitated, her voice softer now. “I love them, sister, but even Father has scarcely spoken of anything else since he held them.”

You studied her carefully, noting the faint flicker of jealousy in her violet eyes. It was subtle, buried beneath the facade of her usual confidence, but it was there—raw and unspoken. You stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on her arm.

“Is that what this is about?” you asked softly. “You think the twins stole your thunder?”

Rhaenyra turned sharply, her eyes flashing. “Do not mock me.”

“I’m not mocking you,” you replied calmly, your voice steady. “But you’re letting pride cloud your joy, Rhaenyra. You’re marrying Laenor Velaryon tomorrow—strengthening your house, solidifying your claim to the throne. All eyes will be on you. Jason’s theatrics won’t matter.”

Rhaenyra hesitated, her gaze softening slightly as she studied you. “It’s not just Jason,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “It’s you as well.”

“Me?” you repeated, taken aback.

“You’ve always been the one they adored,” Rhaenyra said, her tone almost wistful. “The Realm’s Delight they call me, yet you walk into a room, and people can’t take their eyes off you. The perfect princess. The perfect marriage. And now… perfect children.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, you simply looked at her. The bitterness in her voice was subtle, but it cut deeper than you expected. Rhaenyra, for all her strength and pride, was still your sister—still the girl who had once tugged at your hand when you were both children, urging you to sneak into the Dragonpit together.

“Is that truly how you see me?” you asked softly. “Perfect?”

Rhaenyra looked away, her hands clenching at her sides. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I do,” you replied firmly. “I know what it is to carry the weight of expectation, just as you do. But Rhaenyra, you are the princess—the heir to the Iron Throne. No amount of gold or dragons will change that.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze returned to you, her expression conflicted. “And what if they try? What if your children are seen as a threat to my claim?”

You blinked, stunned by the thought. “Leona and Loren are babes, Rhaenyra. No one would dare—”

“But they will,” she interrupted, her voice tense. “One day, they will. I see how Father looks at them. I see how the lords whisper about fire and gold united. What if Jason—what if you—decide the throne should pass to your son?”

You reached for her hands, holding them firmly between your own. “Rhaenyra, listen to me. Jason may be proud—insufferably so—but he cares for the future of our family, not the Iron Throne. And I have no desire to see our children at odds. I would never betray you.”

Her expression wavered, the sharpness in her gaze softening into something more fragile. “Do you mean that?”

“I swear it,” you said, your voice steady and true. “Your claim is yours, sister. Nothing will change that—not Jason, not the twins, not me.”

For a long moment, Rhaenyra was silent, her violet eyes searching your face as though testing the truth of your words. Finally, she exhaled softly and nodded, the tension easing from her shoulders.

“Very well,” she murmured. “Perhaps I am being foolish.”

“You’re being a bride on the eve of her wedding,” you replied with a faint smile, squeezing her hands gently. “The world feels heavier than it is.”

Rhaenyra huffed a soft laugh, though it lacked her usual fire. “Perhaps. But if Jason struts through my wedding like a peacock, I’ll tell Daemon to set Caraxes on him.”

You laughed softly, stepping back as her handmaidens returned to finish their work. “I’ll warn him to tread carefully.”

“See that you do,” Rhaenyra replied, though her lips quirked faintly into a smile. “And tell him to leave his gold at the Rock next time.”

“I’ll try,” you said, though you both knew Jason Lannister was not one for subtlety.

As the handmaidens resumed their adjustments, you lingered at Rhaenyra’s side, brushing a hand over the pearls on her gown. “You’ll be beautiful tomorrow, sister. They’ll all see that. No one will remember Jason’s arrival.”

Rhaenyra glanced at you through the mirror, her smile soft but genuine this time. “Thank you.”

“Always,” you replied.

And as the sun dipped lower in the sky, the weight between you eased—if only for now. For you knew, as surely as dragons took to the skies, that the days ahead would test the bond between you once again. But tonight, at least, you were sisters.

The Red Keep’s solar was awash with the light of the late afternoon sun, slanting through tall windows and pooling across the polished wooden floor. The air smelled faintly of wine, sweat, and roasted meats as Jason Lannister reclined comfortably in a high-backed chair, goblet in hand, surrounded by men of station and power. The gathering had begun casually enough—a retreat from the preparations for Rhaenyra’s wedding—but it had since evolved into a lively, masculine reprieve where boasts were made, jests traded, and wine flowed without restraint.

At Jason’s side sat his younger twin, Ser Tyland Lannister, his hair just as striking but his manner far more measured, his smile sharper and more calculated. Across from them, Lord Jasper Wylde, the dour and severe “Ironrod,” scowled faintly at something Tyland had muttered under his breath, while Ser Gwayne Hightower lounged with a smirk, swirling his cup of wine.

Laenor Velaryon, the groom-to-be, was at the center of it all, perched on the arm of a couch, laughing loudly and drinking more than his fair share of the wine. His silvery hair caught the sunlight in a way that marked him unmistakably as a Velaryon, though his manner was easygoing and affable, with none of the stiffness Jason often associated with high lords preparing for marriage.

Jason, already well into his second—or third—cup of wine, leaned back with the air of a man who owned the room, his legs stretched lazily in front of him. “So, Laenor,” he drawled, his green eyes glinting with amusement. “Tomorrow’s the day, eh? The Realm’s Delight made a Velaryon bride. Are you ready for it, or do you mean to drink yourself insensible before the bedding ceremony?”

The room erupted into laughter, save for Jasper Wylde, whose lips twitched downward at Jason’s crudeness. Laenor grinned unabashedly, lifting his goblet in salute. “And what if I do, Lord Jason? Isn’t it a man’s right to steady his nerves before he’s tied to a dragon?”

Jason barked out a laugh, his gaze gleaming. “Steady your nerves? I’d say the trick is in the taming. A dragon in the flesh is more dangerous than one in legend—believe me, I married one.”

Tyland chuckled beside him, swirling his own wine lazily. “And does your fierce dragon breathe fire when you displease her, brother?”

Jason smirked, though there was a faint gleam of pride in his eye. “More than you know, Tyland. She’s fire and steel in equal measure—and sharper with her tongue than any blade.” He looked to Laenor, raising his goblet. “You’ll need a steady hand and a steady heart, Velaryon. Your princess is not so easily led.”

Laenor grinned, his manner flippant but his voice holding a note of sincerity. “And what makes you so wise in the ways of princesses, Lord Jason?”

Jason leaned forward, resting his forearm lazily on his knee, his grin widening. “Experience, my friend. Marriage is like a joust—you go in expecting glory, and instead, you’re knocked flat on your back and wondering how you got there.”

Ser Gwayne Hightower laughed loudly, slapping his thigh. “Wisdom from the Rock itself! You ought to pen a book, Lord Jason—‘How to Survive a Targaryen Wife.’”

“And how would you know, Gwayne?” Jason shot back, arching a brow. “The only thing you’ve managed to bed is a warm meal.”

The men roared with laughter again, while Gwayne grinned through the insult, tossing back his wine. “You wound me, my lord.”

Jason, ever the entertainer, waved a dismissive hand. “Then stop making it so easy.”

Laenor leaned back, looking between Jason and the others with a lopsided grin. “Gods, I hope you’re all this amusing tomorrow. I’ll need a laugh when half the kingdom stares at me like I’ve stolen their prize.”

“Stolen?” Tyland interjected smoothly, leaning forward with a cat-like smile. “I’d say you’ve been gifted a prize most men would kill for, Velaryon. And a claim, no less.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, a quiet weight pressing into the room. Even Jason’s easy smile flickered slightly as Tyland’s implication lingered.

Laenor’s grin faltered, though he covered it quickly with a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “A prize and a claim, aye. Though a claim I’ll leave to my wife, for now. I’m just a man with salt in my blood and a dragon in my bed.”

“Practical,” Jason replied smoothly, raising his goblet again. “Practicality will keep you alive, my friend.”

Lord Jasper Wylde, who had remained silent through most of the exchange, cleared his throat. “Practical or not, House Velaryon is bound now to the princess. The weight of this union is heavier than jest.”

Jason turned his gaze sharply to Jasper, though his smirk remained. “You’ve a talent for dampening the mood, Lord Wylde. You should have been a maester.”

The other men laughed again, though Wylde only scowled, unamused. Jason shook his head, turning back to Laenor. “Forget him, Velaryon. Tomorrow you marry the future queen of Westeros. Smile, drink, and enjoy it—you’ll have enough politics to deal with when the feast is over.”

Laenor gave a small nod of appreciation, though his eyes lingered on the wine in his goblet, swirling it slowly. Tyland, watching closely, spoke up with another sly grin. “And what of you, brother? You’ve already conquered King’s Landing with your grand entrance. Will you give the same show tomorrow?”

Jason laughed, a bright and unapologetic sound. “I’ve already had my moment, Tyland. Let the princess and her Velaryon have theirs. I’ll sit back and enjoy the feast, secure in the knowledge that I remain King Viserys’s favorite son-in-law.”

Gwayne Hightower raised a brow, his smile sharp. “Confident words, Jason. And if Laenor outshines you?”

“Outshine me?” Jason smirked as he leaned back, stretching his arms lazily. “Impossible. I arrived with gold and fire, and I’ve given the king grandchildren. What’s Velaryon bringing? A fleet? Ships don’t smile at kings, my friend.”

Laenor chuckled, though his tone was dry. “You’re lucky I find your arrogance amusing, Jason.”

Jason grinned, unfazed. “It’s not arrogance when it’s true.”

The men laughed again, and the tension eased, replaced once more by wine, jests, and easy camaraderie. Jason raised his goblet high, his voice carrying through the room. “To the groom, the princess, and the poor bastards who must plan a royal wedding!”

“To the groom!” the men echoed, goblets clinking as the sun set lower on the horizon.

And so the evening passed, Jason Lannister in his element—laughing, boasting, and charming as only he could, the lion among men who always made sure his roar was heard.

The halls of the Red Keep were dim and quiet by the time Jason Lannister finally made his way toward the chambers he shared with you. The hour was late, and Jason—though walking with the casual confidence of a man who had drank his fill—was not entirely steady on his feet.

The faint jingle of his gilded sword belt echoed as he rounded the last corner, his crimson cloak swishing heavily behind him. A half-empty goblet dangled loosely from his fingers, and he hummed under his breath—a low, tuneless sound that broke the silence of the sleeping keep. When he reached the heavy oak door, he paused for a moment, as though trying to remember which chamber was yours, before pushing it open with unnecessary flourish.

The door creaked loudly on its hinges.

“Do you intend to wake the entire keep, my lord?”

Your voice drifted from the bed, soft and weary, though edged with amusement. You were sitting upright against the headboard, a candle flickering beside you on a nearby table. The pale light danced across your silver hair, spilling over the familiar silks of your old bedchamber—the one you had known since you were a girl. A chamber filled with memories of your childhood, now reclaimed for the duration of your stay.

Jason froze briefly at the sound of your voice, looking entirely unrepentant as he swayed just slightly where he stood. “Ah, there she is,” he said, his voice carrying a faint slur as he straightened with exaggerated care. “My dragon, awake and waiting for her lion.”

You sighed softly, though a faint smirk tugged at your lips as you studied him. “You reek of wine, Jason. How much did you drink tonight?”

Jason shut the door with far more force than was necessary, setting the goblet down on a nearby table with an audible clink. “Too much? Not nearly enough,” he replied dramatically, unfastening the sword belt from his hips and letting it clatter to the floor. “A man needs wine when forced to suffer the company of the likes of Jasper Wylde and Gwayne Hightower.”

You shook your head, watching as he shrugged off his crimson cloak and tossed it haphazardly over the back of a chair. “And Laenor? Did you torment him as well?”

Jason turned toward you, grinning broadly, though his movements were slower now as he unbuttoned the collar of his doublet. “Laenor is a good lad—for a Velaryon,” he said, plopping heavily into the chair he’d just adorned with his cloak. He exhaled loudly, stretching his legs in front of him and loosening his boots with a frustrated tug. “He laughs easily and drinks harder than I thought he would.”

“Which is to say, he kept pace with you,” you retorted dryly, arching a brow as you set your book aside.

Jason barked a laugh, tossing one boot unceremoniously to the floor before working on the other. “Nearly. Nearly. But no man keeps pace with a Lannister when the wine flows.”

You shook your head again, though a smile lingered faintly at your lips as you watched him. “You are drunk, Jason.”

“And yet you still adore me,” Jason quipped, finally freeing his other boot and standing unsteadily. He swayed for a moment before padding over to the bed, his green eyes gleaming faintly in the candlelight. “You cannot deny it, wife. You missed me.”

You raised your chin slightly as he leaned close, his hands bracing against the mattress on either side of you. His face hovered just above yours, his breath carrying the unmistakable tang of wine. “I did not,” you teased softly, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you with a twitch.

Jason’s grin widened, roguish and impossibly pleased with himself. “Liar,” he murmured, dropping onto the bed beside you with a heavy sigh, his body sprawling inelegantly across the covers. He turned his head to look at you, his cheek pressed to the pillow. “This chamber suits you. A princess in her castle, silver-haired and serene.”

“It was my chamber long before you were here to stumble through it like a fool,” you replied lightly, reaching over to pull the blanket back over him.

Jason hummed faintly, his eyes flickering closed as your fingers brushed his shoulder. “I’m no fool,” he mumbled, though his words were softer now, the edge of sleep pulling at his voice. “I’m your lion. A roaring, golden lion who—”

“—who drank too much,” you finished for him, smirking faintly as you tucked the blanket around him.

Jason cracked one eye open, watching you as you settled back against the pillows. “You sound like Tyland,” he muttered with mock disdain. “Do not ruin the poetry of my compliments.”

You let out a quiet laugh, brushing a strand of silver hair behind your ear. “Rest now, husband. Tomorrow, you’ll need to behave.”

Jason groaned faintly, turning onto his side to face you. “Behave? At a royal wedding? You wound me, Y/N. What would I be if not entertaining?”

“A Lannister who values his wife’s reputation,” you shot back, though the fondness in your voice was unmistakable.

Jason smirked, his eyes drifting shut again. “My reputation is sterling, my love. Ask anyone.”

You shook your head, though your gaze lingered on him as his breathing slowed, the weight of wine and weariness finally pulling him into sleep. For all his bravado, Jason Lannister had a way of making the world brighter—louder, yes, and often insufferable, but brighter nonetheless.

And as the candlelight flickered low, you let yourself relax into the silence, Jason’s warmth beside you a familiar comfort. Tomorrow would bring its challenges, as royal weddings always did, but tonight belonged to the two of you, a quiet reprieve in the chambers you once called your own.

The great hall of the Red Keep had been transformed into a vision of splendor that even the most jaded courtier could not deny. Black banners of House Targaryen hung proudly from the rafters, embroidered with red dragons that seemed to coil and breathe fire as they caught the flickering light of thousands of candles. The tables were draped in silks of red, black, and silver, while golden candelabras glimmered like stars amidst the finery. The air hummed with anticipation, filled with the faint scent of roasted meats, spiced wine, and the chatter of noble guests.

At the far end of the hall stood the royal dais, where the king’s family would preside over the feast. Behind it, a great tapestry of the Targaryen sigil loomed like a shadow, a three-headed dragon woven in such detail it seemed ready to burst free of its fabric confines.

The herald’s voice rang out clear and loud, cutting through the noise as the nobles began filing into the great hall. One by one, names were announced, echoing off the high stone walls as banners and sigils were displayed on cloaks and surcoats.

“Lord Jason Lannister and Princess Y/N Lannister, daughter of House Targaryen!”

The words carried across the chamber with such weight that all heads turned, the noise ebbing for a brief moment as the lions of the West made their entrance. Jason strode forward with his usual air of effortless confidence, his crimson-and-gold attire immaculate, the embroidery of roaring lions at his sleeves glittering like sunlight. His hair caught the light as he walked, a living symbol of the Westerlands’ power and pride.

At his side, you matched his poise with grace, your gown a breathtaking blend of crimson and black. The silk hugged your figure, embroidered dragons twining down the bodice and along the edges of your flowing sleeves. Gold thread glinted in the stitching like flame, a clear tribute to both houses. A simple golden circlet rested atop your silver hair, marking you unmistakably as a Targaryen princess.

Behind you, the full might of House Lannister followed: Jason’s younger twin, Tyland, his expression sharper and more reserved; cousins, knights, and retainers in Lannister red and gold, their banners fluttering proudly. The procession of lions was as loud in presence as it was in the richness of their finery.

Jason leaned close to you as you walked toward the dais, his voice pitched low with satisfaction. “Look at them, wife. Their jaws might hit the floor if they gape any wider.”

You shot him a sidelong look, your tone dry but amused. “If you strut any harder, you’ll trip over your own feet.”

Jason grinned, undeterred. “Nonsense. I’ve perfected the art of entering a room.”

As you approached the royal table, King Viserys rose from his seat, his face brightening with warmth as he regarded you both. Rhaenyra sat to his left, resplendent in her wedding finery of white and silver, though her expression was carefully neutral. Prince Daemon stood just beyond, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he took in Jason’s unmistakable swagger.

Jason inclined his head deeply, though his movements carried the unmistakable ease of a man who believed himself welcome. “Your Grace,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying just far enough to be heard. “House Lannister stands honored to join you on this most joyous occasion.”

Viserys smiled broadly, his gaze flickering from Jason to you. “You do us honor with your presence, Lord Jason. Princess Y/N.”

“Always a pleasure to be of service, Your Grace,” Jason replied, before turning his grin toward Rhaenyra. “And to you, Princess. I trust the day finds you well?”

Rhaenyra’s lips quirked faintly, though her voice remained cool. “Well enough, Lord Jason.”

Jason let the reply hang for only a moment, before gesturing slightly for you to step forward with him. The king motioned to the seats at the royal table, indicating your place. “Sit, sit. You are family,” Viserys said warmly, his gaze lingering on you as he nodded with satisfaction.

Jason guided you to your seat with a flourish, as the herald’s voice rang out once again behind you. “Lord Tyland Lannister and the honored company of House Lannister!”

The Lannisters who followed took their seats at the table designated for their house—prime placement at the center of the hall, close enough to the royal dais to mark their importance. Jason watched as his kin settled, his smirk one of quiet triumph.

“Pleased with yourself?” you murmured, adjusting the sleeve of your gown as you settled beside him.

“Very,” Jason replied smugly, pouring himself a goblet of wine from the nearest flagon. “Viserys may love his eldest, but he loves us more. Did you see how he smiled when he saw you? His favorite son-in-law, here to make his feast brighter.”

You rolled your eyes faintly, though you couldn’t deny the truth of it. “You’ll be insufferable for days.”

“Only because I’m right.” Jason leaned closer, his voice dipping into that teasing tone you’d come to know so well. “And admit it—you enjoy seeing them look at us with envy.”

You tilted your chin slightly, smirking just a little as you regarded the hall. “Perhaps I do, my lord. Perhaps.”

The feast began to fill with movement as more houses entered, announced with ceremony as they made their way to their seats. The Velaryons arrived with all the majesty of the sea itself—cloaks of deep blue edged in silver, their knights adorned in scaled armor that shimmered like fish beneath the torchlight.

“Laenor looks sober,” Jason remarked dryly, his gaze flicking toward the groom as he entered with his father, Lord Corlys Velaryon, and his mother, Princess Rhaenys. “I half-expected him to be carried in like a sack of grain.”

“Perhaps he has found his resolve,” you replied, though Jason merely snorted, raising his goblet to his lips.

Across the table, Rhaenyra’s gaze met yours briefly, and you offered her a small, reassuring smile. Though she held herself tall and regal, you could see the tension in her shoulders, the careful control in her movements. In a few hours, the Realm’s Delight would be a Velaryon bride, and her life would change forever.

Jason, oblivious to such subtleties, leaned back in his chair with an air of supreme satisfaction. “Now this,” he said, surveying the hall as the herald’s voice called out yet another name, “is how a royal feast should look. Good wine and more food than a man could eat in three lifetimes.”

You smirked faintly, shaking your head. “Try not to drink yourself insensible tonight, Jason.”

He grinned, raising his goblet in a mock toast. “For you, wife, I shall try.”

As the hall filled with the hum of voices, the sound of footsteps, and the clink of goblets, Jason Lannister sat tall and proud, his hand resting lightly on yours beneath the table. House Lannister had made its entrance, and Jason was determined to ensure no one in the realm forgot it.

The hall buzzed with the hum of laughter and conversation, wine pouring as lords and ladies settled into their places. Yet amidst the din, Jason Lannister’s sharp green eyes flicked toward the empty seat near King Viserys. He leaned back slightly, his voice pitched low enough for only you to hear.

“The queen is late,” he said, his tone marked with curiosity rather than concern. “Odd, don’t you think? The woman has more sense than most of her house.”

You frowned faintly, your gaze following his to the vacant chair. “Alicent is many things, but she’s never tardy,” you replied, though a small weight settled in your chest.

Jason hummed in agreement, swirling his goblet of wine thoughtfully. “Perhaps she’s gone sick at the thought of her stepdaughter marrying a Velaryon. Targaryen dragon doesn't blend well with seahorse banners, after all.”

Before you could chide him for speaking so freely, the hall’s atmosphere shifted with a sudden, almost imperceptible change. A hush fell—soft at first, but spreading like ripples in water—until the conversations near the Hightower table faltered entirely.

The massive doors to the hall groaned open once more. All eyes turned toward the entryway as Queen Alicent Hightower appeared, moving with measured grace and deliberate purpose.

She wore green. On royal weeding.

Not Targaryen black, nor crimson, nor silver—but deep, emerald green, rich as a summer forest and heavy with the weight of unspoken meaning. The bodice of her gown was adorned with intricate golden embroidery in the shape of leaves, vines winding like secrets across the silk. A necklace of jade and pearls gleamed against her throat, and her expression, though outwardly serene, was sharpened to a careful edge.

Jason’s eyebrows lifted slightly, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Well, now,” he murmured, his voice touched with amusement as he leaned closer to you. “It seems the queen has found her colors. Bold, don’t you think?”

Your frown deepened, your gaze following Alicent as she swept forward through the hall. You said nothing, though unease coiled in your chest. Green—Hightower green—worn so plainly at a Targaryen wedding was no accident.

The lords and ladies of House Hightower straightened in their seats, their shoulders squaring as if in quiet unity. You noticed how men in green cloaks exchanged glances, their conversation stilled as the queen passed by. A statement had been made without a single word spoken, and you knew others had noticed it, too.

When Alicent reached the royal dais, the noise in the hall seemed to dim further, as though the queen’s presence had drawn every eye in the room. King Viserys, seated comfortably at the center of the table, smiled faintly as he regarded her. “Wife,” he said warmly, though his voice held a note of confusion. “You are—”

“Radiant,” Jason interrupted smoothly, his tone bright and dripping with charm as he leaned back in his chair. “Wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?”

Alicent’s gaze flickered briefly to Jason, her expression polite but unreadable, before she turned her attention to Rhaenyra. The princess, seated beside the king, had stiffened almost imperceptibly as Alicent approached.

“Rhaenyra,” Alicent said, her voice cool and carefully measured. She offered a smile—sharp around the edges, though courteous enough. “Congratulations are in order. A fine match has been made.”

Rhaenyra inclined her head slightly, though her violet eyes betrayed none of the fire simmering beneath the surface. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied evenly, her tone smooth but distant.

For a heartbeat, the two women stared at one another, an unspoken tension simmering in the space between them. Finally, Alicent turned, moving to take her seat beside King Viserys.

Jason let out a soft hum of intrigue, lifting his goblet as he murmured, “Sharp enough to cut glass, that one. I almost admire it.”

You shot him a warning look, though your gaze was quickly drawn back to Rhaenyra. The princess exchanged a glance with Laenor Velaryon, who sat just a seat away, his expression unreadable. Laenor’s twin sister, Laena, caught the look as well, her face thoughtful as she arched a brow slightly.

“Laenor,” Laena murmured, leaning toward her brother as her fingers toyed absently with the goblet before her. “It seems your bride’s stepmother wishes to make a statement.”

Laenor let out a faint scoff, though he smiled faintly. “If it is meant to unsettle us, it’s wasted. A dress is still just a dress.”

“Is it?” Laena replied softly, her gaze lingering on the Hightower table. “Not when it is green.”

Rhaenyra remained silent, though you saw the way her hand tightened faintly around her cup, her expression carefully schooled as she looked away from the queen.

Jason, having observed all of this with the satisfaction of a man who lived for intrigue, turned to you with a faint smirk. “A fine performance,” he murmured, his voice pitched so only you could hear. “Your sister wears her crown well, but the queen—oh, she plays her part just as finely.”

“Must you always treat court like a spectacle?” you replied, though your voice held no real venom.

Jason’s grin widened, his green eyes gleaming with mischief. “Of course. What else is it for?”

You shook your head faintly, though your attention was still on Rhaenyra. She had leaned slightly toward Laenor, murmuring something to him that you couldn’t hear, though the groom’s response was quick and quiet. The strain between her and Alicent was visible, the air itself growing heavier.

The hall seemed to breathe again only once Alicent settled into her chair beside Viserys, offering him a soft smile as though nothing had happened. The king, oblivious to the quiet storm brewing around him, returned her smile and raised his goblet to toast the evening.

“To my daughter, Rhaenyra,” Viserys declared, his voice booming across the hall. “May her marriage to Ser Laenor Velaryon strengthen the realm and bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms.”

The hall erupted into applause and cheers, though the tension remained—silent, but very much alive. Jason lifted his goblet, his expression one of faint amusement as he glanced toward the Hightower table once more.

“Peace,” he murmured under his breath, his voice barely audible amidst the noise. “It seems we’ll need more than toasts and wine to find that.”

You said nothing, though your gaze lingered on Alicent’s green gown and the ripple of unease it had caused. A statement had been made, and its implications were only beginning to take root.

Jason turned to you with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “Stay close tonight, wife. I suspect the dragons may bare their teeth before the evening is done.”

You offered him a faint nod, your thoughts already churning as the feast truly began.

The great hall of the Red Keep had taken on a different life as the night deepened. The feasting had slowly given way to music and dance, the sound of fiddles and lutes filling the air as couples swirled across the polished stone floor. The flickering candlelight, combined with the warm glow of the great hearths, cast everything in a hazy golden light. Goblets were refilled without pause, and laughter echoed amidst the hum of conversation.

Jason Lannister, as always, thrived in this kind of revelry. He stood beside you, his smile easy and ever smug, watching as lords and ladies moved in tandem with the music. You noticed his gaze linger on the swirling figures of Laenor Velaryon and Rhaenyra, their steps fluid but distant—polite, but without any spark of true closeness.

“Well, look at them,” Jason murmured, his tone touched with a faint mockery. “They make it look almost natural.”

You gave him a warning look. “Do not start.”

Jason grinned, offering you his hand. “Come now, wife. Will you let your sister upstage you on the dance floor, too?”

You sighed, though you took his hand, unable to resist the challenge. “Try not to embarrass me, Jason.”

“Never,” he replied smoothly, leading you through the gathering crowd toward the center of the hall. The music swelled, a quick and lively tune, and soon the two of you were swept into the rhythm of the dance.

Jason was an excellent partner, for all his arrogance. He moved with a practiced grace, his movements confident as he guided you effortlessly across the floor. His hand rested firmly at your waist, fingers splayed possessively over the fine silk of your gown, while his other hand clasped yours tightly.

“Look at us,” he said, his voice pitched low enough for only you to hear. “The rulers of the West, making a spectacle of ourselves yet again.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t suppress the faint smile tugging at your lips. “The night is not about us, Jason. Remember that.”

“Isn’t it?” he teased, twirling you suddenly so that your gown flared out in a ripple of crimson and black silk. As he caught you again, pulling you closer than propriety allowed, his grin turned roguish. “The way they’re all looking at us, you’d think it was.”

“Behave yourself,” you said firmly, though your voice wavered as his hand slid lower along the small of your back.

“I am behaving,” Jason replied smoothly, his green eyes gleaming with mischief. “Or at least I was.”

His hand traced upward now, brushing just along your ribcage before lingering far too close to your breast. Your breath caught, and you shot him a glare. “Jason,” you warned softly, your tone sharp despite the smile still plastered on your face. “We are at my sister’s wedding.”

“And?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble near your ear as he twirled you again, using the movement to pull you closer still. “No one’s looking, my dragon. And even if they are, no one cares.”

You flushed slightly, your hand tightening where it gripped his shoulder. “You’re making a scene,” you muttered, though there was little fire in your protest.

Jason chuckled, a sound full of smug satisfaction. “And yet you love me for it.”

Before you could reply, his mouth was on yours—soft at first, barely more than a whisper of contact. But then he deepened the kiss, his hand splayed at your back as he held you close, his body pressed firmly against yours. For a moment, the world melted away—the music, the chatter, the flickering lights—it all fell into silence. All you knew was Jason: the taste of wine on his lips, the heat of his touch, the way he made you forget yourself entirely.

“Jason,” you murmured against his mouth, your voice half a protest, half a plea.

But he only smiled into the kiss, his thumb brushing tenderly along your jaw. “Let them look,” he whispered, pulling you back in. “Let them—”

The moment shattered with a scream.

A sharp, panicked cry tore through the music, cutting through the revelry like a blade. The musicians faltered, their instruments trailing into a dissonant silence as chaos erupted at the far end of the hall. A series of shrieks followed—women crying out, chairs scraping harshly against the stone as guests scrambled to their feet.

Jason broke the kiss abruptly, his body tensing as he turned his head toward the commotion. “What in the name of the Seven—”

More shouts echoed through the hall, the sounds of a scuffle breaking out amid the gathering crowd. From your place on the dance floor, you caught flashes of the chaos—lords backing away in alarm, guards moving forward, and the clash of metal as a fight erupted.

Jason’s arm tightened around you instinctively, pulling you close against him as his sharp gaze swept the hall. “Stay with me,” he muttered, his voice low but firm. “Don’t move.”

You could barely process what was happening. The laughter and lighthearted music had been replaced by panic and confusion. Guests began shoving toward the exits, their footsteps echoing loudly off the stone floor as the great hall dissolved into mayhem.

Jason’s eyes narrowed suddenly as he caught sight of something—or someone—amidst the chaos. “Gods,” he hissed, his voice edged with disbelief. “Look.”

You followed his gaze, your heart lurching at what you saw. Near the center of the fray, Ser Criston Cole stood over a prone figure, his white cloak streaked with blood. In his hands was a sword, the blade still glinting wet and dark in the candlelight. On the floor lay Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, motionless, his face twisted in a rictus of pain as the surrounding crowd recoiled in horror.

Jason swore under his breath, his jaw tightening as he turned to you, his arm still steadying you amidst the panic. “Come,” he said firmly, his voice just above a growl. “We’re leaving. Now.”

You nodded quickly, your heart pounding as Jason guided you through the chaotic crowd. The guests were pushing toward the doors, some shouting, others sobbing, while guards attempted in vain to restore order.

As Jason ushered you toward the nearest exit, he glanced back over his shoulder, his expression one of grim amusement despite the madness. “Well,” he muttered dryly, “this certainly beats the lion at our wedding.”

You shot him a look, though there was no time for a retort. Jason’s hand remained firm at your back as he guided you into the safety of the corridor, away from the screaming hall and the madness left in its wake.

And as the doors of the great hall slammed shut behind you, the echoes of the chaos still ringing in your ears, you couldn’t help but think of Rhaenyra. Wherever she was now—still in that crowd or somewhere hidden away—the night of her wedding would be remembered not for love or joy, but for blood.

The great hall of the Red Keep, once resplendent with joy and light, had become a shadow of its earlier grandeur. The aftermath of the chaos still lingered: overturned chairs, shattered goblets, and plates strewn across the floor. Pools of wine, dark as blood, stained the stone, mingling with the remnants of the ruined feast. The heavy scent of spilled food and sweat hung in the air, and though the room was now quiet, it was not the peaceful kind of silence—it was the heavy, hollow stillness that comes after disaster.

Near the center of the hall, beneath the flickering light of torches, Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor Velaryon stood before the Septon. Their wedding finery—so pristine at the start of the night—was now disheveled and stained. Rhaenyra’s white and silver gown bore smudges of grime where hands had pulled at her in the chaos, her once-perfect braids hanging loose in places. Laenor fared little better, his embroidered cloak torn at the hem, a streak of dried blood on his cheek where someone’s elbow had grazed him. He had wept openly earlier—everyone had seen it—but now he stood straight, jaw clenched, his eyes red-rimmed and hollow.

The Septon’s voice echoed across the broken hall, calm and steady despite the ruined setting. “Under the eyes of gods and men, I do hereby bind you, Rhaenyra of House Targaryen and Laenor of House Velaryon, in marriage. A union of fire and sea, sealed this day.”

At the edge of the dais, King Viserys stood as witness to his daughter’s marriage, but he looked changed. The vigor he had worn earlier in the evening had been stripped away, replaced with the weary slump of a man far older than his years. His hand gripped the pommel of his cane, knuckles white, his breathing shallow. The crown atop his head seemed heavier now, as though the weight of it alone might send him crashing to the floor.

Beside him, Jason Lannister stood uncharacteristically somber, his usually roguish smirk absent. He held himself straight, though there was an air of unease in the way his shoulders stiffened and his jaw clenched. His green eyes flitted around the hall, wary and sharp, as though still trying to process the violence that had erupted earlier.

You stood at Jason’s side, your hand lightly resting on his arm for support—not for yourself, but for him. The disquiet in the room had settled into you like a cold weight, your gaze flicking from Rhaenyra to the Septon and then back to the king, who seemed on the verge of collapse.

Jason leaned toward you slightly, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. “Gods be good,” he muttered, his tone devoid of his usual sarcasm. “Look at them. It’s like they’re being married on a battlefield.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your gaze fixed on your sister. Rhaenyra’s face was carefully schooled into a mask of resolve, but you knew her well enough to see the exhaustion pooling behind her violet eyes. “It’s not far from the truth,” you whispered finally, your voice soft but steady.

Jason exhaled through his nose, the sound almost like a scoff. “Is this what passes for Targaryen weddings these days? At least Daemon only killed a lion at ours. This…” He trailed off, his gaze settling briefly on the bloodstains still visible where Ser Joffrey Lonmouth had fallen. “This is something else.”

King Viserys stirred slightly, catching their attention. His voice was faint but carried enough weight to silence any whispers. “It must be done,” he said quietly, though whether he spoke to himself or to you, Jason could not say. He turned his tired eyes toward Jason, and for once, even the Lord of Casterly Rock was without a quip. “A marriage binds houses. Even amidst chaos, it must endure.”

Jason inclined his head, his tone respectful but firm. “A wise truth, Your Grace, though I wish it could have been under better circumstances.”

Viserys gave him the faintest of nods, though his gaze lingered on Rhaenyra with something that might have been sorrow. “Better circumstances…” he repeated softly, as though the very words were foreign to him.

The Septon’s voice rose again, solemn and unyielding as the final vows were spoken. “In the name of the Seven, I hereby pronounce you husband and wife. May your union bring peace to the realm and heirs to your house.”

Rhaenyra turned to Laenor as the words settled over them like chains. For a moment, they merely looked at each other, and though their hands met as expected, the gesture lacked warmth. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of someone shifting uncomfortably at one of the far tables.

Jason straightened slightly, glancing toward you with faint incredulity. “No cheering? No roaring applause? Gods, it’s like a funeral.”

“Jason,” you warned softly, though you couldn’t deny the truth of his words. There was no joy in this hall. Only exhaustion, fear, and lingering unease.

From across the room, you caught Laena Velaryon’s gaze. She stood among her kin, her expression hard to read as she watched her twin brother. Her face bore no tears, but there was an undeniable sadness in her eyes. She looked at Rhaenyra, then at the rest of the hall, before her gaze settled on you briefly—her nod faint but understanding.

Jason’s voice pulled your attention back. “It’s done,” he muttered, as though reassuring himself. “Now let’s hope the gods don’t think to test the marriage bed next.”

You shot him a look, though his tone lacked bite. “You’ll hold your tongue, won’t you? The last thing we need is for you to provoke anyone.”

Jason huffed softly, though he turned his gaze forward again. “Oh, don’t worry, wife. I’m not fool enough to poke a dragon tonight. I’ll leave that to Ser Criston.”

The mention of Criston Cole’s name sent a ripple of unease through you, and you glanced briefly at the far edge of the hall, where the Kingsguard knight had been quietly led away. His pristine white cloak had been stained red, though no one dared to speak of it aloud.

As the Septon withdrew and the hall remained deathly quiet, Rhaenyra turned toward her father, her chin lifting in defiance even as her eyes betrayed her weariness. Laenor remained at her side, his grip on her hand firm as though he needed her strength to stand.

Jason let out a long breath, his arm brushing against yours as he straightened. “A wedding I’ll not soon forget,” he said quietly. Then, almost to himself, he added, “Let’s pray it’s not the first of many nights like this.”

You looked toward your sister once more, your heart heavy as you took in the hollowness of the ceremony. For all the talk of unions, of peace and heirs, you couldn’t help but feel the cracks widening in the foundations of everything around you. The wedding was done, but the chaos it had uncovered was only just beginning.

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