#squire flicker

[princess-josie-riki]

Year of the Alice Day 347

This is my first (and hopefully only) one-year project (which will be only 365 days) and this one is Alice's Adventures in Wonderland-themed.

In this pic, Squire Flicker hears the Caterpillar asking "who are you" off-screen.

Made with Microsoft Paint.

Enjoy! ♠️♥️♣️♦️

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (c) Lewis Carroll

Blazing Dragons (c) Terry Jones, Gavin Scott, Nelvana and Ellipse Animation

Idea and artwork (c) me

[catfern]

outback.

in support of palestine ∙ the reality of tlou ∙ resources

pairing: trucker!abby x afab!reader

music: her - unloved

word count: 1.7k

summary: the night shift at a remote petrol station sounded like easy double pay. but nights get lonely. you've gotta find something to keep yourself entertained.

warnings: porn with a smidgen of plot, fingering, some perverted staring, tiny tiny implied age gap, australia. this is rlly just porn

fern says ⎯ THIS ONE IS FOR ALL THE AUSSIES IN THE AUDIENCE MAKE SOME NOISE!!!!!! this truly is self indulgent cause i miss flirting with hot women who call me darl.

you brought this on yourself, really.

the pale blue of the bug zapper fought a contrast with the dying fluorescents, painting half the aisles in an eery, twilight movie shade. the heat of a high december night was creeping, clinging to your shitty polyester uniform as you camp out in front of the only standing fan.

you had begged for a job, pleaded for it really, in the wickedness of this economic climate. you had run, tail between your legs, from your local chain grocery at the sight of the price of an avocado, and thrown yourself at the feet of the next passing employer. like a squire to the knights of old.

you just hadn’t expected it would be this job.

the gatekeeper of one of the last vestiges of civilisation. the night shift at a deserted highway petrol station.

the flickering floodlights by the pumps fighting an uphill battle to keep the creeping night at bay, you can do nothing but stare, eyes adjusting, ‘unadjusting’, readjusting to the dark over and over again. you’d had a total of two customers since you took over from the day shift crew. one just threw a gatorade your way in exchange for the bathroom key.

the high beam headlights of an oncoming truck shake you from your fading thoughts, baking you into the linoleum tile as you squint, blind. asshole.

you’d been warned about truckers, briefly. handsy rednecks, your manager had called them in passing while giving you a tour of the storage room. desperate old fucks who crawl like dogs to anything with a hole.

you watch with an almost bated breath as the peeling yellow cabin of the long-haul truck pulls into park, your eyes following its jaunty movement through the glass of the front windows. you’re starting to think maybe you should have brought an illegal switchblade to work. if you had one.

you avert your gaze quick, grabbing at something from the magazine rack in desperate hopes to appear disinterested, unapproachable. 15 Ways to Homeschool Your Kids. sure, that works.

the bell above the door chimes, you spy the scuffed leather boots crossing the plastic tiling with heavy footfall. 

“y’got a lounge?”

standing at the counter, you have to admit, she’s not what you pictured when you saw the truck. not that what you see is at all worth of complaint.

a thin sheen of sweat clings to her, echoes of the heat of the road. her skin is flushed, the contour of her muscle sitting, almost man-made, in a thin, cotton singlet. her hair is tied tight, her features, sharp, discerning, eyeing you down. you try not to stare, too obviously, at the soft outline of her nipple piercings beneath her shirt.

“hm?” you’re distracted.

“a lounge, darl. trucker lounge?” she repeats slowly with a bite of a smirk, looking at you like you were only a little bit stupid. your stomach drops with the honey of the nickname.

your eyes dart around the small space of the shop. you barely had space for the 3 aisles and the dingy bathroom. you clear your throat, trying to shake the feeling of fascination, “oh �� uh, nah.”

she scoffs, a wicked, small laugh, before retreating to browse the snack section.

you watch her, when you think she isn’t looking. small, caught glimpses in your feigned disinterest. she’s been on the road long, a tension in the broadness of her shoulders obvious as she readjusts her posture, eyeing the chips. you try bury whatever rears its head in your stomach when you hear her groan as she squats to better see the canned fruit. a roughness in her voice, lead with age and smoke.

you drop your reading material and smile, tight lipped, polite, as she approaches the counter. a cold meat pie and a ginger beer.

"and uh — pack'a rothmans, thanks, love.”

you nod, turning to wrestle with the rusting cigarette cage behind the counter, when you hear her chuckle, breathy and deep as she talks,

“y’look a little young to have kids.”

spinning back so quick you make yourself dizzy, you swipe the shitty magazine off the counter, discarded and unimportant, “nah, i… i was just bored.”

she rakes her eyes over you, slow, and you can’t help but feel the pull, magnetic, a knot in your stomach as she studies you. you feel caught in a trap, under her gaze. looking up at her, her looming presence is becoming all too real.

you slide the pack of cigarettes over the counter, trapped meeting her eye. a smile, something sly, plays on her lips as she thanks you, moving to catch a breeze of the fan.

an uncomfortable beat of silence passes between you. well, it’s uncomfortable for you. no longer able to hide behind disinterest behind glossy paper, you instead wrestle with yourself to seem at least neutrally interested, not utterly obsessed. you wring your hands behind the shelter of the till.

the woman shakes a cigarette free from the pack, holding it between the skin of her lips. “you smoke?” she’s looking at you, through the corner of her eye.

no, never.

“uh, yeah.”

you follow her out the shop, tied to her artificial shadow in the fluorescents. something is crawling in the night, when you step outside. a cicada silence echoes across the gathering dirt and dust.

she offers you the cig she had been holding, you take it gingerly, holding it in your mouth as she holds her lighter up. she brings her hand to cup the flame, to keep the absent breeze from destroying it. you feel, just slightly, the brush of her calloused palms against the low of your cheek, and you pray that the navy hue of the bug zapper is enough to hide the heat on your skin.

smoke fills your lungs, foreign and quick, an itch inside you that feels impossible. you cough and splutter to the chorus of her raspy laughter.

“you haven’t smoked a day in your life.” she says with a lopsided smile, plucking the cigarette from your hand and bringing it to her lips, taking a long, constrastly confident draw.

you shake your head in between wheezes, “is that what everyone is always going on about?”

“you’ll get used to it, here,” 

she hands it back to you, you feel obliged to take it. to try again, as she so quietly commands. your second go is met with an only slightly irritating tickle in your throat.

“that’s it, good girl,” something that seems so unsure rolls off her like syrup, something you had never known you were so desperate for. her hand finds the small of your back, her fingers dancing circles in something akin to comfort, to praise.

you look up to find her eyes already on you, tracing the contours of your neck in icy blue form.

the smell of artificial pine and day-old dust clings to her, swallows you whole as you fall victim to her touch, light-headed and weak at the knees as her breath fills your lungs.

she’s nothing if not vocal, desperation falling from her lips in tortured moans as she presses herself into the crook below your jaw, drawing your soft skin beneath her teeth, softly licking the littered aftermath, a trail down your chest.

she’s quick to undress you, pulling impatiently at the scratchy fabric of your worn company polo shirt. she’s not phased by any forgotten need for privacy, for decency. she’s only here in passing, after all.

“oh, sweetheart,”

the lace of your bra is a temptation not lost on her, a delight she so happily indulges in after days on the road. in some perverted part of her mind, you wore it for her. maybe, in some cosmic, fated way, you did.

her hands snake down your body, helping themselves to the lux of your curves as her lips press, all-consuming, against yours. her fingers lightly spreading your legs, a mean chuckle souring the kiss.

she’s not at all easy, or kind, the way she pulls you open, watches you fall apart in the brutality of her control. she touches you like she aims to destroy you, her fingers working relentlessly to the pull of your walls, unheard to your pleas to — please, slow down.

“that’s it, darling. come on,” it’s sharp, delirious and oh so pleased to hear you, a whisper tickling the dip of your chest, watching you through the blonde of her eyelashes as you throw your head back, your body rocking to the rhythm she sets.

“p-please, fuck, jesus, fuck!” if she was any meaner, she would have laughed. but god, she’s distracted. driven mad by her own dripping need.

“you wanna come, baby? yeah, yeah?” she’s slowing down, and you chase her question with a desperate, shakey nod. “yeah, you do. come here.”

she takes your hand in hers, delicate, kind, a wicked contrast. under the guidance of her touch, you grip the stiff denim of her jeans, tender, unsure, until she leads you to the heat between her legs and you nearly melt. her hand goes to fiddle with her belt, her eyes finding yours, bleary, in the haze.

“think you can help me out, sweetheart?” she nods along with you, and you’re unsure if she’s copying you, or you are her.

“yeah — i can, please, please,” you whine, your hips still rutting a lazy pace against the now stagnant force inside you. your hand pulls, impatiently, at the waistband of her cotton boxers, pulling them down to sit unceremoniously at her hips.

“fuck, good girl,” she seethes at the languid circles you draw on her clit, gentle and paced, as you chase your own euphoria on her fingers, “come on,” a whisper, hot on your neck, “i’ll go faster if you do, darlin’.”

you pick up in a daze, so compliant to the whim of her demand, so desperate to feel her calloused fingers trace the tide against your centre. rushing that feeling, wretched to have her tear you apart.

her fingers rock against you without care, wrenching every ragged moan from the cut of your throat as her speed picks up, “that’s it, fuck, you feel so good, sweetness. keep — keep going.” hoarse whispers against your chest as she presses sloppy, undone kisses to the ghosts of your ribcage.

you watch, above the broadness of her shoulder, as a peak of the sun paints the horizon a muddy pink, your moans a soundtrack to the emptiness of the desert as you practically bounce on the stranger’s fingers, loud for your own release.

yeah, you lost your job.

⎯ kofi

taglist; @whore4abby @endureher @beemillss @afraidofheightss @sentimentalyellow

[mintmatcha]

Mint, I need Lady in Waiting reader to find out that Sir Aizawa isn't married, I NEED this (I need to caress his weary face in my hands and watch his eyes slowly close as he cuddles into them, like a cat)

It’s normal for him to notice who comes and goes at these events. The vigilance is ingrained deep in every muscle, so much so that his eyes flicker to the door whenever there’s even a hint of movement.

That’s how he notices you dip out, the tails of your dress following behind.

He also notices that someone else is watching you.

“And then the dragon breathed fire. Did you know dragons could do that, mister?” the princess babbles, “That might only be in stories, though.”

Aizawa can barely mutter out a sound as he watches the other man -a squire, servicing under one of the other knights- excuses himself and heads to through door. He knows something is wrong by the way he moves. There’s too much purpose in his stride, a goal set into his brow and a smirk of his lips. It’s not the smile of a secret lovers meeting– its the sharpness of a predator hunting its prey.

“Mister Aizawa?”

Princess Eri tugs at the fabric of his shirt. The princess is especially young compared to the age of her father, only six as of this summer. Guarding her as been some of the easier years of his life, but also some of the most rewarding.

“I’m sorry,” he says as he stands, “I have to check on something.”

The young girl looks at him with wide eyes. “Will you be back soon? You promised we would dance.”

He ruffles her hair as he spins on his heel. He fears she has become his soft spot. “Before you know it, princess.”

He can’t hear your voice until his halfway down the hall and clear of the din of the banquet hall. It’s hushed, but with none of the polite lacquer you usually apply.

“I said I am retiring for the night,” you hiss.

“Perfect - then we shall head to your room.”

As Aizawa peers around the corner, he catches the blonde man reaching for you and grasping at the hem of your sleeve. You immediately rip yourself away, only for the squire to grap your other hand much more firmly.

“Sir Monoma,” you say, “If I have told you once, I have told you a hundred times. My heart belongs to another and I have no interest in you.”

The squire steps in closer, a laugh on his breath. He’s drunk enough that Aizawa can almost smell it from here. “Everyone sees how you long for the man. If he hasn’t reciprocated by now, you are waiting for nothing. You’re wasting your good years on a fool.”

Pity pangs in Aizawa’s chest. Have your affections been this obvious the whole time? He’d only just began to notice your lingering glances and hesitant touches– how long had it been obvious to everyone else? How much time had he spent missing you?

“Just one chance.” The squire tugs on your arm, trying to drag you in, but you hold firm, “I’ll treat you real nice, I swear it.”

The man twists slightly and you yelp.

Aizawa moves without thinking. It’s easy to catch a drunk man off guard. He slides in and knocks his weight off center, and in the instant of surprise, his hard snatches the squires away from yours. With a twist and a pop, the man’s arm folds behind his back and he falls to his knees, a strangled sound in his lips. It’s after, when he sees the fear in your eyes, that the anger sets in.

“If I am ever to catch you touching a maiden again I will break this arm so badly that you will never use it again, do you understand?” The words rip from his throat, “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir, or course, sir,” the man spits out.

“Your charge will hear of this.” With a shove, Aizawa sends him stumbling back, “And the king. Now, be off.”

There’s a moment of hesitation.

“I said be off.”

Monoma scrambles down the hall, back towards the party. You watch, rubbing your twisted skin with a dour look and avoiding Aizawa’s gaze. He’s not one to get flustered, but suddenly he is; you smell like juniper and flowers, a summer’s day, and rolled in like a winter’s storm.

“Don’t worry. His wrist is only sprained,” he offers.

“Frankly, I think you should have broken it.”

That surprises him enough that he chuckles.

“Was that too harsh?” you ask.

“Not at all.”

“Thank you, Sir, I don’t know how to repay you-”

Aizawa had discussed moments like these, the little openings that life gives him and he keeps squandering. Hizashi always tells him to be bold and romantic, Toshinori says to be soft and himself. Both seem like bad choices- so Aizawa decides to so something different entirely.

“Give me your hand.” He holds his own out, palm up. “That is all I request.”

You check the hall with a fair amount of apprehension. “Would your wife approve?”

“I am not married.”

“You aren’t?”

“Not even close to it.” He want s to explain the mix up, but the only thing he can focus on are you hands and how they wring your dress, “You can deny me. I’d understand.”

You lift your hand and place it in his, hovering slightly above his touch. Gently, he raises it to his lips and gives it the chastest of kisses. He expects you to pull away, maybe even slap him, but you don’t. Your touch lingers, warm against his skin.

“Are you sure you are unmarried?” you whisper, “You’ll break my heart if you are lying.”

He turns your wrist and presses a firmer kiss into your pulsepoint, then another, and another, trailing up your arm.

“You can ask the king himself.”

Right before he can nestle his face into the crook of your neck, you break away.

“Then, I will,” you say, dipping away and back towards the grand hall, “I will ask right now. I don’t want you to make a dishonest woman of me, sir.”

“Don’t ask in front of the court!” Aizawa is quick to follow, a uncharacteristic blush blossoming across his cheeks.

“Because you’ll be shown to be a liar?”

“Because the king might end up begging you to take me.”

[cadotoast]

Chapter 1- Jousts and Announcements

Minors DNI please. About 5k word length

Lances readied. Visors lowered. Steeds pawing the earth. The crowd holds its breath.

The thunder of hooves! The jangling of armor! The collective gasp!

You stand on your toes, heart in your throat as you watch your brother's lance shatter, his body swaying in the saddle. His opponent thunders past towards the other end of the list field, dirt flying from his horse's hooves. The crowd lets out a cheer, and you exhale, albeit a tad shakily, as your brother stays in his seat. He guides his mount to where his squire stands ready with another lance, sparing a glance over to where you stand on the sidelines, hands clasped at the front of your breast in anxiety. His grin is free, comforting, and you smile back at him, wishing him luck. He taps a small cloth tucked at his neck, your token of favor to him being your personal handkerchief.

"How exciting!" Your attention is momentarily pulled to your best friend, Jenny, who is clinging to the fence post in front of her. Her eyes practically have hearts in them as she stares at your brother, her cheeks flushed with the anticipation and thrill of the moment. "I always knew your brother would make a wonderful knight. He is proving himself true, in witness of the royal family no less!"

At the mention of the royals, your gaze flickers up to the raised dais where the King, Queen, and crown Prince sit with the rest of their court. They seem to be enjoying themselves just as much as the commoners that mingle in the stands and on the fairgrounds below them.

"He is doing very well." You agree, leaning gently against the fence in front of you, tugging lightly on the sleeves of your dress. "I was worried when he told me he would be joining the tourney. The Kings' Men are participating, after all."

"But that's not a Kings' Man." Jenny points to where your brother's opponent is readied once more, silver armor gleaming in the light, the emblem of a crimson griffin his standard.

"You don't need to be a member of the kings' inner circle and guard to be a formidable foe," This voice comes from behind you, and you glance over your shoulder to smile at your father. His eyes twinkle at you as he squeezes your shoulder gently, before looking to the knight in question. "That man there is Ser Mathis. He's a shoo-in for King's champion in a few years."

The next run has started, and you lean forward with bated breath once more as the two knights thunder towards each other. The harsh clang of lances meeting shields accompanies the surprised yelp your brother lets out as he is launched from his saddle, landing heavily on his back in the dirt.

"Jonas!" You leap onto the lowest rung of the fence, heart in your throat.

"Relax, he's fine, see?" Jenny grabs your arm to prevent you from hiking up your skirts and vaulting into the arena. Sure enough, among the cheers of the crowd, Jonas is getting to his feet, greeting his squire as the young man runs to attend him.

Ser Mathis is heading off in the other direction, surely to rest up before the next joust with whichever opponent in the tourney bracket he would next be facing.

"Who is jousting next?" Your father asks, looking up the field to where standards and flags wave in the summer breeze. You cast back in your memory, trying to remember the roster.

Before you can speak, two more knights are approaching the listing field, their standards held aloft. Your father makes an impressed sound in the back of his throat.

"This is going to be a good fight," Jonas has rejoined you, his squire Richard at his side. "That's two of the Kings' Men, Sers John and Kyle."

You look between the two knights, comparing the stature of each. Ser Kyle is slimmer than his opponent, but both are similar in height. You watch as Ser Kyle waves at the crowd, his expression jovial, before he places his helm on, lowering the visor. Ser John appears more somber, his eyes narrowed slightly, his frowning expression framed by a rather becoming set of facial hair.

"Ser Kyle Garrick was the squire of Ser John Price." Jonas says with a smile. "We started as Pages together. I am sure the student is looking forward to unseating his master."

Both knights have acquired lances, and now Ser John's face is obscured by his visor. The men salute the King, and then ready themselves. You lean once more against the fence, eyes darting between the combatants.

The fight is indeed thrilling. Both knights' lances shatter on the second pass, and suddenly there is a ringing of steel as Pupil and Teacher go sword to sword. You find yourself cheering as long with the crowd, caught up in the excitement.

"Put him in the dirt, Kyle!" Jonas roars.

The swords engage and disengage, the horses rearing, their masters urging them onward. But in the end, Ser John proves the better, looking down at where Ser Kyle lies winded on the dirt, sword knocked from his hand. The crowd erupts in cheers once more as Ser John dismounts and helps the other up. They embrace and slap each other on the back, ignoring the armor apparently, as men often do. When they lift their visors, both are grinning at each other, and you can't help but recognize the older's handsomeness when he isn't scowling.

"Ser John is one of the commanders of the King's forces." Your father remarks, leaning against the wooden rail next to you. "It would be telling of his aging if he was bested by his former squire so soon." His eyes twinkle as he glances sideways at you. "It was a close fight, though. I think the commander has some old war wounds that bother him."

You hum thoughtfully, eyes trailing the knight has he leads his mount off of the jousting field, making room for the next set.

Your face is red from the sun and sweat is collecting in your hairline and along your back when the jousts finally finish, emerging with a Ser Simon Riley as the victor. It's not surprising, seeing as he is a mountain of a man all donned in black-polished armor. You and Jenny leave your father, Jonas, and Richard to discuss the jousts, choosing instead to wander the fairgrounds, examining various wares from vendors as you make an attempt to cool down from the unforgiving summer sun.

"Did you hear that there was supposed to be some sort of special announcement done by the King in the evening?" Jenny asks as she examines a glass bauble. "I wonder what it could be?"

As a matter of fact, you have not heard of this, at least not yet. You purse your lips thoughtfully, counting the silvers in your purse as you contemplate buying a necklace with a charm that claims to offer the wearer good luck and protection from evil spirits.

"Maybe he is lowering the taxes for the townspeople?" You offer, handing over your silver coins to the merchant in exchange for the charm. "It has been a good year so far, and we aren't at war. Maybe he will ease some of the burden of the lower class."

"It would be nice, wouldn't it?" Jenny sighs, a bit wistfully. Her own purse only holds a few coppers, the most she could spare from her laundry washing earrings. You pass her a silver coin, which she tries to give back. You refuse.

"I never got you a gift for the winter feast. This is my late gift to you, buy something for yourself." You make sure that no sound of pity escapes from your voice, and keep your eyes on your friend's face, and not the worn, patched clothing that she has to call her "Sunday Best" Jenny gives you a sheepish smile, and then hands over the silver piece to the merchant, a small glass figurine clasped gently in her hand.

The two of you continue to wander the fair grounds, admiring the young men in their armor and the pretty ladies vying for their attention.

"Would you ever want to be married to a Knight?" Jenny asks you as you watch a group of young women surrounding a dashing Knight with a rather peculiar haircut. He wears a plaid kilt around his waist instead of the traditional armor of the knights of the kingdom.

"I'm not sure," you confess, beginning to walk over to where the local tavern has set out tables outside, drinks and food being sold to the festival goers. "With them having to go out and lead armies for the King, I would be worried that he would never come home."

"Even commoners like our fathers can be called to arms at times of war," Jenny reminds you. "How is that any different?"

Leading the way to an empty table, you ponder the question. "I suppose in the grand scheme of things, they are quite similar." You tuck in your skirts around your legs as you settle on the worn, wooden chair. "Maybe I just think that having a knight for a husband would be aiming above my class. My status." Never mind the fact that your brother is a knight himself. "We need no rumors spreading that I am simply looking for a higher rank in society."

"Hmm..." Jenny settles across from you, flagging down a young woman who is carrying a tray of pints. You run a nail along the grain of the wood, turning to people-watch those wandering the town square. The queerly-dressed man has been joined by Sers Simon, Kyle, and John. All have changed into more comfortable garb, but Ser Simon has his face covered with a black cloth so that only his eyes peek out. They all seem in high spirits, and the kilted man stretches up to place a flower crown on top of Ser Simon's clothed head.

"All four of them are in the Kings' Men." Jenny says, her gaze following yours. "The man in the kilt is Ser John MacTavish. Though I hear that his close friends simply call him 'Johnny'."

The men in question move as a group under the shade of a tree nearby, settling at a table. You watch them subtly as they banter and laugh, your attention only diverted when a tankard of chilled cider is set in front of you, along with a plate of hearty stew and a thick crust of bread. You thank the tavern maid with a smile, and take a sip of the soup. It's delicious, as to be expected from this particular tavern.

You find your attention drifting more and more to the table of knights, your stew cooling and your cider warming in tandem. It takes several repetitions of your name, and a harsh kick to your shin under the table before Jenny can pull your attention back to her and the conversation. "You're staring," She says bluntly, a wicked twinkle in her eyes. "Which one of them's caught your fancy?"

Your face floods with a heat not caused by the summer sun, and you take a hasty gulp of your lukewarm cider to chase away the mortification stuck in your throat like a dry piece of bread.

"It's nothing," You deflect. "My head was in the clouds is all."

Jenny raises a skeptical eyebrow at you, then tosses her long brown hair over her shoulder with a snigger. You in turn glare at her playfully, before ducking your head to eat some more of your meal. Your ears, however, stay piqued towards that particular table.

"How are ye feelin' after that joust, Captain? I hope I didnae batter ye too badly," It's the kilted man who is talking. His accent is thick and foreign, exotic, you think. I bet it's barely understandable when he's deep in his cups.

"If you think I'm huffin' and groanin' after a few bouts with you lads, then I might as well turn in my sword today," Grumbles Ser John, but his expression is playful. "I ain't in the grave just yet."

"I'll say," It's Ser Kyle this time. "I'm going to be sore until next summer. You sent me flyin' with that lever you call a lance." A chorus of playful jeering erupts, and there is some shuffling as the men push and shove each other in their banter.

With a meaningful clearing of her throat, Jenny draws your attention back to her. You blink at her a bit owlishly, a sheepish smile turning the corners of your lips. Jonas is standing above the two of you, wearing a cheeky grin.

"Searching for a suitor, darling sister?" He drawls. You try to glower at him, folding your arms across your chest.

"Not at all, Jonas." You try for a cool and collected tone. "Just observing. One must stay vigilant at all times."

"Vigilant of all the eligible, dashing knights, that is," Jenny's wearing a wicked grin.

"You are one to talk," Your gaze cuts momentarily to Jonas, and then back to Jenny's face. Her eyebrows furrow slightly as she narrows her eyes at you, and you simply beam at her, the picture of benevolence and Innocence. Jenny huffs, rolling her eyes, as she gets to her feet.

"Jonas here was going to take me to see the stables, do you want to come along?" Something flashes in her expression, and you have to bite your lower lip to suppress a grin.

You shake your head, waving both of them off. "I'm just going to stay here and cool down. Don't let me ruin your fun." The responding smile is answer enough to your unspoken query, and you watch as Jonas, ever the gentleman, lends Jenny his arm as he leads her through the crowded fairgrounds.

Now alone, you find yourself feeling a bit awkward. You fidget with the new charm around your neck, pressing the cool, smooth glass to your lips. The tavern maid refills your cider and takes your empty bowl, as well as a few silvers for the meals you and Jenny ate.

You're contemplating getting to your feet to wander the fair once more, when a loud scream sounds from behind you. Startled, you jump to your feet and spin on your heel, searching for the source of the commotion.

A heard of horses, which had presumably been picketed at one point, have been spooked into a stampede, still tied together by lead lines. The crowd is scattering, some getting out of the way quick enough, some not. And just to your luck, the herd veers sideways and right towards you.

Cursing in a very unladylike fashion, you rush to escape the horses' path, but your skirt snags on a split in the wooden log that makes up the bench, and you tumble over it to the ground, landing with a pained grunt. Winded, stuck, and in the path of a deadly stampede, you're frozen in place, watching your demise trample towards you.

You barely register the ripping of fabric as two strong hands wrap themselves around your upper arms and pull, jerking you free and dragging you backwards over the dirt. The herd of horses blunders past, shrieking and whinnying as they crash into tables and benches, and overturning barrels of mead and ale.

A rushing in your ears drowns out most sound as you stare at the spot where you had previously been lying, now deluged with hoof prints. The scrap of fabric from your skirt is pummeled into the soft ground. Belated in their arrival, a troop of guards runs in the direction the horses have fled to, shouting orders and trying to clear the way of injured townsfolk.

"Are you okay?" A deep voice sounds in your ear. You're leaning back against a warm, broad chest, its steadyness contrasting to the trembling of adrenaline shaking your body. With a deep, shuddering breath, you pull your gaze from what would have surely been your early grave, to look into the face of your rescuer.

Ser John looks down at you, eyebrows furrowed low in concern. He wears a frown, his brilliant blue eyes looking you over, assessing you for damage. "Are you hurt, my lady?"

"I think I'm okay..." You absently run your hands over yourself, feeling for anything amis. "Maybe a little bruised." Your shin smarts from where it had collided with the bench.

"Looks like your skirt took the worst of it, lass," On your other side kneels Ser MacTavish, his own gaze wide with concern. "Tha was a narrow scrape ye had there."

Ser John assists you to your feet, and supports you while your knees tremble. After you have gained stability, you step cautiously away from the knight, turning to face him as you brush grass and dirt from your skirt to the best of your ability. Sers Kyle and Simon watch from their table, the former's gaze twisted with concern.

"Thank you so much Ser," You say to Ser John, lowering your gaze respectfully. "Without your help, I would surely be injured."

"You're sure you're alright?" The man in question asks, his gaze roaming your body in a cursory examination. "Did I hurt you at all?"

Your hands rub your upper arms where the man's hands had nearly swallowed you, a phantom heat lingering. "No, Ser, you did not hurt me."

Ser John straightens as he looks down at you, hands on his hips. He gives a soft grunt of acknowledgement, settling down in his seat only after giving you one final once over.

"You're Jonas' sister, aren't you?" This question comes from Ser Kyle, who has gotten to his feat and pulled up a seat for you. It seems rude to refuse him, so you settle in the chair, mournfully fingering the rip in your skirt.

"Yes, I am." Your lips curl up at the corners. "He mentioned that you and he were squires together, Ser Kyle."

"What a lad," Ser Kyle beams, his teeth shining on contrast to his darker skin. "One of the best in our group. I don't understand why he ever declined the position."

You blink. "The position? What position?"

"Ye dennae ken?" Ser MacTavish stares at you. Heat wells in your cheeks self-consciously. "He was offered a place in our ranks as a Kings' Man."

The table falls silent as you process that information, watching absently as the tavern keeper rights some of the tables. You note your spilled pint of cider and mourn its cool refreshment silently.

"He never mentioned it," You finally admit. "Granted, he doesn't like to talk about his work too much when he comes home to father and I. Prefers to stay on lighter matters, I suppose." You glance once more at Ser Kyle. "He was supposed to be a Kings' Man?"

"I was second pick for the opening when Ser Richard resigned to his manor by the sea. Your brother was the first pick, the King asked him to join pretty much as soon as he earned his title and standard."

You chew on that for a moment, curiosity itching at you. "He's a rather modest man," you say. "My guess is that he probably thought he wasn't up for it. That someone more capable should take his place."

"Not that I am ungrateful for the position," Ser Kyle glances at his former Knight-master, "but it should have been Jonas."

"If I had to take my guess," Ser John is the one to speak, his sentence broken as he takes a sip from a pint of ale. "He declined it to stay closer to you." At your confused expression, he pushes onward. "Even as a page and a squire up at the castle, he spoke of you often. More often than not, actually. He desired to be able to support you, especially after the passing of your mother, and with your father becoming more elderly and declining in his health. He wanted to provide for you until you wed, and even then, to be close by if you ever needed him. Us Kings' Men are sent all over the realm to do the work of the King. If he had taken the position, he would not have been able to remain as close to your side."

You don't know whether to be embarrassed by your brother's apparent coddling, or touched by his thoughtful nature. Gazing down at the grains in the table, you run a finger over your lower lip in thought, turning over the Ser's words.

"Ae, sounds like somethin tha lad would do." Ser MacTavish agrees.

"If it is as you say," You muse, a smile gracing your features, "It seems rather fitting of him."

"Speak of the Devil," Ser Simon speaks up, looking over your shoulder. You glance behind you, grinning when you see Jonas, Jenny still on his elbow, walking in your direction. Jonas is wearing a flower crown of daisies, which Jenny keeps grinning at, a bluish sitting high in her pale cheeks.

"Heard I missed some action," Jonas calls, his gaze roaming over you. Despite his cheery expression, you can see the worry in his eyes as he takes in your rumpled condition. "Is everything alright around here?" The underlying question about your welfare rattles in your brain like a gong.

"The Tavernkeep might be needin' to seek out the carpenter, and the las's skirt might need some mendin'," Ser MacTavish replies, leaning back to pull up a few more chairs for the new arrivals. "but as far as we can tell, she is no worse for wear. Ser John here kept her out of harm's way."

"And for that, I thank you, Ser," Jonas dips his head to Ser John, a respectful look in his gaze. He then looks to you once more. "You are uninjured?"

"A little rattled," you say with a smile. "But my pride, a bruised shin, and my skirt are the only casualties."

Jonas leads Jenny to her seat, right beside the rather imposing Ser Simon. Jenny gives the large knight a rather nervous look, taking in what features were not hidden by the face covering he wore, and managed a small smile as she gathered her skirts around her. Jonas sits easily in his chair, his arm slung over the back of Jenny's.

"We were just discussing your promotion to knight," You tell your brother, raising an eyebrow. "Why didn't you tell me the King offered you a position in his guard?"

"Wasn't for me," Jonas replies instantly. "I do my best work close to home. There is plenty for me to do here, I'll let the other more adventurous knights such as our present company go gallivanting around the kingdom."

The other men chuckle good-naturedly, and Jonas calls over the tavern maid to order a round of drinks for the table.

"Hey Jonas, did you hear about Prince Aldous?" Ser Kyle suddenly interjects, his expression conspiratorial. Jonas leans in immediately, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"What about him?"

The other knights groan in synch, and you and Jenny look at each other in interest. The crown Prince is a good-looking, but rather pompous young man. Despite his attitude, many women in the kingdom seem to be falling over themselves to get his hand in marriage if possible.

"He failed out of his test of Knighthood."

"Again?!"

"Again," Ser Kyle can't seem to keep a mirthful tone from his voice. "That makes three times."

"Must be a record," Ser MacTavish chuckles.

"Careful," Ser John admonishes, his voice a low grumble. "He is still the Crown Prince."

"Well the Crown Prince is a--" Jonas' words are cut off as you kick him sharply under the table, eyes flashing in warning. He gives you an embarrassed sort of smile, then clears his throat. "well, he leaves something to be desired," he finishes, albeit a little lamely.

"He's still young, there is time to learn." You say, drumming your finger against the wooden table, smiling at the tavern maid as she sets a fresh pint of cider in front of you. Ser Simon makes a noise of agreement into his ale.

"He's only a year older than yourself," Jonas reminds you with a smirk. "Maybe you should try for his hand."

A flush fills your cheeks, and you shake your head adamantly. "Me? A Princess? No thank you."

"You'd be a Queen, too," Jenny's eyes glitter. "When he takes the throne. I think you would make a wonderful Royal."

You merely shake your head again, taking a sip of your cider to cool the flush in your cheeks. "No, I don't think so. Too much attention, for one thing."

"The royals are always under constant scrutiny," Ser Kyle says with a nod. "It is a lot of pressure. Not everyone is fit for it."

"Maybe you should try for his hand, Jenny," You tease, knowing full well her answer. She narrows her gaze at you, pursing her lips at your grin.

The conversation flows easily, and time speeds by as the sun descends towards the horizon. As the sunset approaches, Sers Simon, Kyle, MacTavish, and John excuse themselves from the table, begging pardons, but they have to return to their duties as Kings' Men. Not long after, you can hear trumpets sounding from the festival grounds.

"That's the call to assembly," Jonas says, stretching. "Whatever announcement the King is going to give is going to happen there, we will probably want to be there."

Jonas takes the lead in heading towards the festival grounds, clearing away through the crowd for you and Jenny to pass through safely. You keep your eyes peeled for potential troublemakers. As vigilant as the local guards are, instances of pickpocketing and sudden brawls are not exactly unexpected on festival days.

A large crowd of people are gathered on the green lawn, facing a large wooden podium set up underneath a pair of ancient oak trees which provide a natural canopy. The King, Queen, and Crown Prince sit on makeshift thrones up on the podium, flanked by some now-familiar knights. Ser John stands almost directly behind the Crown Prince, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. Sers Simon and MacTavish are behind the King and Queen, with Ser Kyle standing off to the side with a handful of other knights belonging to the Kings' Men, whose names you can't recall at this time.

Jonas picks his way to the side of the crowd, where a small copse of trees offers some shade to some lower-level knights who shelter there. They greet Jonas with friendly waves, and don't protest when you and Jenny settle in the lush green grass.

"How were the horses?" You ask Jenny, settling your skirts around yourself modestly.

"Oh they were wonderful!" Jenny giggles, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Jonas took me to see all of the knights' mounts, including that bay he rides. Her name is Anika. She likes carrots, daisies, and chewing Jonas's tunic." You both giggle at that last bit, and you turn to examine your brother. The shoulder of his shirt does appear a little gnawed-on. Jonas himself is chatting with the other men, gesturing exaggeratedly with his arms.

"He probably forgot to take a bath, and that was Anika's way of telling him he smells," you joke, biting your lower lip as you chuckle. Jenny snorts quietly, shaking her head back and forth.

"His Majesty, the King!" A herald shouts, and the buzzing of the crowd dies down to a hush, raptly focusing on the podium. King Cassian Godfrey is a handsome man, dark haired and tanned skin. His eyes are a dark brown, almost black, that demand the attention of everyone around him. He is a good king, though the graying along his temples reflects his age, and the promise of his son someday taking the throne is a rather daunting one. His Queen, Helen, bares a remarkable resemblance to their son, her fair blonde hair shining like gold in the dying sunlight. She is known to be kind and philanthropic, a mother of the realm, so to speak.

"I come before you today with a joyous announcement for our Kingdom," The king says, his voice projecting across the lawn. "My son, the Crown Prince Aldous, has come of age. After much discussion, it has been decided that he will be allowed to pick a bride of his own choosing." A murmur ripples through the crowd, mixed with some gasps from some women in the crowd. Aldous looks rather bored up on the dais, turning a ring over on his finger and watching it glint in the dying light.

"Every eligible woman will be sent a summons to the palace where they will be required to present themselves before the prince. He will then make a selection of ten women with which to court for a period of time. Of those ten, he will chose his bride."

"A summons?!" The word slips out of you, hushed and shocked. Your sympathies seem reflected by those in the crowd.

"We always knew the family was a bit eccentric," Jenny murmurs, worry in her gaze.

The buzzing of the crowd has risen slightly, emotions melding together in a mixing pot as the realization sets in to the citizens. A mandatory summons. That means equal possibility for all of the eligible women in the kingdom to potentially win the hand of the Prince. But that also means that the initial summons are not optional. Weather or not you are interested in becoming royalty, you are required to present yourself to the prince for his approval or dismissal.

"All unmarried women of eligible age will receive a date of which to present themselves. If they are selected at the end of the first presenting, they will be offered accomodations at the palace for the rest of the courting season."

A headache starts to develop behind one of your eyebrows, your previous words from the evening slamming against your skull like Athena prying herself from Zeus' skull. "Me? A Princess? No thank you."

"Summons will be delivered to those eligible beginning next week. The first presentations will begin the week following. To the families of the ten selected women, a monetary stipend will be paid to cover any loses of income should the women in question be employed to support their families." You and Jenny glance at each other, both thinking of the meager jobs you have managed to acquire to assist your families.

"What if someone who is selected for the ten women does not wish to be?" Someone in the crowd yells. The King pauses, looking in the direction of the speaker.

"It is the belief of the royal council and of myself that it is a service to the country to be accepted to this position, and that any women selected should be honored to do so."

"So in other words, its not optional. You can't decline." one of the knights behind you says in a hushed tone. Jonas grunts, glancing down at where you and Jenny are sitting.

"I suppose if one didn't want to be selected, they would just try to appear as unappealing as possible," Your brother muses, but there is a dark lilt to his tone, and his jaw clenches.

The crowd murmurs among itself, the mixed sentiment evident.

"Thank you for gathering and enjoying the festivities today." King Cassian finishes, before stepping down off of the podium, his family and the King's Men following him.

You sit there on the grass, gazing down at your clasped hands, your heart beating out what seems to be your funeral dirge as reality sets in.

You are unmarried.

You will be presented.

[comfortless]

bsfr here knight!gf would have women flocking her! a cute girl with a sword??? dungeoneer!könig never stood a chance. 😔 does he get jealous?

hi hi marmy you are so correct…! i love these two touch-starved emotionally inept little creatures…

König hates— hates the nights when the taverns they wander by are crowded, some terrible bard barking out a song boasting tales of heroism across the kingdom, banter and food shared between the two… because those are the nights that (given a little mead and a flirty wink from a tavern maiden) he knows he will be staying up all night like an ever-vigilant herding dog to watch over her.

The women do not care whether or not his knight has a cock, they find her utterly charming in every way; from her tales of beasts she’s slain to the playful way she leans forward to speak with them. She doesn’t even have to do much to catch a curious, longing stare, polishing her sword or wiping bloodstains from her armor typically is enough to do the trick.

König has even tried to emulate her a time or two, hoping to see that same flicker of jealous cross her face that he seems to wear every night like this only to find himself thrown out whilst the little knight has her fill of drinking and cavorting with the other ladies.

It turns him on when she’s this bewitching, too, making the entire ordeal even more frustrating for him. /: He sees the way she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, the way she puts up with women pawing at her chest plate (why is it only an issue when he does it??).

She even has the audacity to tell one of these adoring does that König is her squire, some pup rushing to lick her boots and sharpen her swords... He doesn’t miss the way that, when this intruder does finally bolster the courage to kiss her on the cheek, his lady knight offers him a sly little grin.

He also loves these nights.

Since they began to sleep in the same bed (“It gets too cold at night,” she had said.) she doesn’t seem to mind his pawing so much. She lets him squish her breasts beneath her tunic, roll his hips against her as long as he doesn’t push it too much.

The best part, though? When she tells him that despite all of those eyes on her, his attention is all that she wants.

König is the only person that’s brazen or ridiculous enough to actually spar with her, anyhow. What is she supposed to do with a lady too afraid of dirtying her skirts or a man too chivalrous to kiss her blade?!

It’s on one of these evenings, that she finally, finally pulls him in for a kiss— just after he’s finished scolding her for tipping the tavern maiden nearly the entirety of their last payment just because the other lady happened to stroke her palm and tell her how brave she is.

The kiss is sudden, surprisingly chaste as she curls her arm over his neck and pulls him toward her waiting mouth. He’s too shocked by the fact she’s willingly showing him some sort of affection that isn’t entirely subtle or overtly vulgar that he does not even have a chance to reciprocate.

It devolves into a moment of awkward, bashful staring and nervous huffs of breath. Neither of them mention it, but he could swear that he heard a whispered confession from her lips before sleep takes him that night.

[kckt88]

Breath Of Doubt.

Summary:

Cerelle Lannister arrives at the Red Keep and immediately sets her sights on Aemond, determined to have him at all costs.

Vaeryna of course is having none of it and unleashes her inner dragon, determined to protect her treasure.

Warning(s): Language, Pranks, Violence, Threats, Kissing, Incest, Voyeurism, Smut - Lactation Kink, Daddy Kink, P in V Sex.

Word Count: - 4242

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

GREENS WIN - ENEMIES TO LOVERS.

One Shot Take My Breath Away - Takes place six months after the birth of Aegar.

AEMOND X O.C

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @snh96, @immyowndefender,

“Gods this is boring” moaned Jaehaeryn.

“Boy, that’s enough” snapped Aemond as the golden horse drawn carriage came to a stop inside the yard.

“Sorry father” muttered Jaehaeryn, subtly moving closer to his mother.

“What’s she even coming here for anyway?” asked Rhaegar.

“Beats the shit out of me” said Vharla shrugging.

“Language” scolded Vaeryna.

“Oops” squeaked Vharla.

“He’s got a point you know-why is Cerelle Lannister coming here?” asked Aegon the Younger.

“Scouting for a husband” mused Jaehaera.

“Good luck, half of the single lords that frequent the Red Keep are wrinkly old cunts”.

“Daenerys” snapped Aemond.

“Apologise father” replied Daenerys her cheeks tinged pink.

“Oh, you have no idea how much this amuses me” breathed Aegon.

“Glad it amuses someone” snarked Aemond.

“Uncle Aegon is single, and he isn’t a wrinkly old cunt” exclaimed Saeryna.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you” said Aegon.

“Shouldn’t have favourites” mused Aerys.

“I don’t have favourites-but if I did it would absolutely be Saeryna” laughed Aegon.

“You are the King-stop acting like a buffoon” snapped Aemond.

“Oh, Aemond remove the stick from your arse and lighten up” replied Aegon.

“Uncle is brave-I’ve seen lesser men almost piss themselves in fear from the look that father is giving him right now” mused Rhaegar.

“All of you quieten down-“ urged Vaeryna,

As the door of the carriage opened, Aerys let out a little gasp as Cerelle emerged from the carriage, her jewelled hand extended to the attending squire.

Indeed, she was rather beautiful, her golden hair shining in the sun, her elegant slim figure swathed in rich red and gold fabric. Her blue eyes sparkling like the rarest of gems from Tarth.

“Lady Lannister welcome to Kings Landing, I hope your journey from Casterly Rock wasn’t too perilous” said Aegon politely as he held out his hand in greeting.

However, she bypassed greeting Aegon and made a beeline for Aemond.

“Rude” scoffed Vaeryna.

“Pleasure to meet you Prince Aemond, I’m Cerelle Lannister”.

“Errr, pleasure to meet you my lady” replied Aemond.

Cerelle Lannister's gaze swept across the crowded hall, where the flickering candlelight danced on polished armour and richly adorned gowns of other ladies in attendance.

The air buzzed with the murmurs of the guest courtiers as they revelled in the grandeur of the occasion, a feast held in celebration of some anniversary of the King.

Yet, amid the sea of faces, her eyes found him - Aemond, the enigmatic figure with flowing silver hair that cascaded down his shoulders like liquid moonlight.

Aemond moved with a graceful confidence, his every step commanding attention.

The scar over his face only heightened the allure, a testament to his bravery and resilience against the bastard strong boy who carved out his eye when they were children.

Cerelle's heart quickened as she took in the sharp features that radiated the ethereal beauty of old Valyria.

His presence was magnetic, drawing her towards him like a moth to flame.

Leather-clad and lithe, Aemond moved with the fluidity of a predator, his every movement deliberate and purposeful.

Cerelle couldn't help but be captivated by the way his attire accentuated the contours of his body, a display of strength and agility that hinted at a warrior's prowess.

Her breath caught as she observed the subtle play of muscles beneath the supple leather.

Cerelle's pulse quickened when she saw Aemond lean over and place a gentle kiss on the cheek of his wife.

Cerelle in her youth had heard of Vaeryna, the silver haired dragon who had sold herself to her enemies and married the man responsible for the deaths of her brother and father.

It often intrigued her, what sort of woman would do that, but then her reasons were made clear when it was revealed that her brother Aegon the Younger was still alive, despite the entirety of the realm believing he perished alongside his brothers in the gullet.

Cerelle actually admired Vaeryna for that, it showed her strength and determination, a true reflection of house Targaryen.

But upon seeing Aemond, Cerelle completely understood the unspoken reasons for Vaeryna’s motivations. She really couldn’t blame her for spreading her legs and birthing the prince’s many children.

His silver haired babes were a testament to Aemond’s virility and fertile seed and Cerelle couldn’t help but feel flustered at the thought of Aemond stuffing her with his cock and breeding her.

His wife should have been a deterrent, a signal to retreat from the allure of forbidden desire. However, Cerelle's determination burned brighter than ever.

Vaeryna, was a mere obstacle in Cerelle's pursuit. Their union did little to extinguish the flames of longing that now roared within her.

Cerelle's ambitions knew no bounds, and the thought of a marital bond meant nothing in the face of the irresistible connection she felt with Aemond.

Undeterred by the constraints of societal norms or the sanctity of marriage, Cerelle set her sights on Aemond with unwavering resolve.

The glint of determination in her eyes mirrored the gleam of silver that adorned Aemond's hair and no matter how much she admired Vaeryna her existence quickly became inconsequential in the grand tapestry of Cerelle's desires.

She planned to move through the courtly intrigues with a grace that masked her audacious intentions. Cerelle knew the art of subtlety, weaving a web of subtle glances and discreet encounters, all aimed at ensnaring Aemond's attention by any means necessary.

Cerelle Lannister observed silently as Aemond engaged in rigorous sword training session in the castle yard.

The sunbathed the training grounds in a warm glow, accentuating Aemond's silver hair and his lithe and powerful frame moving with a grace that only a seasoned warrior possessed, each motion deliberate and precise.

As Aemond practiced his swordplay with the oldest of his sons, beads of sweat formed on his brow, glistening like diamonds against his pale skin.

Cerelle's blue eyes followed the sinuous lines of his movements, appreciating the fluidity of his actions. The intensity of the training session accentuated the contours of his muscular physique, captivating Cerelle's attention with each powerful swing and deft manoeuvre.

Cerelle found herself entranced by the sight of Aemond's dedication to his craft.

 His focus was unwavering, and the sheen of sweat highlighted the exertion he poured into every strike.

Aemond's dedication to his training only heightened his allure in Cerelle's eyes, and an admiring smile played on her lips as she absorbed the captivating display.

The distant clang of swords echoed through the yard as Aemond sparred with his son. Cerelle couldn't help but admire the way he effortlessly dominated the practice, his movements a dance of skill and strength. A subtle sense of longing crept into Cerelle's gaze, and she marvelled at the allure of the warrior before her.

Aemond's silver hair caught the sunlight, creating a mesmerizing halo around him as he continued to hone his swordsmanship.

Cerelle, hidden in the shadows, allowed herself a moment to appreciate the beauty of the scene.

The contrast between the fierce determination etched on Aemond's face and the grace with which he moved stirred a potent cocktail of emotions within Cerelle.

As the training session progressed, Cerelle remained captivated by Aemond's every motion, savouring the sight of his athleticism, strength, and the sheen of sweat that clung to his form.

A subtle smile played on her lips, aware that the next time they spoke, the image of Aemond in the midst of his training would linger in her thoughts, fuelling a newfound admiration and perhaps sparking something more.

Vaeryna felt the subtle tension in the air whenever Cerelle Lannister was near.

The sly glances, the lingering touches, and the carefully chosen words—all seemed orchestrated to seduce her husband, Aemond.

Vaeryna was not blind to the game being played, and it fuelled a storm of emotions within her.

In the quiet moments of the night, Vaeryna found herself reflecting on the delicate balance of power within the social web of the court.

Ever ravenous for the whispers of scandal and salacious behaviours they could use for their own amusement.

Cerelle’s visit to the Red Keep was only meant to last a few weeks, but the visit had been extended in the hopes that Cerelle would be successful in finding herself a husband.

Technically she had been successful and had indeed found herself enamoured with a man who was no doubt the fantasy of most women that caught a glimpse of him, but he was married, and his wife was no slouch.

She was not only a dragon, but the daughter of Daemon Targaryen, whom she embodied not only in mind but in soul and every time she saw Cerelle giggling at Aemond or batting her eyelashes at him, she found her fingers itching to swipe the dagger from Aegon’s belt and skewer the nasty little tart with the pointy end.

However, Vaeryna tried very hard to restrain herself and maintained a calm and dignified facade but beneath the elegant exterior, Vaeryna harboured a storm of conflicting emotions—anger, jealousy, and a determination to shield what was rightfully hers.

Her children however were another story.

Saeryna had spent hours searching for spiders in the gardens only to release them in Cerelle’s chambers, her screams of terror echoing around the Red Keep as Saeryna smiled innocently.

Aerys worked in tandem with Jaehaeryn to swap Cerelle’s fancy bathing oils with stinky pond water and Caelee even helped herself to Cerelle’s pretty powders and used them to paint pictures for her Kepa (Father).

Vharla unstitched the seams of Cerelle's dresses which resulted in a rather embarrassing incident in the gardens with Cerelle being left red faced after her dress all but fell apart leaving her in nothing but her underclothes.

As it turned out Aegon was behind the entire thing, as he was advising the children on what to do and he took great pleasure in the chaos they were causing.

He had taken an instant dislike to Cerelle and was determined to see her suffer for her rudeness and blatently obvious disregard for Vaeryna who Aegon was absolutly NOT in love with.

Vaeryna of course pretended to be scandalised when Saeryna was caught putting worms in Cerelle’s hair, but it was rather endearing that her children had made some unspoken agreement with their uncle Aegon and united against Cerelle, determined to punish her for what she was doing, and it was amusing to see their sweet little faces a picture of pure innocence as they were scolded by Alicent for their behaviour.

The one thing Vaeryna was sure of was Aemond, her husband, was a man of unwavering loyalty and moral integrity.

She knew him well enough to trust in the strength of their bond, convinced that no external charms or temptations could sway him from their shared commitment.

Despite this confidence, the mere fact that Cerelle Lannister sought to weave her subtle web around Aemond was an insult that stung.

The insults were not in the fear of Aemond succumbing to Cerelle's charms, but rather in the audacity of the attempt itself.

It was a slight to their marriage, a challenge to the sanctity of their love, and an affront to the trust they had painstakingly built over the years.

Vaeryna found herself grappling with a mix of emotions—anger at Cerelle's audacious advances, frustration at the need to defend what should be unassailable, and a deep-seated hurt that someone would dare to undermine the sacred connection she shared with Aemond.

Ultimately her thirst for retribution eventually prevailed and she made a vow to herself that when the opportunity presented itself, she would deal with that horse haired slattern if it was the thing she ever did.

The Red Keep was ablaze with light and merriment as the realm gathered to celebrate King Aegon's name day. Banners of House Targaryen fluttered in the breeze, their green and gold scales catching the glow of countless torches that lined the courtyards and corridors.

The air was filled with the fragrant aroma of roasting meats, and the joyful sounds of laughter and music echoed through the throne room.

The throne room was adorned with elaborate tapestries depicting the storied history of House Targaryen. Long tables stretched across the room, groaning under the weight of lavish feasts prepared for the occasion. Golden chalices and plates adorned with dragon motifs sparkled under the soft candlelight, casting a warm and inviting glow.

Nobles from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms mingled with knights, lords, and ladies, all clad in their finest attire. The clinking of goblets and the melodic tunes of harps and lutes filled the air, creating an atmosphere of revelry befitting the celebration. Courtiers in richly coloured gowns and doublets danced gracefully to the music, adding a touch of elegance to the festivities.

In the centre of it all stood King Aegon, resplendent in regal attire befitting his station. His silver hair gleamed in the light, and the crown of the conqueror sat proudly atop his head.

Aegon received well-wishers and gifts with a gracious smile, acknowledging the love and loyalty of his subjects.

The people of the realm still buzzing from the spectacle of the jousting tournament that been held earlier in the day in honour of the king's name day, where knights in gleaming armour clashed with lances under the watchful eyes of the cheering crowd.

Of course, Aemond who claimed he didn’t give a shit about tourneys, entered and won.

Relishing in the cheers for his victory as he crowned his wife Vaeryna the queen of love and beauty. Her sweet smile as he placed the wreath of flowers upon her silver head and her gasp of surprise as he hauled her over the wooden fence and kissed her deeply in front of the realm was endearing for all too see.

Except for Cerelle of course who was seething with envy. Her attempts to tempt Aemond were proving fruitless, and his children with his silver haired bitch of a wife were monsters who needed hard lessons in discipline and the King was no better aiding those little shits in their pranks was truly poor form.

No, she needed to increase her efforts in tempting Aemond, she wanted him and by the gods she was determined to have him, so she donned her most daring dress and joined in the celebrations for the King’s name day.

“Are you really that dense brother-“ snarked Aegon as he took a large sip of wine.

“What are you bleating about now?” snapped Aemond.

“Cerelle Lannister-the lingering looks, the not so subtle touching of your arm when she's talking to you. Brother-your wife is seconds away from kicking the shit out of her and whilst I will shamelessly enjoy such a spectacle, I doubt her morbid cunt of a father would, so you might want to put a stop to whatever fascination Cerelle has with you before blood spills” replied Aegon.

“There is no-“

“You only lost one eye, surely you’re not that blind, the girl is desperate for your cock-“ muttered Aegon.

“Well, she can remain desperate-"

“Listen to your big brother-you’ve only bedded what two women?” said Aegon.

“Three actually”.

“Three? Who was-oh yeah Alys that old whore from Harrenhal, I forgot about her” said Aegon.

“Hm”

“Well, that’s beside the point-I’m more well versed in the ways of women than you are, and I can tell you now that there are some women who don’t take no for an answer and when they set their sights on something they will do whatever it takes to get it” replied Aegon.

“Are you saying that I’m in capable of defending myself against unwanted attention?” asked Aemond, feeling a little insulted over his brothers insinuation.

“In a word-yes I am. That Lannister bitch has had you in her sights since she first arrived here and whilst you remain blissfully unaware-your wife does not”.

“What has Vaeryna said?” questioned Aemond.

“It’s not what she’s said brother, it’s what she hasn’t. No woman ever wants to see another woman pawing at their husband” exclaimed Aegon.

“Do you think Vaeryna will do something?” mused Aemond as he looked over at his wife who was indeed glaring at Cerelle.

“You do know who your wife is right? Whilst Ryna might be a woman, she’s as fierce as any dragon that ever existed, and a dragon will protect what they consider to be theirs-if Cerelle continues playing with fire she’s going to get burned” warned Aegon.

"Oh, for the love of seven" uttered Aemond as he spotted Cerelle walking towards him.

“This isn’t going to end well” urged Aegon grimacing.

“Aemy-I had thought you would ask me to dance” giggled Cerelle.

“I’m not much of a dancer my lady” muttered Aemond.

“That’s not true-he dances often with Vaeryna-you know his wife” said Aegon through gritted teeth.

“Oh, Your Grace, a man may dance with others if he so wishes” said Cerelle her voice mockingly sweet, the underlaying meaning of her comment lingered in the air.

“Not this man” whispered Aemond as he tried to move away from Cerelle.

"Oh, just one dance my Prince" exclaimed Cerelle reaching for Aemond's hand.

"My lady I really must protest-" retorted Aemond moving his hand away from Cerelle's grasp.

"Just one dance-surely you won't begrudge a lady-"

"Oh shit-" muttered Aemond.

“-I bid you farewell Lady Lannister-it was nice knowing you” exclaimed Aegon raising his goblet in a mock toast as Vaeryna came up behind Cerelle and seized her by the hair, dragging her away from Aemond who couldn’t help the surge of arousal that shot through him at his wife’s possessive display.

The fierce determination in her amethyst eyes as she spun Cerelle around and slapped her hard across the face.

Her face twisted with fury as she stood over the shaking form of Cerelle.

“You even dare to approach my husband again and I’ll knock your teeth out-I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear-I’ll rip your fucking face off-AEMOND PUT ME DOWN“ screamed Vaeryna.

“Take it easy there Issa nēdenka zaldrīzes” Aemond as he wrapped his arms around Vaeryna and hauled her away from Cerelle (My fierce dragon).

"No-she laid hands on you; I won't have it-she dares to think that she can take what is MINE" snarled Vaeryna as she struggled against Aemond's grip.

"Nothing to see here-" urged Aegon waving his hands in the air, as he tried to stifle his laughter.

Aemond dragged a furious Vaeryna from the throne room and hauled her against the wall, his arms pinning her body against the cold stone wall.

"Calm down-" urged Aemond.

"Don't tell me to calm down-she's been pawing at you for weeks and I can't stand it any-"

Vaeryna gasped as Aemond surged forward and pressed his lips to hers in a brutal kiss.

“Do you trust me ābrazȳrys” asked Aemond (Wife).

“You know I do” replied Vaeryna breathlessly.

“In that case I may have an idea to stop Cerelle’s pursuit of me-so would you do me the honour of meeting me in the library in half an hour” said Aemond.

“Ok” muttered Vaeryna feeling a little uncertain.

“Don’t worry Issa gevie perzys. Just make sure to wear something less constricting” replied Aemond as he turned on his heel and walked away (My beautiful fire).

Cerelle stared down at the hastily scribbled note and smiled. Aemond had asked to see her, mayhaps he was going to apologise for his clearly deranged wife’s violent behaviour, or he had finally realised their connection and was ready to give in and reciprocate her affections.

Admittedly the library was an odd place to meet, but it didn’t matter.

The moment she had been waiting for was finally upon her and Cerelle was determined to enjoy every single second of it.

As she approached the ornate double wooden doors, Cerelle took a deep breath to steady her nerves before a guard wordlessly opened the doors for her.

The library was almost shrouded in complete darkness save for the few lit candles, giving it an almost eerie yet romantic glow.

“Aemond” called Cerelle.

But no answer came and after a few minutes, Cerelle’s attention was drawn to what sounded like a breathy moan coming from between the bookcases.

As she moved through the labyrinth of tall bookcases, the sounds of moaning grew louder.

Cerelle stood stunned as she spotted Aemond, half naked with his breeches sitting low on his hips, his head pressed into his wife’s neck as he pounded into her.

“N-Nothing and no one compares to you” growled Aemond bracing his hand on the bookshelf as he brutally snapped his against Vaeryna’s.

He was so deep inside her that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began.

“Aemond” gasped Vaeryna her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it ābrazȳrys, take every fucking inch of me-let me fill your sweet cunt” (Wife).

“Oh, please Valzȳrys. I want it. I want all of you” moaned Vaeryna (Husband).

“FUCK” roared Aemond as he hauled Vaeryna away from the bookcase and placed her the edge of a desk.

“Yes-Yes Aemond, Oh gods” breathed Vaeryna.

“I fucking love you-I love you so much” growled Aemond his eye finding its way to Cerelle who shivered as he smirked at her, the sapphire nestled in his eye socket glinting in the candlelight.

Aemond continued to stare at Cerelle as he mercilessly fucked his wife, filling her over and over again with sharp penetrating thrusts.

The muscles of his chest and abdomen flexing as he moved with a brutality that Cerelle had never seen before.

“Aemond-yes, right there. Don’t stop-don’t stop” cried Vaeryna the tears running down her pale cheeks.

“That’s it Issa jorrāelagon. Come on daddy’s cock” rasped Aemond (My love).

Cerelle couldn’t help the flare of arousal that shot between her thighs when Aemond lurched forward and wrapped his lips around one of his wife’s erect nipples.

Suckling greedily and he reached down and began expertly circling her pearl with his long fingers.

“AEMOND” screamed Vaeryna her entire body seizing before going slack and pliant.

“FUCK-I’m going to come-“ groaned Aemond.

“I want it-fill me with your seed Issa dārys” gasped Vaeryna (My King).

“FUUUUUCK” roared Aemond, his head thrown back as his rope after rope of his seed spilled inside his wife’s cunny.

“Aemond” breathed Vaeryna as her husband collapsed on top of her.

“I love you so much-“ replied Aemond.

“-And I love you” whispered Vaeryna.

“I never want you to doubt my love, no one will ever compare to you-my soul mate”.

“Issa idañnykeā perzys” muttered Vaeryna (My twin flame).

“I see that our observer has fled” said Aemond staring at the vacant space that Cerelle had occupied mere moments ago.

“Husband” breathed Vaeryna as she slid her hands into his long silver hair and pulled his face towards hers.

“Wife” replied Aemond as he pressed a kiss to her soft lips.

Vaeryna gasped as felt her husbands cock hardening inside her.

“I think I need to have you again” moaned Aemond as he withdrew his cock from his wife’s cunny until only his tip remained and then thrust forward again.

“You may have me as many times as you desire my love” exclaimed Vaeryna.

“Hm-” sighed Aemond his tongue licking at the seam of Vaeryna’s lips.

His plan had worked perfectly, Cerelle wouldn’t be a problem anymore. She had seen for herself the passion and love that Aemond and Vaeryna had for one another, what a silly lion she was to even think that she could come between two dragons.

As they watched the golden carriage depart the Red Keep, Vaeryna couldn’t help but notice the sly smiles plastered across Aegon and Saeryna’s faces.

“-And what are you two so happy about?” asked Vaeryna.

“We may or may not have left a little going away present in the carriage for the Lady Lannister” said Aegon shrugging.

“Dare I ask-“ mused Vaeryna as a loud shriek echoed across the courtyard.

“I guess she found the slugs” laughed Aegon.

“Or the maggots” replied Saeryna.

“I thought we agreed on slugs-where did you get the maggots from?” asked Aegon as he lifted Saeryna into his arms.

“Found them in the Maester’s room and then I put some in a jug and poured them in a cushion in the carriage” replied Saeryna.

“A-A cushion” exclaimed Vaeryna.

“Don’t worry mama. I left the zippy part open” shrugged Saeryna.

“Gods I love this kid” laughed Aegon.

“I thought I was being nice leaving her presents, not my fault she doesn’t like them”.

“Spoilt bitch” muttered Aegon as Saeryna nodded quickly.

“I’m not going to get into trouble am I mama?”

“No, my sweet you’re not. In fact, I must insist that you receive a reward, how about a new doll or a new dress. Perhaps both?” said Vaeryna smiling.

Saeryna giggled sweetly and pressed her face into Aegon’s neck.

“You know I pity the fool who dares try to court this little one when she’s of age” said Aegon.

“You and me both”

“Is everything ok?” asked Aemond curiously.

“Everything is perfect my love” replied Vaeryna as she took her husband’s hand and headed back inside the Red Keep.

As Vaeryna gave one last fleeting towards the golden carriage moving rapidly away from the Red Keep, she couldn’t help but wonder if Cerelle would ever dare show her face again.

Probably not if her children had anything to with it. What treasures they were.

All eight of them, mayhaps even nine as the moontea Vaeryna had requested that morning had remained untouched in her chambers.

[shesjustanothergeek]

Ruined

|Jacques Le Gris x Fem!Reader|

Short Story

Summary: Once you come of age, you're sent to your brother-in-law's estate to find a husband. After months of deflecting and denying suitors, old and young, you encounter the dangerous squire Jacques le Gris.

Author's Note: Jacques le Gris is a rapist. No matter which point of view you look at, he is a rapist. I would also like to say that I personally hate him. He embodies everything I hate about men and victim blaming in the modern world. Still, at the same time, I am so incredibly enamored by him, primarily due to Adam Driver's acting. Initially, I didn't want to write this story, but it would not leave me alone. Without further ado, here is Ruined. I hope you enjoy it!

WARNINGS: Mentions of rape, period-accurate sexism, noncon elements, extremely toxic masculinity, orgy (non-participating), the reader is a virgin, slight blood play, violence, degradation (Jacques receiving), rough sex, Jacques is not nice until the end, sexual blackmail, unprotected sex, PIV.

(I wrote this story almost a year ago but realized I didn't publish it here for some reason. You'll definitely see how much my writing has changed for the better.)

The obnoxious noises of people chanting draw you out of your trance, sipping wine from a silver goblet periodically to drown everything out. These parties were never your favorite, but you came, observing the party-goers dancing drunkenly as if it was your duty to attend.

You roll your eyes as the crowd cheers, Count Pierre yelling above the rest, a woman on his lap, and bringing your gaze to where the sound is directed.

A young man with raven hair draped around his neck stalks towards a maiden, a smirk on his lips, untying his white tunic. His chest is broad, a sheen of sweat glittering on his skin in the candlelight. He would be so much more attractive if this were a different situation. You could even imagine yourself being the one to pleasure his cock. You roll your eyes, understanding the intentions of this whole charade.

"Jacques, my boy, get on with it," Pierre says, growing impatient with the lack of excitement.

He nods, making wide steps to the woman, circling a wooden table as she runs in the opposite direction he follows. You can't help the groan of distaste that releases, tilting the cup to your lips and turning away, not wanting to see the show.

How could anyone like this? It was blasphemous in the eyes of the Lord. Mary would be weeping for what her son's followers do for fun. You must mention this in your confession, receiving penance for witnessing hedonistic actions, drawing the sign of the cross, wiping the stray dribbles from your lips, and making room for your bed chamber.

Pierre sticks his leather boot out, nearly tripping you as you huff, putting your hands on your hips.

"Where are you going, sister," he questions. "The party has just begun."

Your lips curl into a snarl, your white teeth reflecting the flickers of light.

"It is quite late, my dear brother-in-law. I need to rest my weary body."

Pierre tucks his leg back, a wave of shock washing over you. He fakes a pout, his eyebrows scrunching with a wet lip out. You shake your head, disbelieving his ridiculous antics. Indeed, he wouldn't let you go that easily.

"Awe, my dear sister," he pats his free thigh, "won't you find your rest here on my lap?"

The room erupts with laughter, everyone watching the exchange unfold, wondering how this will end. Your stomach turns inside, revolted by your legal brother's detailed proposal in God's eyes. Hot words of hatred sear your tongue's end, begging you to be free, but you bite it. He was, after all, above you, gifting you a home while searching for a husband. You were indebted to him. Saying no was not an option. Your eyes meet Jacques, a look of surprise as if he never knew you were here in the first place— a typical man, keeping his head trained on one hole at a time.

Pushing all the bile and anger, you plaster a smile, accepting the offer and sitting across from the finely dressed lady. Pierre runs his calloused fingers along your spine, turning you into stone as you set your gaze on the floor.

Everyone's eyes had left except for one, the only pair you didn't want on you as you sat in defeat, cheeks fuming. Jacques was intense, his facial hair dusting around the hard line of his mouth, shining with the wetness of the wine. It almost seemed you were his prey now, not the maiden with the ornate burgundy dress. You had no intention of being hunted by him.

With the clap of Pierre's hands, the merriment commences again, Jacques halting for a split second before his pupils are set back to where they were before. The woman is shouting no, over and over again, excitement barely laced in it. Your heart went out to her, a feeling of protection for the circumstance. She had no choice in who fucked her; a status of nothingness gave men the right to do what they wanted. Your gender had just as much value as theirs. Breasts and warm heat should not matter. 

The position in a society fueled the eternal flame of fury in your soul, always wanting to rebel and speak your truth, but the consequences of disrespecting a man were deadly. You were just as helpless as the woman being thrown over Jacques's shoulder and flipped onto the bed, held down by other waiting women.

A hand grips your jaw, forcing your eyes to watch the poor woman be soiled.

"Watch," Pierre commands, saying your name. "Watch him fuck her, and maybe you will learn how to be a good wife for your husband."

You clench your teeth, growling in protest as you watch Jacques enter her from behind. The iniquity of the sounds is enough to stir your core, but the cries of her protest ring louder, maybe laced with a hint of pleasure as the meat from the large feast threatens to exit your throat.

"Here." Jacques's voice was smooth, rolling out his chest like a baritone into your ears, caressing them. "Take some evil inside you," he says, aligning his hips with hers.

Your body jolts, either from the erotic sounds of his words or the disgusting act he was committing on her, as you put a hand over your mouth, jumping from your spot before Pierre can stop you. Incoherent noises were mumbling out of you as you ran to the doors, bursting them open with weight. The onlookers are quiet once more, waiting for a cue from the Lord. Jacques is the only one not paying attention, his vision trained on your retreating form as the girls giggle.

You order your handmaids to draw a bath, telling them to put as many herbs and oils to soothe your racing heart. They listened, bowing their heads in respect as they went off to do their respective duties, and you were in the scented waters in no time.

Take some evil inside you.

The words echoed in your brain, fuzzing all concise thoughts and morals. These parties were always like this, orgies were the most common, but they all seemed consensual. You never heard a woman shout no until tonight. Pierre ordered him to almost rape, teetering on dubiousness and assault.

Why would someone participate in that so willingly?

Jacques could say no and leave, not chase her around like an animal until he jumped on her. He was so attractive and sensual in his movements that even Christ would be shy.

You reached over the top of the tub, picking up the leather-bound book on the stand next to you, attempting to distract your mind from the man that was viciously pounding into as many women as he could in the other wing. A book of poems written in Latin was always your choice.

You had been lost in the pages for hours; the water had turned lukewarm and your skin pruney, but you were too focused as you felt the door slam. You jumped, nearly dropping it into the tub. You were surprised to find visitors, especially this late in the night. You lift your gaze with a quizzical raised brow. The person standing in your bathing room was Jacques Le Gris. You squeal, dipping into the water and covering your chest.

"What the Hell are you doing in here?" You nearly scream, forgetting your place.

He takes a few steps closer as you turn away more, his boots thudding, sending vibrations through the floor as he bends over, picking up your book. He reads the name aloud, almost like a question, and turns the pages, looking for a certain one. Jacques reads it aloud.

"Bibe mihi nisi oculis tuis et ego confirmo in oculis tuis." (Drink to me only with thine eyes, and I will pledge with mine.) He says, eyes flickering to your submerged body. "Vel osculum sed in poculo relinque, et vinum non quaeram." (Or leave a kiss but in thine cup, and I'll not look for wine)

Your muscles relax as you listen to his voice. It sounds the same, but the feeling of it is so much better than before.

"Sitis, quae ex anima oritur, divinum potionem petit." (The thirst from the soul doth rise, doth ask a drink divine.) You turn your body towards him, still covering your chest as you study his lips, how they pucker slightly, and his pink tongue touches his teeth.

Jacques begins to read the following line, but you interrupt him, having read this poem many times, as you peek over the side of the brass tub.

"Sed, ut potui, lovis nectare supponerem, Nolo tuum mutare." (But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.) He lowers his head a few inches above yours. His intense honey-brown eyes bore into yours.

"Sera tibi roseo misi, non tam honorante, quam ut spem dare non posset arescere." (I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath, not so much honoring thee, as giving it a hope that there it could not withered be.) He reads the line, inching closer and closer.

You lick your lips, lifting yourself as you recite. "Tu autem ibi solus respirasti et mihi remisisti." (But thou thereon did'st only breathe, and sent'st it back to me.)

"Cum crescit et olet, non per se, sed te." (Since when it grows and smells, I swear, not of itself, but thee.)

Jacques closes the book with a slight slap, the tip of his prominent nose gliding across yours as your mouth parts for him. He closes his eyes, leaning in.

"Take some evil inside you."

You pull back, standing in the tub quickly as the water splashes out. Jacques's face turns pale at your rejection, embarrassment clouding his mind. You turn your back to him, grabbing a large towel.

"You know, Sir Le Gris, that poetry would sound heavenly if it wasn't for your filthy mouth." You flip your hair over your shoulder, bending slightly to wring the water out as you hear Jacques approach.

Fear stuns you for a moment, freezing, unsure of what to do or where to go because you know he will not take no for an answer if he reaches you. Suddenly, you spot a mounted dagger over the fireplace. You stroll as if you planned to walk over all along. He catches up in no time, pinning you to the stone, his form pressed into your back as he buries his nose in your neck, sniffing. You try not to cringe, even though everything in your body tells you to do so. You can't show him you're afraid.

"Would you like to rub my oils on Sir Le Gris?" You try to hide the tremble in your voice, staying frozen in place.

"Mmm," he moans, "I would love to." He moves away from you, finally giving you the chance to breathe.

"They are over there." You point to the shelf with glass bottles and vials as he nods. Turning his back on you, you reach for the dagger, silently prying it off the display. "You can pick whatever oil you want, Sir."

Jacques studies each one, popping off the corks and glass lids, smelling them until he finds something he enjoys, and walks back over. He opens the bottle, the smell of roses wafting in the air as he pours some out into his hands, massaging your neck.

If this was any other circumstance, you might adore basking in it, but it isn't. You're with a man who has no concept of consent, a man who would bend you onto the hearth and fuck your weeping body. He reaches down to your shoulders, halting when he feels your resistance on the cloth; not letting him remove it, he overpowers you, pushing it down. You clutch the dagger closer to your bare chest as his fingers glide down your biceps and back, slick with the oil.

"You are so stiff, my sweet."

You shudder at the endearment, trying to relax your tense muscles. Jacques's hand travels down your chest, encompassing the small flat area as his fingertips touch the top of your breast.

"Stop," you command with a flat voice. Jacques ignores you, continuing to massage your intimate parts.

You turn around, flying at lightning speed, and put the dagger's tip to his throat, only enough to draw a trickle of blood.

"When a woman says stop, you stop, Jacques. When a woman says no, you listen." The words fly out of your mouth, anger for seeing the filthy action he committed on that woman from the party.

His lack of terror frustrates you. Even with a knife to his throat, he radiates arrogance. You push him backward across the room, still at his throat, pinning him to the large wooden door. He stands there in surprise, his arms up in surrender, more startled than afraid.

"I could end your life in a second, you scoundrel, yet you show no fear."

Jacques laughs. He laughed dark and deep, his perfectly crooked teeth sparkling as his Adam's apple bobs. You slide the blade with your neck craned; the edge is now piercing. Your face scrunches with fury bringing your knee up to his stomach, causing him to laugh more, slightly doubled over.

"Do you have such a low view of women that you take it in jest when they threaten your life?" You spit. His joy subsides a bit, chest still slightly bouncing.

If you slid the blade across his neck at this moment, his throat would slit, spilling his tarnished blood on your naked body, yet he still doesn't seem to care. His eyes travel down you, still damp from the bath. You slam his shoulder into the door with your fist, trying to assert dominance over him, not allowing him to look. You suppose this is a precarious pose, leg hiked up, hand on his shoulder, giving him perfect access to your womanhood.

Your stance falters at the thought, Jacques taking it as the perfect opportunity to grab you. The blade slides across his arm, flinching for just enough time to run, but he grabs you at the waist, the soles of your feet sliding across the stone floor. You yelp as he flings you over his shoulder, your legs and arms kicking as you scream for him to stop. He doesn't listen, opening the door to your bed chamber and throwing you down on your mattress.

Your body displays perfectly for him, with a slight sheen on your flush body. He devours the sight of you, ripping off his sweat-stained tunic as you push yourself off the sheets and away from him, running towards the exit. Jacques cuts you off, hunched over in a stance that resembles the one at the party, his arms out. You step to the side, and he mirrors it. You step to the other, and the same thing happens again.

"If you run, I will only chase you," he says with a predator's grin.

You look around desperately for anything to help you escape him. You spot a candle stick, sprinting to it, knocking the lit wax onto the floor as it rolls to Jacques's feet; his boot steps on it, snuffing the flame.

"Oh, my darling, you must be careful. You wouldn't want to cause a fire. Our fun might end." His voice is condescending as he stalks you.

"I will set this whole castle on fire before I ever have fun with the likes of you, swine."

A glob of spit flies out of your mouth, landing on his cheek. The pads of his fingers touch it, wiping it on them and bringing them to his mouth, sucking. He hums, popping them from his lips with a smile.

"You taste so sweet." He closes the space between you. "I would shun Jove's cup away every chance if it meant I could taste your nectar instead."

You grip the brass candle stick tightly, offended that he would reference a poem so dear, ready to swing at any moment. Jacques notices, smiling to himself. Your legs rub together at his words, a mind of their own.

His lips crash on yours, destroying any thought that you might not want this, and you drop your weapon, wrapping your fingers in his raven locks. You can feel him grin, happy to have won, his hand lacing itself on your neck.

You part for air as Jacques spins you around, sliding his other hand down your body to your aching mound, parting the wet folds with his digits. You gasp at the contact, your knees buckling as his grip holds you up.

"For a lady who put up so much of a fight, you are impossibly weak under my touch," he mocks, relishing his victory.

You glare at the wall with the brutal honesty of his words. You didn't put up much of a fight when his mouth finally met yours, even dropping your only form of protection.

"Silence." You demand, not wanting to hear any more of his taunts.

An exploratory finger glides over a sensitive spot on your heat, causing you to gasp and grip Jacques's trousers. He swipes over it, and you cry out at the foreign sensation, panting. You can feel the pride radiate from his demeanor at seeing your weakness, slowly rubbing circles on the bud.

You have never felt like this before, being taught never to explore that private area of your body, leaving it only for your husband to use. This pleasure wasn't something that society taught you. Yes, you watched many people fornicate at Count Pierre d'Alençon's gatherings but never allowed yourself to participate. He would have loved it if you did, but you had one duty to attend: finding a husband.

It was already so tricky finding anyone you could stomach, all the suitors decrepit and at death's door. You wanted to marry for love when you were younger. The idea of a fairytale romance clouded your eyes as a child, but once you bled for the first time, you were sat down and told of your duties. Accept whatever man had the most money, influence, or power and fill your stomach with his kin. But you wanted something else. The suitors also knew it, as you destroyed any notion of a small and obedient wife.

At times you were sure Pierre would throw you out as you brushed off and disrespected every man that came, but some of you knew he liked the entertainment. If only he could see you now.

Naked and moaning like a whore as Jacques assaulted your heat with his fingers, you loved the sinfulness of it all, Jacques breathing heavily into your ear as he worked you like a loom, rubbing in circles as pressure began to build in your stomach. Your hips were moving, seeking more friction. You can't control your body, the lust of the devil taking over your mind, a he kept touching that exact spot.

It was so intense, the new feeling, almost too much, you wanted to scream obscenities and thrash around, but he held you firm. Your toes curled as you stomped on the ground, a wave of ecstasy crashing into you as you screamed. Your body caved in on itself as you struggled in Jacques's grip, still rubbing the used nub. You twitched and spasmed as the aftershocks of your high jolted through your body, mumbling to yourself.

"It's-it's too much. Please. Stop." You beg as tears form from the overstimulation.

Jacques shushes you with kisses along your face, calming his fingers slightly, and you breathe a sigh of relief, head dropping as his hand still chokes.

"Have you ever experienced this before, a man's touch?" He whispers seductively, nose burying in your hair.

You're too dazed to think of a witty retort, Jacques pulling your consciousness away.

"No. I have to save myself."

"For who?" Jacques asks, removing his paws from your naked skin.

"My husband." You answer plainly.

Some of you have always wanted to explore your features this way, but you are always too scared, never taking the risk. You felt they would know what you had done by the look on your face, throwing you to live with pigs for the rest of your life. He chuckles at your lack of restraint, happy to have brought your defenses to a standstill as he slowly sways you to the bed, closing your eyes. You think he might leave you there, tucking you in for the night. You wouldn't protest with your achy limbs.

"You're still intact?"

You shoot up, eyes wide, as you realize what will happen. What?" That is all you manage to say, scared to admit the truth. Maybe if you didn't, he would lose interest and leave.

He rests his knees on the bed, your legs between his as he repeats.

"You are still intact?"

"Sir le Gris, I beg you to leave my chambers." Your voice weavers, sobering up, trying to keep a modicum of strength.

You slide off the bed, Jacques grabbing and flipping you as you swipe the candle stick from the floor. He crawls over the top, dragging his hair along your back as you feel his hands dip the bed, stick biting into your chest.

"I will ruin you for every man," Jacques whispers, face centimeters away from your ear, his facial hair tickling your skin as he peppers kisses along your neck.

The logical part of your brain wanted to stop this, realizing that you would fail if your future husband wanted to see if you were still a virgin. They'll declare you a whore, a harlot, sabotaging every suiter who enters the door. With your personality, you knew that your virtue would appeal more than money to them, and Jacques Le Gris would take it away. But the way his lips delicately kissed your skin, his hair lightly stroking it, taking the words out of your mouth as he reached your hips.

He removed his body from yours, shucking his black trousers onto the floor. You grip the candle stick tighter. This was your chance to fight back, stopping him from taking your only decent quality in man's eyes, but you didn't. You just lay there, waiting patiently for him.

A part of you wanted this, to know what it felt like and to discard any chance of finding a betrothed. You couldn't be tied to domestics, organizing feasts, caring for little ones, and then laying down to a man you could never love. It would be pure Hell, and you could not accept that. You would rather die alone without your honor than live a day under a man's boot.

Jacques grips your hips again, pulling you towards the edge of the mattress, legs hanging off the end as he spits on his shaft, stroking it. You turn your head to take a peak. The length is impossible; you had never seen one this long or wide, glistening with his seed at the tip. He catches you staring, smirking at your shocked expression, glad to have finally put you in your place.

He positions himself at your entrance, rubbing his hands on your ass almost gently as he pushes into the hilt. You scream, silencing it into the blankets as he pulls out, only to slam back in again. Tears burst from your eyes at the blinding pain of being stretched, his blatant disregard for your comfort.

"Jacques, it-it hurts." You beg, body shaking, the salty streams of water cascading down your face and into your mouth. "Please, slow down."

Your trembling voice breaks him from his trance, realizing he can't treat you the way he does with other women, not if both of you were to enjoy it. He pulls out, turning your body, seeing your tear-stained face and the candle stick you had been hiding, throwing it off to the side. Jacques smirks, proud to have won your mercy. He didn't know how long he would worry about you trying to kill him. He was proud of the magic his cock could work, but he didn't think it was that powerful, willing someone as strong and aggressive as you into submission. He bent over your body, kissing you, sucking on your lips gently, as your fingers combed threw his hair.

"I'm sorry, my darling, I should have remembered you are not like the rest. So fragile and delicate." He smiles, getting a waft from the oil he put on you earlier. "Like a rose. Ma rose. Beautiful and elegant, but if you aren't wise, she will prick you with her thorns."

You're sure his terms of affection come from pure physical attraction, trying to calm you so he could get back to fucking you like a rabbit. But the feeling that crept into your bones and heart at his words wanted to tell you something different.

He slowly drags them across your velvet walls, relishing in the tiny moans and whines he pulled from your chest. This time, his hand went down to your womanhood, using your juices to coat his fingers before he slid in, stretching you but not as comprehensively as his cock. You gripped onto the arms that caged you, your fingernails digging into the toned muscles as he dipped his head into the crook of your neck, softly biting the flesh.

You felt your peak rising quickly as he stroked you with curled fingers, your heat clenching and twitching around him. Jacques didn't need you to say anything to know you were close. Your body told him everything he needed as he quickly exited before your climax, ignoring your protests. He brought the digits to his mouth, coated in blood and nectar as he sucked, eyes rolling back at the tangy taste.

You watched in awe as his tongue licked it, dipping into all the crevices. He leaned down, hesitating momentarily as he reached your lips before you parted them and then dove in, mixing the taste of you and him. You moaned through your nostrils, eyelids fluttering as your tongues danced together, wrapping your legs around his waist. You were tired of waiting now that he showed you what sex could feel like, frustrated by its denial. You pulled his hair, tugging his face away as you looked into his hazel-brown irises.

You had never been this close to Jacques to appreciate his beauty truly; the freckles and moles dotted his cheeks and around his nose. He almost looked like the Roman statues you had seen in books, with his face and body chiseled from stone.

"Please," you whispered on his damp skin, "I need you inside me."

Jacques had waited for those words his entire life, eyes rolling back at the wave of arousal he got from them. He positioned his cock at your abused mound again, sliding in slowly as he watched your expression.

It was painful again, tensing and scrunching as he held back the best he could, bottoming out. The feeling of him so impossibly deep made you gasp. You were sure he was in your guts. You slowly ground your hips against him, trying to seek the pleasure you now knew he could give you. He smiled at your eagerness, happy to have turned the stiff woman into a puddle in his hands.

He finally gave you what you wanted, pulling back and sliding back in. Your walls finally adjusted to his overall size, welcoming him in. Like earlier, he worked that sweet spot inside you, stoking the fire smoldered inside into a small flame. You wanted more now that you realized what was possible, snatching his body close to yours as you angle your hips up, inviting him to go the pace he wanted. And Jacques did, slamming into your body as he fucked you deeply, breasts bouncing from the force.

You moaned loudly, head rolling to the side as the pleasure took over, Jacques wrapping a large palm around your throat again to hold you in place.

"Oh Lord," you shouted, "please forgive me. Now that I know of this sinful ecstasy, I may never stop."

Jacques smiled, happy that he ruined and corrupted you like he said he would, a new wave of primal desire controlling him. He yanks you to the end of the bed again, slamming your body into him as he stands upright, grabbing your waist and fucking into you as hard as he can, gritting his teeth.

You pant, excited by the new position he thrusts into rapidly, the now familiar pressure quickly building in your stomach.

"I am going to ruin you for every man." Jacques reiterates from before. "So, when your husband is fucking you like an untrained dog, all you will think of is me."

His black mop of hair sticks to his sweaty forehead as he continues pumping into you, holding himself back until you climax for him. He hikes your leg over his shoulder, pistoning in you impossibly deeper, hitting the same spot repeatedly until you snap. Your vision goes white as you arch your back, screaming at the bursting pleasure in your stomach. Jacques grins, proud to have you writhing under him as he spills inside you, seed filling up your hole as you both continue panting.

Jacques pumps into you carefully, slowly riding your highs together as your pulse slows, breathing calmly. His hand slowly snakes its way to yours, hooking a cautious pinky. He pulls out, gently dropping your leg as he collapses beside you, spent from the activities together, staring up at the ceiling.

His digit is vast compared to yours, the size of your index, as he takes the invitation to wrap all of them under your plan, bringing the back of your hand to his lips. You stare at him, an eyebrow raised at the unexpected display of affection.

"Thank you for giving yourself to me, ma rose. For letting me have your virtue." You look down at the intertwined hands and then at his face, skeptical, seeing his sincere expression.

"You are welcome," you giggle. "Though I always imagined it would be my husband, now I don't think I need one for that anymore."

Jacques laughs, a naturally bellowing whole-body one, and shakes his head.

"With all due respect, my lady, I don't think you needed me to show you that." You mirror his emotions, silently agreeing with him as he gets up, searching for the lost garments during your adventures.

You attempt to stand, legs faltering as pain shoots through your core, using the bed for balance. Luckily, Jacques is in the bathing room collecting his tunic as you walk over to the candle and holder, putting them back.

Cold, wet fabric on your back causes you to jump, turning around to see Jacques fully clothed with a wash rag in hand. You wince at the freezing temperature of it, grabbing his wrist. You look at him perplexed as he leads you back to the bed, parting your legs as he drags them across your core, cleaning up the dried blood and fluids.

"I can do that, Sir." You protest, uncomfortable with the amount of concern he is showing you.

"I know you can." He chuckles to himself, shaking his head, and continues. You don't stop him, letting the man care for you this time.

Once he's done, you reach for the cloth to discard, but he yanks it out of the way, folding it and stuffing it in a pocket. You put your hands on your hips, shaking your head.

"And what are you going to do with that le Gris?" You ask in an admonishing tone.

"Oh, this?" He questions, feigning innocence. "This is just for me... and any other suiter who decides to court you."

Your face pales, your playful expression dropping as you go to grab for him, his body surprisingly fast for the bulk of it. You try again, and he expertly dodges towards the door.

"Give it back, Jacques," you demand, done with his games.

He smiles and shakes his head, patting where the tainted fabric is stored. You reach for it once more as he opens your bed chamber door and slips out, shutting it on your naked body. He knows you can't leave, or everyone will see you; although some might be pleased, you still stay inside, pounding on the door as you yell his name.

***

You sit silently at the table with Count Pierre d'Alençon and his wife, your sister, eating the day's first meal. You needed that after last night, still fuming after what Jacques did.

That damn scoundrel.

Pierre puts his knife down with a "clang," causing your sister and you to perk up, expecting an explanation for the sound as he wipes his lips.

"Jacques le Gris came to my chamber last night," he begins. A lump forms in your throat as you freeze, terrified about what his following words would be."I found it very odd, him being here that late after the party, but nevertheless, he said it was necessary."

Indeed Jacques didn't blast Pierre about what you did last night; he already had proof enough that he didn't need to say anything.

"You came up in the conversation, my dear sister," he says as he points a jeweled finger.

You swallow, plotting all the terrible things you will do to Jacques the next time you see him.

"He proposed a marriage to you."

You drop all your silverware on the floor, face in shock at the reveal. Jacques has already ruined all chances of future courtiers, even going a step further and ruining your prospects of freedom. Why the Hell would he do that?

"I, of course, said that he would have to follow the process like any other man. He would get no special treatment just because he is my friend."

He steals your virtue and now your only chance of freedom.

"What do you say, my dear sister?" He asks, ripping your mind for your thoughts.

You stare blankly, unsure how to respond to something as ridiculous as that and clear your throat.

"Jacques le Gris is like all of the men from before and will be like all of the men after," you reply.

Pierre smiles at your answer, happy to know the two most headstrong, fiery people he knows will go toe to toe. This will be a duel for the ages.

[ari-bat]

Recently got into Blazing Dragons (the cartoon), decided to draw Squire Flicker because I love him

[irreplaceable-ecstasyy]

The Bitter Cold

For your Brienne request, how about something that takes place after Jammie left in season 8 with reader finding and comforting Brienne etc etc? - from @emilynissangtr

Wordcount: 2154

[Thank you for this one <3 I'm pretty sure quite a number of us have imagined jumping through the screen to comfort her. :( ]

The sound of hooves thundered in the winter silence, long enough to drown out the sobs of a woman for a moment until it was the only thing that filled the stiff air. Another heartbreak. You had seen it all before at the bar you used to work at, long before the wars, where men and women alike were either the victim or guilty of heartbreaks. Had you paid any less mind to the scene, you would have walked off to your quarters in peace but you found your feet planted to the ground. The man who had ridden off at this ungodly hour of the night had been Jaime Lannister. As for the heartbroken figure left to weep in the bitter snow, her tall frame was unmistakable. Ser Brienne of Tarth.

You had never seen her cry before nor had you seen an ounce of emotion from the woman other than her scowl. You were acquainted with her at most from the day she arrived at Winterfell with her squire for everyone had been called to train in the fields for the war. Some part of you had always been infatuated by her, mostly from the stories you had heard of the woman knight. Her bravery, her skills; she was an absolute daydream. Were it not for the war, she would have occupied her thoughts. You had seen her compassion and the raging fire in her eyes that you thought would be entirely impossible to snuff out. But here you were at her worst, the fire barely flickering in her tearful gaze.

Her sobs wracked through her and you could see how she shuddered so violently. Then it clicked that it may well be the cold biting into her skin. Anyone would be mad to wander into the snow with only a robe on, and madder to remain in the cold numb the pain of the heartache. Watching her was enough to make you feel like you were freezing under all your layers, and you were not heartless enough to leave her there. Tugging off your cloak, you hasted over to her and, in your best attempts, you tossed your cloak over her shoulders.

"You'll catch your death out here."

"Then leave me be. . ."

She refused to meet your gaze when you stared up at her. Her eyes were fixed on her feet to save herself the humiliation of tear-stained cheeks. Hide the evidence of this stupidity. Knotting the string of the cloak with a sense of finality, you took her by the arm with no room to argue. You were already walking.

"One man isn't the end of the world. Come on."

Reluctantly, she obeyed. For a woman so stoic, she still listened so easily. A soldier's instinct, perhaps. With Brienne trailing behind you, you ushered her back to her quarters quietly. You did not need anyone waking up with a hundred questions to pick at the woman's remaining sanity. The room greeted you with a dimming glow at the hearth and a pleasant warmth. At least you won't have much to fuss over. You sat the still-weeping knight on a chair in front of the fireplace and went to attend to the fire, feeding it with more timber. Her sniffling said enough that she was already calming down, much to your relief, or it may be because she had no more tears to weep. Did soldiers cry as regular folk would?

Too many questions.

You had the fire roaring once more and heat began to pool into the room, soaking you up in its comfort. Turning to Brienne, you were surprised that she had lifted her head to stare into the flames, unbothered by the tears that spilled from her cheeks. Now that she was away from the public eye, it did not hurt to lose what little dignity she had lost since the moment you saw her out there. With no napkin, you dried her tears away with your sleeves, cheeks cupped delicately within your hands.

She pushed your hands away when the tears finally stopped, but you were not ready to leave just yet. Getting comfortable on the carpet, you took a seat on the floor beside her. You could not find it in you to leave her by herself. The crackling of the flames was brought you and Brienne some sense of serenity, but it was prodding at the awkward tension in the air. Neither of you spoke, but from the way Brienne's exhaled heavily, there was something at the tip of her tongue.

"I... I fear he may never come back," she murmured under her breath.

"That's what happens in wars... People leave and we're left to pray," you answered. "Shouldn't we hope that they will return?"

Scoffing, Brienne casted her usual scowl at you. "It isn't just the war"- She considered her words carefully before settling angrily with, "What do you know of wars anyway?"

You shook you head dejectedly and turned away. "You're right. I know nothing, especially when I have nothing to lose. And I know Ser Jaime's gone back to his sister."

"That's where his heart lies. Who am I to take that away from her?"

"Queen Cersei is his family. You would return to your family in Tarth if you knew of the dangers that would be upon them, wouldn't you?" you tried to rationalize. "Have you no hope that he might come back at all?"

Brienne was often sensible but in her flurry of emotions, she could not bear to listen to your reasoning. Her cheeks were red, her stare intense as if she might explode at any moment. The tears had gone so quickly.

"The more you hope, the higher you expect, and the higher you go, the harder you fall. You'd be foolish to fall into such a trap," Brienne snapped, but her face fell. "I've lived on false hope before. Never again. I just can't..."

There was a part of you that wished you knew Brienne better. In one sitting, you were learning more about her than the few months you had been training under her command. The wall she had built around herself was to protect the little girl she once was, the girl who was never given the fair life of ladyship for how she looked. Stubborn as a mule. You wondered just how much she had to endure to become so numbed and yet so bottled up.

Comfort was not your strongest suit, let alone with a person you barely knew. Lending a listening ear seemed to be enough for Brienne took a breather to get a hold of herself. Tears threatened to spill again but you sat up on your knees to reach her, brushing them away with your thumbs. You did not miss the way she leaned into the contact and lingered there until you withdrew your hands. Your palms were burning.

"He's all I have," she managed in a hoarse whisper. All I have at love.

"That's a lie."

She rolled her eyes. "Spoken like a person who gets to choose."

"Enough." You stood up in front of her, but somehow she could still meet you at eye level when seated. You mustered your courage. "You give yourself a lot less credit than you deserve. If you managed to swoon Jaime Lannister, you might as well be unstoppable."

"And yet no one is willing to give me a chance like he did."

"It's their fault that their missing out."

"Missing out on what?" Brienne laughed pathetically. "A beast of a woman? A thing whose etiquette compares to a bear's? Humiliating me for everyone to see?!" She went on, and each addition to the list made your stomach twist painfully.

Unable to handle any more, you clamped a hand over her mouth, the other squeezing her own tightly. "They're missing out on someone who has so much give. As soon as someone gives a shit about the way you should look or behave because you're a woman, they're worthless. Who are they to define your worth because of how womanly you are?"

She stared at you with wide eyes and when you removed your hand, she was gaping at you. She wanted to argue against your rambling but not a word slipped from her lips. With pursed lips, she gripped your hand tightly, unsure of how to accept what had been a praise or more, acceptance. No one had ever raised their voice to express their praises. Most of the time, when a person yelled at her, it was either a command or a jeer. Brienne the Beauty. The thought of the nickname made her grimace.

You, on the other hand, were not nearly done yet. You dove head first into your thoughts and they were all coming out at full force, every bit of it a truth that Brienne needed to hear.

"That's what Ser Jaime saw in you. It's a miracle how you changed that dense lump of muscle but you did it anyway. He will come back for you when it's all over. Even if he doesn't, you will find someone who might appreciate you even more. So, if you still think me delusional for believing that people are missing out and that you won't get another chance, think again."

Her disbelief was clear but her hand stayed in yours. "You say such things... Things I wish were truer, but look at the state we live in. I don't need your pity to make me feel better, [Y/N]."

She remembered your name. It did wonders to your heart but you were too focused on your current objective. "I'm not saying this out of pity. I'm telling you everything that's been on my mind since I was told about you."

That knocked the wind out of her, humiliation settling in. "From who...?"

"It doesn't matter. What does is that I've wanted to say all these things to you because you deserve to hear it from someone. It's evident that no one has from the way you're reacting. So, there you go."

Working at a bar did not prepare you to comfort others but if there was one thing you were darn good at, it was telling people the truth in their faces. You told off drunken people who needed to be humbled, lifted those who were drinking their sorrows away and spouted facts that people needed to hear rather than what they wanted. Right now, you were doing the same for Brienne, whether she was willing to take it or not. There was not a confrontation that had ever gotten you as emotional as you were now, but that could only mean one thing. You were attached to her. You cared. There was no lie there for you.

Brienne saw the way you dropped your eyes to the floor, left with nothing more to say. Her silence did not help the case but what more was there to say when you had said everything? Even her sharp wit had no retort to defend herself. She mistook your conflict for defeat and it seemed as though she appeared ungrateful. With the hand she was still holding, she pulled you close and enveloped you in an embrace. Gentle words were not her strength either but a hug was well needed for the both of you which she delivered.

You rested your head upon hers and sighed softly. This would suffice. It meant you did something right since you were still here and not outside. Neither of you wanted to let go. Brienne had already gotten comfortable resting against you, her head tuck snugly against your chest while your arms were wrapped around her neck in a half cradle. This was... nice. Running your fingers through her hair, you spoke once more.

"I can't promise you that he will return but what I can give you is my company. My friendship. Even if you don't accept, there are still so many others around you who care for you. You are not alone," you reminded her firmly.

Shutting her eyes, Brienne nodded, her embrace tightening around you. "Thank you..."

You stayed there for what felt like hours but you could go on for days if you had to. The fire was already flickering and it pained you to part from the hug to replenish the firewood. Where her arms had been around your waist was burning hot from her touch, a sensation you had never felt before but it was not at all unpleasant. You basked in it while you could. It was too late to dwell any longer for the Knelt in front of the fireplace, Brienne rose from the chair to stand beside you while you did the work.

"Will you stay?" she whispered.

You felt your heart skipped a beat but you managed to muster a smile. "If my commander wishes."

[raybyanothername]

in the light of morning

A Rhaenyra and Alicent conversation continuing from not her responsibility as requested!

Rhaenyra stopped two steps into the room when a servant ushered her. Rhaenys' personal chambers were quite full. She'd expected the children. She'd even considered the chance that Alicent would have come as well.

She hadn't expected to find the queen crying into her tea. Laenor paused as well only a step behind her, but only briefly. He could not be distracted from his purpose.

"They're unharmed," Rhaenyra assured her husband as he approached the bed. Laenor nodded mutely. His hand ghosted over Jace's hair as he leaned over their eldest son to check on Luke as well.

Neither woke. Rhaenyra smiled as Laenor settled in a chair beside the bed. His hands climbed up his face. Eyes squeezed tight, still ringed red from his crying.

The night had not been kind to anyone.

Her stomach twisted as she glanced at the other two boys on the bed. Her brothers. Barely older than her sons.

"Your grace," Rhaenyra ducked her head in a quick bow as she turned to face the table. Alicent's gaze flickered up. She dabbed at her face with a handkerchief.

"Alicent tells me your father has decided to foster his sons with us, one at Dragonstone and the other at Driftmark," Rhaenys beckoned her closer with a frown. She waved Rhaenyra into a seat opposite the queen.

"Yes," Rhaenyra exhaled, hand rising to rub at the side of her face, "When I left to find Laenor, Daemon was still trying to convince him otherwise, but..."

Rhaenys snorted, leaning back in her seat with a huff, "Daemon is far from convincing. The two are more likely to argue than resolve this."

Arching a brow, Rhaenyra looked pointedly at her good-mother, "Perhaps his elder cousin..." A faint smile twitched at Rhaenys' lips. She shook her head.

"Once he has calmed, I shall certainly try," Rhaenys inclined her head to the side, "But the key to charming a king is timing, Rhaenyra." Her hand rose up, chin perching in her palm as she clicked her tongue, "And patience."

Laughing softly, Rhaenyra nodded, hands wringing in her lap. She looked to Alicent. Her hunched shoulders. The frizzy and tangled mess her curls had become.

"Your sons will be well-looked after, regardless," Rhaenyra offered, smile tight as Alicent looked up at her. A haunted expression adorned her face.

Wide eyes. Trembling lip. A memory from their youth flashed in her mind and Rhaenyra felt the familiar pang of shame rising in her chest. She beat it back with a roll of her shoulders.

"They are my blood, I will not allow any harm to come to them under my charge," Rhaenyra continued. She gestured towards Laenor, "Aegon will learn well, squiring under my husband."

"Thank you, your grace," Alicent croaked, head bobbing in a shallow nod. Her eyes squeezed shut and a few tears trickled down her cheek, "Prince Jacaerys has more than demonstrated the... protection, of the house of the dragon."

With a chuckle, Rhaenys reached for her tea, "I believe my husband would say that's his Velaryon blood." Her lips twisted, curling back, "But from what my granddaughters say... I am confident the Baratheon fury my mother brought into this family lives on."

Rhaenyra grinned at that. Across from her, Alicent had stilled. Her throat bobbed. The tea cup in her hands shook and Rhaenyra's eyes dropped to the red-stained fingertips.

She'd ripped them well to shreds. The nails. The cuticles. Blood was smeared across her skin, still bubbling up from the tiny rips and cuts.

"Will you... will you remain at Driftmark a while?" Alicent asked, hands pulled back. She cleared her throat, "The king will likely want to leave soon. The boys..."

"I will not separate them," Rhaenyra reached across the table, snatching one of her hands before Alicent could drop them to her lap. She forced a smile, "The twins ought to have a chance to know all their cousins better, I think."

Her father intended for Aemond to be under Rhaenys' care, to remain on Driftmark. Aegon would be Laenor's squire though, and her husband had plenty of reason to remain on Driftmark.

"Perhaps..." Rhaenyra squeezed the hand in hers, "Perhaps we can all... reacquaint ourselves?" She tilted her head, lips pursing. "Mend the divisions between our families?"

The tension in the air grew thick as Rhaenyra held the queen's gaze. Her very breath seemed to freeze in her chest and her heart pounded loudly in her ear. Even Rhaenys stilled, her eyes flicking between them.

Alicent squeezed back. She exhaled, slowly, but her words were steady, "I would like that, Nyra."

Rhaenyra let out the breath she'd been holding. Her shoulders sagged. She glanced towards the bed, and Laenor. He flashed her a quick smile. A nod.

She felt lighter than she had in many years. The weight of her position almost manageable.

The night had not been kind, but... perhaps the morning brought more than just the light as the sun poured through the curtains. Aegon stirred in the bed, grumbling softly.

The door slammed open and Rhaenyra startled. Alicent dropped her hand as Daemon stalked in, spitting curses and grumbling. He leveled his gaze on Alicent, face twisting into a scowl.

"Your husband is a cunt."

[yourneighborhoodporg]

The Guardian

Chapter 8: Blackened Water (Part 2)

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, banter, migraines, a tiny reference to drugs, self-sacrifice ish, skechy neighborhoods, brief stalker (?), very concerned Obi :(

Summary: After this morning's incident in the Starfighter, you go on an afternoon run to clear your mind. Of course, your track of choice is the seedy underground neighborhoods of the outer Senate District— a decision that will prove to be full of twists and turns.

Song Inspo: Black Water — Of Monsters and Men

Words: 7.5k

A/n: All I’m gonna say is, hella foreshadowing and hella symbolism. I’ll let you decide what that means 🫡

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Series Masterlist

The thought was this: that all my life had been murk and depths, but I was not a part of that dark water. I was a creature within it — Madeline Miller

Your loosely booted foot smacked against the damp pavement, splashing apart shallow puddles that collected in the occasional crevice with each sprinting step as you made your way deeper into the alleys of the Senate District. The flickering, golden glows of periodic street lamps illuminated the path ahead, just enough to avoid tripping over scattered waste piles that dotted street corners. It forced your eyes to remain alert as you maneuvered around them and below the thick, interwoven cable squiring across miles-long under-street ceilings like an infinite den of snakes.

You glimpsed at your chilly sleeves without a hitch in your bounding steps. The slate-gray of your robe had soaked into a deep, inky black from the afternoon’s drumming rain. One that had already enveloped the region by the time you first launched this trek into the neighborhood’s bowels at hour’s dawn.

But dampened earth wasn’t your reason for keeping to empty passageways and abandoned tunnels. Coated in shadowed light as distant clatters atop metal rooftops trickled down into groans that bellowed from the surrounding walls.

No.

You were clinging to shadowy covers because, once again, you’d chosen to embrace that long-held, Hoth tradition of keeping a low profile.

And, having spent your entire existence hiding from the world, it’d proven to be a bit of a hard habit to break.

It haunted you as you flashed down each narrow passageway, eyes shifting like chosen prey vigilantly watching for their predator— an action that reflected your utmost desire to keep your Jedi identity concealed. Yet you continued to engage the Force, fueling nearly supernatural sprints down new corridors and twisting avenues. Movements that would usually garner unwelcome attention in any other zone.

But not here.

Not in the underground neighborhoods of the Senate District.

It was where you’d discovered the only way to engage the Force without revealing yourself in public. Through the obscurity of its gloomy locales that credibly camouflaged you from searching eyes.

But besides your decade-long custom of concealment, you knew that these days, it was still vital to remain cautious.

More than ever.

Ever since your arrival, you’d been engaging with more diverse characters every day. Most of whom were uninformed about your real purpose as a Jedi. The Council believed it would be safest to conceal your real identity, name and all. And even though that was quite the adjustment from the fanfare you were expecting, you still felt inclined to agree with them. At least at the Temple, individuals who’d become all the more threatening by learning your secret were weeded out before they could even reach the front door.

But not here.

Not down seedy boulevards or dimly lit backstreets that characterized the forlorn neighborhoods of the outer District, slinking with suspect figures whose watchful gazes peaked out of hooded wear.

Sometimes they’d observe you pass, bodies still with eerily calm attentiveness as they watched on. Others would wriggle far back into the cover of darkened crannies, their jittery silhouettes talking lowly with other, unseen beings of the shadows during their retreat.

Still, in spite of the uncertainty that surrounded this quarter, you took the risk.

It was necessary, you convinced yourself. Mindless movement seemed to work as some sort of binary treatment for your persistently taxing migraine. That was why, following this morning’s planet-side return, your first order of business was to be right here.

In this moment.

In a No Man’s Land of deserted corridors and limited natural light.

Despite the downpour which greeted you on an otherwise tepid day, that instant the Starfighter touched down at the Temple hangar, you knew exactly where you wanted to be.

By yourself. On the street. And running.

You thought back again to those fleeting seconds following your return from Anakin’s piloting lesson. How you were so quick to open the cockpit’s hatch with a click, the engines just barely starting to cool as you agilely hopped out, toes gracing the stone below while you made a beeline for the inner Temple.

All to facilitate your confident escape.

Yet despite your resoluteness in slipping away, you still felt a chilly twinge of remorse dip your stomach. Especially when the distant, resounding tick and whir of the fighter’s opening canopies subtly announced your flight companions’ perfect view of your departing form.

Of your decision to leave them behind without even a goodbye.

Guilt encircled your ears like curiously buzzing blood flies, forcing you to at some point realize that engaging in some mad dash of endorphins wasn’t your only motivation for this morning’s speedy retreat.

You did it because, if you knew anything, you knew Anakin.

Yes, you’d only met him a little over two weeks ago. But Maker were you beginning to grasp his mind as well as your own.

Recently, the two of you had been spending a lot of time together.

Or at least, many hours more than your Hoth upbringing supplied.

Intense sparring sessions, the occasional evening supper that would devolve into its more charming discourses when Obi-Wan joined halfway through. Not to mention those rare, yet revealing conversations with Anakin about his past. The most earnest of which transpiring that night above the garbage pit, when he revealed to you his mother’s passing, and let slip his pervading turmoil on the matter.

And in the end, it didn’t take long for you to recognize that the summation of all those wholehearted interactions, those sundry dialogues amidst quality time, was a sharper ear for his thought process.

For how his heart beat for others.

This morning in the Starfighter, you knew the instant Anakin heard your painful exhale that the cogs of his feeling mind began to whirl. Further propelled to miraculous speeds when you tersely instructed him to bring the ship back in seconds later.

Then, during the reentry, you knew how he was, in all likelihood, anticipating to relay those four, troubled words the moment you two stood face-to-face.

What happened up there?

Of course, throughout that entire, sedated descent, you knew he was thinking about what to say next. Particularly, which words to use if you tried blowing him off again with another two, dry syllables. A phrase that’d drifted from your lips as popularly as each breath during this past week and a half.

I’m fine.

All of this pervading his mind right up until your door unlatched behind him, shocking him out of his stupor, you imagined. Coaxing him to leap out of the cockpit just as swiftly as he heard you do from behind.

But you didn’t give him the chance.

You refused to even glance back to check. To see if he was about to chase after you.

You couldn’t.

You just flicked on your robe’s hood, tugging its gradually dampening form tightly around yourself as your footsteps abandoned the landing platform.

You didn’t even hear what he said next. That is, if he’d said anything at all when you entered the hangar bay. But whether that was due to the clamoring headache that’d momentarily incapacitated you or your pervading questions surrounding this affliction running wild, you didn’t know.

You just blocked it all out.

Deafened your ears to any immediate surroundings, like scattered hangar workers and hammering repairs, as you hastened your evasion of the ditched trio.

But, no matter the shame that tugged at your chest afterward, you were still confident in the reasoning behind your withdrawal.

As of now, you were still trying to investigate the cause of this harassment. And you recognized that until you found some answers, involving Anakin or anyone close to him would put The Chosen One in a land of uncertainty that you weren’t quite comfortable with.

And that just wouldn’t do.

Your striking heels continued to clobber the decaying trails of the outer District’s underground streets, bringing the chatter of leather on wet concrete into a strange harmony with the increasingly beating rain that danced upon the streets above. Centering yourself in another Force-amplified hurdle, you again reminded yourself of the important fact that influenced your decision to keep this secret. The conclusion that you knew would reduce any chance of complications to your duty.

It’s not his job to worry about you.

However, it was technically the responsibility of your ‘new Master.’

Maybe that’s why, at the end of last week— following four, stretched-out days of irregular headaches— you found justification in approaching Master Windu for counsel. Because no matter your efforts to quell this silent beast, through extended rest or quiet meditation, its burning onslaughts ferociously prevailed.

In other words, at some point, it became utterly clear that you required a much wiser opinion.

In many ways, you were confident in the stoic Jedi. And by that, you meant that you trusted him to keep the matter private. Even from those who associated with The Chosen One, and especially from Anakin himself. In fact, at the outset of your conversation, he assured you that he’d only divulge a discussion between Master Advisor and Jedi if it concerned the Council.

And you had no reason to believe it did.

You thought back to that chat while pivoting down another slick alleyway. This one grew narrower than the last, its spotted lamps decaying in luster and prevalence as you dug cavernously into the belly of the beast-like web of tunnels while your mind wandered.

Master Windu had already separately arranged to meet with you once every week. At least until the Jedi were called back to the battlefield, he was sure to clarify. It was time to be spent preparing you for what was to come in this mystifying conflict. To guarantee that its distractions wouldn’t impact the primary reason for your presence.

For your existence, really.

However, of the two sessions you’d already had, the powerful Jedi spent little time on combat training. Rather than correcting your form or educating you on Separatist capabilities, his focus was instead driven toward scrutinizing the closed doors to your mind. All during hours-long, joint meditation sittings in which Master Windu attempted to meticulously probe your life force with the gentle influence of his signature on your forehead.

Sometimes, the spells would last so long that, in the end, you were often left with the sensation of a phantom touch. Though it always faded eventually, so imperceptibly that it felt more like a shift in temperature than a disappearing force.

Although the two of you ended up making little progress, you still enjoyed these opportunities as a way to get to know your new Advisor. Exchanges regarding his unwavering faith in the Order’s ideals reminded you of your own lifelong commitment to a similarly demanding prophecy. The Master also seemed to share a kindred distaste for politics, conveying briefly his disapproval of the Jedi and Senate’s interwoven nature, hastily drawn at the outset of war.

Most importantly, however, the two of you shared a distinct displeasure for the Senate’s conversion of Jedi into generals. You’d been struggling with this concept of converting Jedi peacemakers into soldiers for weeks now, and it appeared that Master Windu held common sentiments. All in all, it was a moment that made the Order feel just a little less foreign to you after a lifetime of studying its older, more contrasting ways.

Perhaps that’s why, despite previous reticence about receiving a ‘new Master,’ you found yourself gradually opening up to the idea.

Besides, you could tell Master Windu was experiencing some kind of similar development.

You’d discovered from Anakin this past week that the wise man had long disapproved of Jedi who acted outside the Order. From that, you easily acknowledged that despite offering to advise you, the traditional Master likely remained biased against your nature.

In fact, you fleetingly surmised that the only reason he put his name in the hat was so he could keep a closer eye on you. On the Gray Jedi that came from a long line of counterfeiters against the Order he held in such high esteem.

Yet, as your sessions progressed, you sensed a subtle shift in the Jedi Master. How the crease of his brow subtly slackened with each passing hour. How his openness to your questions became faintly readable.

Though whether that was because he’d momentarily forgotten about your past or had become lost in his analysis of your mind, you didn’t know.

What you did know was that you appreciated the sagacious Master’s relatable convictions, allegedly burgeoning tolerance, and outright professionalism.

And that was enough for you to test the waters in requesting his guidance.

It was at the tail-end of one of these forums that you narrowly untangled these painfully strange migraines, focusing primarily on their unpredictability and continuance rather than each occurrence’s raging ferocity.

And in the end, you found the effortless flow of his counsel to be uniquely compelling.

“Meditate on these irritants. But do not only acknowledge their existence. Observe their nature. If you give these headaches a name derived from your inner impressions, it may aid you in identifying and extinguishing their source.”

So, you did just that.

In the days that followed into the start of your second week at the Temple, when that familiar pulsing tingle began to crawl across your hairline, you made a routine out of stopping whatever you were doing to search for a quiet alcove. Then, after locating a corner of the Temple free from distractions, you’d lower yourself into crossed legs, all to funnel your accessible energies into discerning the exact nature of this eccentric affliction. You’d reach out to the Force, drawing in its swirling ecosystem through tingling extremities, astutely wielding it to dive into the yawning depth of your inner being.

And for those few days, you explored branching elements of your mind, tracing each errant twig to sense its perception of the boundless, clawing twinges that relentlessly contested your focus.

It was arduous work. Attempting to observe the irritants’ nature would eventually lure you toward sensing its more distinctive effects. But at the same time, the action often amplified your tenderness to those countless cerebral spasms. They were still quite bearable, of course. But it certainly did nothing to speed along your investigation.

That was until the third day in. When you finally found a pattern.

Even now, you starkly remembered how the discovery permeated your body with untapped endurance simply from the realization’s excitement alone.

On that day, you were able to eventually comprehend that, while your skull’s outline felt the stitching thrums of the week before, the sensation was marginally dissimilar in its influence on your life force. Here, you still felt the indiscriminate, unpleasant taps against your spirit, but with a nearly imperceptible caveat.

You rooted out their tendency to unfurl on impact.

So, with the next pounding ache, you were empowered to recognize it again, snatching the sensation with agile fingers. The savage smack quickly plunged into scattered fragments, like drops of water thrashing apart from a violent impact with stone.

That was it.

It was like raindrops, pattering against your mind.

Yet, it wasn’t the refreshing sensation that you associated with such weather. Not that electrifying stimulation you felt in this very instant while you sustained your urgent, whirlwind dash down another curving passage harboring hints of gaseous fumes.

No.

Rain was vitalizing, giving life to despairing vegetation and beasts alike. For you especially, its cooling effect on balmy Coruscanti afternoons calmed your mind. It ventilated you in a chill that provoked cherished memories of soaring amid whispering snowstorms during those afternoon duels with Qui-Gon on Hoth.

Yet this was different.

These drops were draining. Heavy. They weighed down your soul. Blackened your connection to the Force through a permeating pain that enveloped the branches of your mind and sucked the sap of your thoughts.

Yes, blackened.

Master Windu said to give it a name. An association. And, finally, you felt confident enough to put words to this strange disorder’s influence on your inner being.

Black Water.

If you only knew what a mistake you’d made.

Somehow, following this identification, the migraines spiraled into a realm of greater frequency and brutality. They would linger in their pervasion. Graduating from hours to afternoons of ubiquitous discomfort. And then, when you tried to find familiar solace in the quelling nature of a meditative state, you harshly discovered that doing so now only magnified the pain’s potency.

You recalled it so clearly. How the shock of that realization jolted you at your very core, ripping you violently from your connection to the Force like a toy snatched from the hand of a youngling.

It was something you had never experienced before.

And it forced you to learn the hard way that for the time being, it was best to avoid meditation.

Instead, you found it easier to unearth the medicinal properties of attaching your mind to another matter.

And your poison of choice?

Running.

You weren’t sure why it lessened your cranial discomfort more than any form of meditation or training. Maybe it was the fresh air. Or the exploratory element. Or the dichotomy of the District’s underground shafts which swayed darkly on even the brightest of days.

Maybe it was because, in a way, sprinting combined the two Jedi practices. It did encourage you to physically tap into the Force for access to greater speeds, and simultaneously unclogged your mind of worldly distractions.

Still then, it was only enough to center yourself. Never to the degree in which the migraines’ kindling was fanned into embers.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t change the fact that mere minutes into this afternoon’s excursion, you were able to finally relish in the flood of relief that followed. One that washed over you as sprightly legs carried you into a mystic realm where stabbing pains were faintly dulled by the rule of constant motion.

The past week of experimental sprints into Coruscant’s veins had become your drug of choice. Providing additional relief just from the realization that occupying your mind would temper these moments.

Now that made you hum retrospectively. It was hard not to wonder if perhaps this notion subconsciously motivated you to join Anakin’s short-lived piloting class this morning.

You ruminated about those spiraling seconds in the cockpit once more. Even then, in the midst of intrusively distracting g-forces, you were powerless to ignore that your headaches still somehow stirred with new vengeance, threatening your theory on how to properly address the affliction.

You descended another set of echoing stairs, this time entering a residential tunnel that reigned sleek with standing water gradually leaking through cracked roofing. Though the hazard never assuaged your volant charge past the streams of identical, stonewashed doors on either side. Landmarks that supplied forward guidance as you thought carefully about the day’s earlier incident.

With another burdened exhale, you compared the fighter episode to all the others, quickly deciding that this morning’s occurrence was the worst to date. If you were being perfectly honest with yourself, it was the first time one of these vast headaches really threatened your ability to function in the moment.

And that spooked you.

Either way, it was clear in its aftermath, that it was time to return to old habits.

To what worked.

You swiveled left, the squeak of your twisting heel reverberating off the slender walls as you rushed down another flickering tunnel of rundown apartments. You were thankful that the potency of constantly coarse splits at your forehead’s center had eased into a duller pound, so much so that it permitted your mind to wander during this impromptu outing.

However, you weren’t expecting to become so consumed with inner musings to the point of becoming lost within a labyrinth of snaking neighborhoods, forgotten by the Senate District’s lavishly living surface inhabitants. In fact, as you glanced around the residential tunnel, you soon realized that you couldn’t even remember how you entered this quiet zone. One that didn’t follow any semblance of rational architecture to hint at a way out.

So, with no signage to guide you in your search for higher ground, you did the only thing you could do.

You followed the quivering lights, lodged every few meters into the decrepitly, sinking ceiling.

A luminescent road out of the darkness.

That was your plan for the last ten minutes, anyway, until a deep-toned snap zipped past your ears, reverberating across every door as it traced down either wall.

You ground to a halt, dribbling boots faintly whimpering as they fought the floor’s slickness in your attempt to reel toward the noise.

A few heavy seconds passed you stared back into the tunnel's murky depths, trying to discern the source of the sound while labored breaths rung out from your body and colored the eerily barren chamber. It was difficult to focus your vision, finding that the barely perceptible shapes hidden in shadowed corners were playing tricks on your eyes the longer you stared at their forms.

Another crack.

But this time, you could markedly tag its source.

Far down on the opposite side of the shaft, another brittle light in the ceiling’s row numbed like the death of a star.

Great.

You whirled back around, launching yourself into an energized bolt as you tried to escape the coming darkness.

In all sincerity, you should have assumed something like this would happen. You had found the vacancy of these quarterly halls odd. It was midday in a residential area so some activity was to be expected. Beings would usually be on their lunch break around now.

Yet, there were none around.

But the partial flooding? The unstable roofing?

You sighed, powerful legs carrying you blisteringly quick while you connected the dots ahead of the accelerating demise of weak, mechanical stars.

This underground neighborhood was breaking down.

It must have been evacuated.

And now?

They were cutting the power.

Drawing on the effortlessly fluid stability of the Force, you catalyzed your stride, hoping to get a better sense of where you were before being immersed in utter blackness.

Luckily, the opportunity to do so appeared to lie just ahead.

Fairly soon into your run, you noticed the fork in the road, pinned to the tunnel’s far reach. How the illusionary dead-end wall, in fact, split into two, opposing paths. All you needed to do was get there fast enough for a cursory glance of either end before the last light at your disposal became the limited glow of your grayed lightsaber.

You picked up the pace, the reflection of your form in the waterlogged stone flying like loose leaves trying to catch up with you as it too bolted from the ensuing pattern of light fixtures snapping off.

Soon, there were only a few left as you neared the hall’s end, impelling you to power one last thrust of your leg into the junction. You swiveled your head down both corridors as your heels squealed to a halt before the stone wall, catching sight of a larger industrial door just meters into the second corridor as the final fixture above cracked into nothingness.

But that was all you needed.

It didn’t take you long to maneuver your way toward the exit in the pitch dark, lugging open the croaking apparatus only to be met with an ascending staircase illuminated by the scattered, gloomy rays of a showery, Coruscant afternoon.

You jogged up the concrete steps before encountering a wide, open-aired avenue, dotted with as many road lamps as hurrying beings who scampered from industrial cover to cover in an effort to avoid wetting their clothes. The walls of buildings encapsulating this strip stood in an unornamented, brutalist fashion, which effectively limited their options. It was quite the contrast to the streets of the Entertainment District. But that was all you could really say about it. Your observations remained sparse as the continuous downpour did little to reduce the haze.

Pivoting to your right, you followed the road’s natural path, immediately feeling the cool sprinkles pelt your face as you slowed into a crisp walk. You tugged at your biting, saturated robe, bringing it closer to break the slight draft.

As you turned down a wider street doused in equal cloud cover, you decided that it was time to return to the Temple. If anything, at least to give your body a break. You’d been running for close to an hour, and those stretched lungs and burning legs were sure to thank you for the short respite.

Perhaps you could return to the Archives for some easy reading. Your headache had dissipated enough to certainly make that possible now. And you had to admit, you were feeling a bit behind on your knowledge of Separatist technologies.

It was only twelve minutes into your return hike when you began to embrace that peaceful rumination on future plans. Twelve minutes for your mind to drift to lighter musings. But also twelve minutes for those thoughts to be swiftly dashed from reality by a new intrigue.

There were many beings who dusted the streets. All of which you simultaneously kept a close eye on. Of course, special attention was dedicated to those who’d decide for a period to amble too close for comfort. But even then, it usually held no matter. As always, they’d eventually divert onto a path of their own as wandering, city walkers did.

An example was the being that had been sauntering ten meters behind you for the past five minutes. One you didn’t give much mind to. Until they were oddly quick to tread on the heels of your latest deviation from the main road. Which was…odd, but not enough of anything to concern you.

Yet.

You swiveled down another detour, this one more unusual than the last given the District’s layout. It was part of your usual route of choice, since it avoided most of the neighborhood’s major hubs, but still powered enough street lamps to guide you back to the Temple in the evening.

Or in this case, on a rainy day.

Either way, you knew from experience that this was usually when any unintentional tails would break off to continue their lives on a road to elsewhere.

Maybe they were returning home to a waiting family after a long intergalactic trip. Running late for a business meeting because of the rain. Or simply exploring the city’s landmarks with their free afternoon.

These were all activities you imagined civilians had the freedom to enjoy. Freedoms that you certainly fantasized about in your younger years. And freedoms that you later learned you’d have to sacrifice to protect.

You smiled thoughtfully to yourself. It always helped to have a gentle reminder of the good you were doing. These elements of peace you were maintaining. It even allowed you to take a relaxing breath as you continued along the path not taken.

Until the creeping stranger’s presence fully seized your attention by following you down this second detour.

You fought the urge to look back, despite their presence jumping to the forefront of your mind. If that being really was tracking you, you didn’t want to raise any suspicions that you’d caught on.

Not yet.

Even now, after back-to-back questionable activity, you still needed to make certain that your misgivings were accurate. Thinking about it, you would’ve sensed this individual before had they been following you during your run. So why would they suddenly trail you now? You hadn’t done anything topside to give your identity away.

Then, this might have still all been just a simple misunderstanding.

Right?

Only one way to find out, you told yourself.

Keeping an even pace, you scanned your surroundings, quickly catching a narrow alleyway that lay just a few steps ahead to your left. Narrowing your eyes through the gloomy lighting, you soon realized that its width would at most fit two and a half people stood side-by-side. In other words, this gap was sure to lead to a dead-end. One that any city dweller would know not to enter in a neighborhood like this. And one that any traveler would have the instincts to avoid.

From this, you comfortably concluded that a bona fide passerby would have no reason to follow you inside.

Unless, it was you they were after.

So, you swiftly ducked in.

You jogged a few meters down the pitch-black crevice, nimble toes putting some distance between you and the fissure’s entrance before briskly finding a secure spot from which to spin around and face it. You shoved at the midsection of your robe with the back of your hand, nudging it away to make room for stiff fingers to envelop the cold metal of your belted saber.

Your silent, hot breath fogged the cold air just below your nose as you waited out those few, tense seconds. A careful quietness encapsulated your form despite your prediction that this stranger would likely pass.

It was always best to be cautious, you reminded yourself.

But, of course, you had no such luck.

On high alert, thumb hovering over the hilt’s activation, you observed as the being sidestepped in after you, their face and figure obscured by the rift’s absence of light. Watchful steps characterized their form while they inched deeper into the crevice, head tilting side to side as they tried to discern their surroundings with blurry fingertips gracing the left wall to keep them centered.

Strangely, you perceived an air of delicacy from their cautious outline. A meaningfulness in each of their carefully selected motions. However, you still had difficulty in sensing their motivations. Whether it be malice or geniality, their presence felt too calm to point to either direction definitively.

And you were not one to take chances.

So, with the flick of the wrist, you snatched your saber from its resting place with a clink, unfurling that familiar gray glow as you stepped back into a lunge to whip the blade up before resting it inches from the figure’s face.

Instantly, its luminescence unveiled from the twilight a familiar set of bright blue, yielding eyes, accompanied by an auburn beard dewed by drizzles. The plasma’s heat had stirred the man to raise his hands calmly, feigning surrender as a curious expression tickled his cheeks.

You sighed, adrenaline evaporating from your veins while your blade dropped a few degrees.

“You’d think after a lifetime as a Jedi, you’d know it wasn’t a good idea to sneak up on one,” you voiced, raising a brow.

Obi-Wan lowered his hands, offering you an affable expression as you deactivated your saber and snapped it to your belt.

“I’m always willing to take a chance for a friend.”

You shook your head in mock disapproval while you moved to pass the Jedi, unintentionally brushing your upper arm against the weight of his similarly soaked cloak. It didn’t take long to reemerge on the outer end of the gap, cascading you in the brighter light of the still-overcast street.

“What are you doing out here?” You asked, vision centered on a pair of beings strolling near the far end.

“Looking for you,” he stated matter-of-factly while following your form out onto the road.

You leisurely turned, now able to better see his face as he phased into the muddled daylight, his hair sleek with water and eyes dulled by the hidden sun.

“Why?”

The relaxed Jedi paused before you, creasing his brows as he spoke tactfully.

“Anakin came to see me earlier.”

You looked away, choosing to draw your attention to the street ahead before leaning into a quiet stroll.

Though the Master was quick to follow, matching your pace as he glided beside you.

“He was concerned,” Obi-Wan continued, stitched gaze never leaving your face. “Something about a reaction you had during his piloting lesson today?”

The understatement tugged at the corner of your mouth, though your eyes remained tethered like anchors to the raindrops exploding into puddles below.

“Did he also tell you he took the fighter into an Aileron Roll with the gravity dampers off?” You emphasized, waggling your brows in a challenging, yet light-hearted manner.

His eyes widened for a brief moment, cycling through all the stages of what you could only assume was Former Padawan-related grief before capitulating into an expression of experienced resignation.

His gaze fell to the ground, mirroring yours.

“He did not.”

You breathed in deeply, absorbing the momentary silence flooded only by the pitter-patter of cooling raindrops. It had aerated the street of this morning’s blistering heat. And as a creature of the cold, it had the effect of alleviating your exercise-induced, clammy skin deliciously.

“Silvey,” Obi-Wan began gently. “Anakin isn’t the only one.”

You blinked toward the subdued Jedi who must’ve sensed the motion as he quickly met your gaze. Both pairs of cloud-shaded eyes locked for a moment, enabling you to stretch into the space before signaling for him to continue.

“I’ve also noticed that something is affecting you.”

You sighed.

You began wracking your brain for some excuse. Any excuse that you could throw out at this moment. All so that you didn’t need to explain your strange yet nuanced predicament to the man beside you.

You searched the falling droplets for answers, reminding yourself that finding a solution before anyone close to Anakin learned the truth was for the best.

It’s not his job to worry about you.

And that went for Obi-Wan too.

“Is it Qui-Gon? I understand his death may be fresh for you. I’d be happy to lend an ear—“

“No, it’s not that,” you interrupted.

Instantly, you recognized the falsehood in that statement.

“I mean…”

You shook your head at yourself, hoping to shake the right, jumbled thoughts into alignment.

“I can’t deny that he’s been occupying my mind more than most things…”

Your jaw hung loose as you tried to catch the words buzzing in jumbles above your head. But, for some reason, they just kept escaping through your clawing, slippery fingers.

“But that’s not…it,” you uttered.

You glanced back up at Obi-Wan.

His eyes had abruptly softened while he listened to your voice intently. Vision piercing your very soul as if he was hoping to look right through you.

And you weren’t sure why, but that penetrating expression suddenly took you off guard.

Your brain stumbled as you tried to refocus on the conversation. You supposed you weren’t expecting him to have had such an empathetic reaction. Right? Maybe you just hadn’t really made a point to notice how kind his eyes could be. At least, not before now.

But here? In this instant?

You could see their radiance so clearly.

Even among gradually strengthening raindrops that blinked into streams after colliding with the chiseled face of the Jedi before you. They did nothing to dissuade the thoughtfulness that shone from his features.

But then again, wasn’t that always the rule with Master Kenobi?

It was those same eyes that had shared with you looks of encouragement when you were first struggling to pass the thoughts of large crowds. Those same bright blue eyes that happily guided you to the Sparring Arena during your first full day at the Temple when you were terribly lost. Those same entertained eyes that would glance at you briefly after throwing a sarcastic remark at Anakin to lighten everyone’s moods. Those same, unwaveringly concerned eyes that trailed your figure every time you unexpectedly removed yourself from his company, always to deal with another burning onslaught of pulsing stabs that gradually became more pronounced on your features.

Those thoughtful eyes that were first to check if you were okay, despite the Master Jedi having taken the brunt of your full-speed collision, during that shuttle escape from Hoth.

Those unflinchingly kind eyes which, for some unknown reason, seemed to crack a chink in your conviction.

Enough to let out a sliver of splintering light.

Your feet stalled underneath you, bringing both you and Obi-Wan to an aimless rest as your heart raced. You curved fully toward the soaking Jedi, lips parted in thought as you searched for the words to begin explaining your situation to the man waiting ever so patiently.

You weren’t sure whether it was from the buildup to this long-held secret’s reveal or a side effect of your body’s fatigue. But the moment you glanced up, the moment your gaze locked once more with those two, perceptively azure orbs, you suddenly felt…

Very

Very

Naked.

“I’ve been having…headaches.”

Master Kenobi’s head tilted slightly in disquiet confusion, subconsciously inciting you to tighten the robe’s wrap around your torso with crossed arms.

“Headaches?” He asked oddly.

“I think?” You dithered. “But they aren’t…normal.”

Exhaling, you redirected your gaze to the surrounding building’s upper structures and the gloomy gray of Coruscant’s atmosphere as you rammed through your next words, leaving behind any care of making sense as the wall you had so carefully built began to chip under his still engrossed stare.

“At first, they’d show up…randomly. Last for hours no matter what I did. Until I asked Master Windu for his input. He told me to give it a name the next time I meditated. He said it would help. That if I could pinpoint the feeling, it would root out the source of getting rid of them. So, I did.”

You shrugged.

“But, for some reason, it made everything worse. The times, the duration, the pain. And it doesn’t feel like a regular headache either. It’s-“

The bridge of your nose creased in thought as you drew imaginary lines from rooftop to rooftop with your eyes.

“Deeper.”

The silence that followed, no matter how short, felt utterly deafening. Even the quiet showers around you seemed to stall into white noise.

Until Obi-Wan sighed.

Pensively.

His furrowed brows never left your form as he raised a hand to tensely stroke his mouth for a moment.

“Is that what happened in the fighter this morning? One of these…headaches?”

Your gaze shifted back to his as you breathed.

“Yes.”

He hummed, resting his fingers upon the beard. “And when did they start?”

“About a week and a half ago.”

The Master Jedi allowed his hand to laxly fall, chin rising unexpectedly as his brows faintly furrowed. He’d now given room for his earlier concern to sparkle a bit brighter off ocean eyes that suddenly burrowed into yours.

“I’m taking you to the infirmary.”

Your stomach dropped, unsure if it was dragged down by your displeasure in making this situation a bigger deal than you believed it to be, or by the complete confidence with which the man before you voiced his plain alarm.

You began to question yourself. Were you misjudging this affliction? Were your symptoms really that bad?

Honestly, you thought, you’d had far greater scares on Hoth.

Qui-Gon’s gray hairs could attest to that.

And although most of your heart was beating a bit faster to the rhythm of these circulating thoughts, you couldn’t help but be enveloped by the small fragment that warmed at Master Kenobi’s caring sentiment. So much so, that it pulled you from your uncertainty before guiding your voice into a sweeter lull to address him.

“Obi—“

“This is not good, Silvey,” he interrupted firmly. “And I don’t like leaving such matters unresolved.”

You exhaled, shaking your head in disbelief as you backed down from his solid stance. Instead, you angled back toward the path ahead, resuming that same calm stroll with heavy feet. Again, Obi-Wan fluidly followed, his creased expression peaking at yours, which remained impassive despite your inner thoughts.

“I can’t.”

Master Kenobi dissolved into further unease as he acknowledged your response puzzledly.

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re right,” you began, neck angling toward him coolly. “I don’t understand what this is either. And it could be dangerous or it could be nothing. But what’s fact is that the more I involve beings from the Temple, the more likely this will all get back to Anakin. And I can’t have that.”

You huffed, sending a feeble kick to a passing puddle underneath you while building winds began to zip around the surrounding structure’s corners, nudging you both by the edges of your robes.

“I’m his Guardian, Obi-Wan. The last thing I should be doing is dragging him into unpredictable matters. He has enough to deal with right now, and I’m not adding to it-“

A sudden weight warmed your shoulder, guiding you to pause mid-stroll in the midst of finishing your thought. Still, you followed the slight tug, turning toward the man whose gentle hand rested assuredly by your throat like a sudden fire on a cool afternoon.

“So your solution is to travel through rainy streets in dangerous neighborhoods? Are you hoping to find the answer at the wrong end of a phaser?” He questioned sarcastically, retrieving his limb to gesticulate to your surroundings as a sudden chill nestled in its place.

You defended yourself, throwing back that same trickle of wit that briefly oozed from his figure with a cheeky grin. “Running has proven to help. Besides, I’d never pass up the chance to hone my combat skills. We are in a war, you know.”

You tried to suppress your chuckle at his unimpressed stare.

Still, you couldn’t help the gravity of the situation overcome you once more as his expression carefully hardened.

“And what if something happens because this wasn’t addressed sooner?” He argued. “I agree. Right now, it’s best to not tell Anakin. And I can make sure that he won’t find out. I certainly won’t tell him, and you can trust the doctors at the Temple to do the same. But you owe it to the Galaxy to at least sit through an examination. If the prophecy is true, we will all need you at your best.”

You exhaled, realizing fairly quickly that you were on the losing side of this battle.

“Please,” he emphasized.

You watched as Obi-Wan raised both hands, delicately resting each on your upper arms with their encapsulating heat.

Then, he leaned in.

Just a few inches, but enough to pervade your eyes, filling all the edges of your vision with his cautiously encouraging expression. He spoke lowly, in a deep, smooth tone as the hotness of his breath brushed across your wet cheeks.

“Allow me to accompany you to the Infirmary.”

The sensation of your throbbing heart had now reached your fingertips, shooting down your arms so boldly that you were surprised Obi-Wan couldn’t feel the beats through his steadied palms. Though his confidence in his ability to keep this matter private had eased your stirring veins slightly.

A quick checkup itself wouldn’t do too much harm, you supposed. As long as it remained just that. Still, this was all assuming Obi-Wan could keep you under The Chosen One’s radar until the matter was fully resolved. As you stared at his confident demeanor, you also had to admit that you’d been a bit concerned about how this exchange would end. For a brief second, you thought that as soon as you explained your affliction to Obi-Wan, he’d whip right back around to inform his former Padawan. He’d certainly known him for many more years than you, you surmised.

But that wasn’t the case.

Master Kenobi respected your motives. And he seemed assured enough to support you through these small sacrifices that you’d always need to make as Anakin’s Guardian.

As long as you were also getting the help you needed, it appeared.

But, deep down, you knew that wouldn’t always be possible. Save this exception.

Is that why telling him, even after all of these assurances, still felt so wrong?

No, there was no need to remind Obi-Wan of that reality at this moment. You were comfortable enough to let those blue eyes get the win they so strongly fought for.

Tugging on the seam of your robe, you spoke softly.

“Alright.”

And in return, the Jedi Master offered you a grateful, almost relieved, smile.

After presenting Obi-Wan with this small victory, you couldn’t help the sudden confusion that overcame your mind, born from a latent realization. A perplexing thought which transformed into one more question that you needed to ask before surrendering yourself to the trained hands of Jedi physicians.

“By the way,” you spoke up. “How did you find me? I didn’t tell anyone where I was going.”

The Master sent you a look so pointed that it blared across rooftops one undeniable judgment:

That he knew you were not going to like this.

“Apparently, Anakin was having trouble finding you for those unplanned sparring sessions the two of you enjoy so much. Mostly, because he hasn’t been able to sense your presence.”

He exhaled.

“His solution was to place a tracker in your robe.”

Your jaw dropped, a drop of rain catching your marginally exposed tongue.

“That little-“

“Don’t worry,” Obi-Wan announced in that thick, Coruscanti accent.

“I told him to turn it off.”

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[the-kingshound]

"... Ser Brihan."

At the commanding sound of the King's voice, the Knight turns and faces him. She is careful to keep her tone steady. "My King?"

Uther's finger, heavy with rings, grip the handles until his skin whitens. He raises from his throne and descends at the Knight's height, prompting her to kneel.

Brihan shivers when the King speaks again.

"Your squire."

"Yniol," she immediately provides, still kneeling, pointedly looking down at the stone floor. "An orphan from the lower town."

"They are almost ready for knighthood, are they not?"

The Knight doesn't answer. The King, after all, didn't want one.

"I was disappointed by your last squire. I hope, for your sake as well, that this one will be different."

"I assure you, my King, orphans possess a different kind of strength from those of noble birth. They are used to fight in order to simply survive."

King Uther's gaze weights heavily on the older knight for a long moment, but a flicker of interest has taken hold of him. His eyes promise cruelty and pain when he speaks, "bring them to me. I shall test your theory."

Brihan stands. She bows, "at your orders."

She walks out of the throne room with a hard, impassive gaze, past the cloth drenched in blood and past a discarded chains secured to the wall.

[bridge-4-wannabe]

title: rules of the game

summary: Kaladin observes while Bridge Four play a drinking game. Adolin knows he and Kaladin have been playing a different game for some time now.

crossposted on AO3

The winehouse echoed with raucous laughter when Adolin entered. The air inside felt warmer than other parts of the tower, very much due to the large, boisterous crowd gathered. He saw many familiar faces as the winehouse was one of his regular haunts, but there were many he didn’t see often. He looked around and didn’t see the shock of Shallan’s red hair among the crowd. Or was it brown? In any case, maybe she and Ishnah had found a more secluded place to spend the evening. 

Tonight, the room was primarily full of Windrunners, as Bridge Four had gathered here to celebrate the addition of new squires to their ranks. As such, the room teemed with bright-eyed radiants, their usually tense shoulders finally relaxed in the company of good friends and good drink. Some of the younger squires had left, as the hour had grown late, but still, a large group remained, drinking happily into the night.

Surprisingly, and perhaps most pleasingly to Adolin, a certain Windrunner still remained among those in the winehouse. Adolin eyed Kaladin from across the large room, where he leaned against a wall, hair down and obscuring some of his face. 

Kaladin’s body fell into slightly more relaxed lines now than was usually the case. Instead of a spear in his hand, he held a glass of wine. Someone must have forced the glass into his hand. Usually it was Adolin who insisted that Kaladin relax a little with something to drink. But on occasions such as tonight, when Bridge Four were relaxing together after a few grueling days, Kaladin likely participated without too much prompting. Or at least, maybe only at the prompting of Syl.

Their eyes met from across the room for a moment. Adolin smiled at him which Kaladin only reciprocated with a slight raising of his eyebrows. His eyes flickered away from Adolin almost immediately, going back to watching over where Lopen was mercilessly teasing one of the newer squires.

So it would be that sort of night. A slight thrill ran through Adolin’s blood.

Since this thing had begun–madly, nonsensically, in Kaladin’s room one morning, without an ounce of tenderness, just frantic movement pressed to each other–Adolin hadn’t quite understood the nature of their new relationship. It was a changing beast. Adolin had long since understood his physical desire for Kaladin, but it had seemed like Kaladin had awoken to it fully only in that moment. He’d been wild eyed and breathless afterwards, quickly adjusting his clothing and looking at Adolin only through the slightly sweaty hair that fell in his face, as if his hair was a shield from the full brunt of what now stood between them.

Adolin had let him have that realization. He hadn’t pushed him for anything in that moment. At that time, Adolin hadn’t felt the need for anything. He liked sex and though whatever had happened between them hadn’t been quite the jocular tryst he’d experienced in the past, he’d told himself then it wasn’t that different either.

This thing between them that at least Adolin had qualified as friendship had shifted to decidedly something else. The air had been thick with words left unsaid, but he couldn’t be the one to say them. Instead, Adolin had left Kaladin’s room after making a joke, trying to lighten the mood. He’d left knowing what had happened felt like both the culmination of something and the beginning. It didn’t matter which. He and Kaladin moved so quickly through points in understanding one another, they’d never really needed many words before. 

Maybe this time, they did. But Adolin didn’t want to change anything. 

It was almost a joke at this point, but he’d never been good at relationships. Something never quite clicked, no matter who he pursued. He never understood what they needed from him. Somehow, he was always wrong.

It wasn’t like that with Kaladin, and so Adolin refused to let go of whatever this was. Even if at times he wanted to say the words that clung to the inside of his lips so often. He didn’t. 

Adolin had learned to recognize the twitch in a vein at Kaladin’s neck when they were sitting having a drink with Shallan or the barest tilt in his head as their eyes met across a meeting. After those moments Adolin would follow Kaladin anywhere, their bodies somehow knowing where the other would be, their movements quick somedays, slow and sensual others. 

Outside of those moments, however, they never mentioned what passed between them. Those were the rules. Their friendly rapport remained: casual teasing, easy competitiveness, and calm admiration. Adolin still, somehow, was allowed to touch Kaladin more often than any others. He tried not to think about what that meant. It likely meant nothing. Kaladin’s face never betrayed much, no matter how well Adolin learned to read his body. 

In any case, the rules of the game remained.

So he couldn’t go over to Kaladin right now. That wasn’t quite how this worked. He knew when to wait and when to strike: he’d spent his entire life perfecting that timing.  He learned his opponent's body, the tells, the signs. And though Kaladin wasn’t an opponent, per se, the same philosophy applied.

So he waited.

Instead, he sought out Renarin. Renarin sat just outside the raucous circle, smiling and laughing along, even if he wasn’t participating much himself. He’d waved to Adolin when he saw him, smiling brightly. 

“Look who has blessed us with his presence!” Skar shouted, raising his drink to Adolin. 

Adolin smiled, raising his drink in return towards all of the slightly sloppy Windrunners. It made him laugh to think all of them could have been sober in an instant if they wanted. He supposed some habits die hard.

“We’re playing Heralds!” Lyn supplied, before hiccuping and dissolving into giggles with another woman Adolin didn’t know. “I chose Chanarach and now I have to follow Laran’s rules.”

The other woman, presumably Laran, touched Lyn’s nose in a quick motion. “Yes, and you weren’t supposed to speak until you took a drink!”

Lyn giggled again, a blush sitting on her cheeks. “Oops!” she responded, before taking an extra sip of her drink as punishment.

“I see,” Adolin said, grinning. “Well, don’t let me interrupt.”

"Yes, I was just about to choose Drehy, I think,” Skar said, looking around, eyes finding the man in question.

“I choose Kalak!” Drehy said, swaying just a little in the stool he was in.

“Storms, now I have to guess something I think you’ve never done,” Skar said. He looked a little too drunk to be doing this kind of thinking.

“Yeah, otherwise all of us will have to drink!” Lopen shouted. “No pressure!”

Adolin spied a look at Kaladin who was determinedly looking away from him.

“Oh, I don’t know!” Skar huffed. He was clearly flustered, too drunk to really be thinking of anything clever. “You’ve never, oh, hell, been intimate while you were supposed to be working.”

“‘Been intimate!’” Drehy said, imitating him and then laughing. “What a turn of phrase! What a gentleman you are!”

He turned to Kaladin, “Pretend you can’t hear this, Kaladin!”

Adolin’s eyes flickered over just in time to see Kaladin roll his eyes.

“The rest of you drink up. Skar was wrong!” 

Skar groaned, but everyone was too far gone to really even care anymore, drinking happily. 

Adolin smirked. It took all of his self control to not look over at Kaladin, even if he could feel the heat of Kaladin’s gaze on him. He knew they were both thinking of the same moment in Kaladin’s room just a week ago when, as a result of their intimacy, he’d been late for a meeting. It had been frantic and messy, Kaladin’s hand clapped over Adolin’s mouth as he’d come. 

Finally, unable to keep himself from him any longer, he looked up to see Kaladin’s heated stare. Adolin put his glass down, keeping his eyes locked with Kaladin’s, and licked his lips. He expected Kaladin to look away, but instead he looked defiantly back. Adolin raised an eyebrow. 

Closer.

The crowd devolved into teasing Drehy and loudly asking for the gory details of said rendezvous, but Drehy just laughed and mimed locking his mouth shut. The game was barely held together over the course of the next half hour by Sigzil keeping track of whose turn it was. Even Rlain had a go in the game. 

“Talenelat,” he stated, the name sounding just barely lyrical in his voice. 

“A dare? I’d expect nothing less,” Lopen said.

Rlain nodded, his face inscrutable.

“All right, how about some Horneater white then?” Lopen responded before scurrying off to get the aforementioned drink from the barmaid. 

Rlain shrugged, a slight smile on his face now. Renarin looked over at Adolin, his expression a little apprehensive. Adolin grinned. From the little time he’d spent with Rlain, he didn’t think this drink was going to be an issue, he didn’t know why Renarin was worried. But Renarin had never really been one to drink much.

When Lopen returned, all eyes turned eagerly to Rlain, who downed what Adolin thought was a healthy amount of the clear drink easily. The resulting cheer was loud, followed by everyone else drinking more, even if they didn’t need to. It almost seemed like a ritual Adolin wasn’t aware of, something that belonged to Bridge Four, outside of the game they played.

Renarin shook his head fondly at Rlain who gave him a small smile. He truly didn’t look like the drink had affected him at all. Instead, Rlain sat there with Renarin, mostly sober and looking around rather amused at the spectacle that continued to unfold in front of him. 

Adolin might have been amused too, if his attention hadn’t been kept primarily by a certain Windrunner standing by the wall. He’d been drinking steadily, not enough to catch up with the Windrunners around him, but enough. His eyes met Kaladin’s again, and Adolin felt the sharp heat of alcohol rushing through his veins, making his nerves fuzzier and yet also edging his desire. Maybe it wasn’t just the alcohol.

Eventually, Adolin got up, the dance having gone on long enough. He wanted, and he knew Kaladin did too. Adolin leaned against the wall, just a few feet separating him from Kaladin. He looked sideways at Kaladin who was looking at something Lopen was saying to Skar, both of whom were laughing near hysterically. 

“Kaladin Stormface didn’t want to join the fun?” Adolin asked, a teasing smile on his face as he watched Kaladin.

“I don’t think they want their commanding officer playing a drinking game with them.”

Adolin felt his heartbeat once in his throat.

“We could play our own game,” Adolin said quietly, moving just a little closer to Kaladin, his fingers brushing against Kaladin’s left hand. He could almost sense the tension in Kaladin’s hand before he moved it away quickly and looked around, as though he were afraid someone in the room had seen the slight movement from Adolin.

Adolin bit his lip. He usually would not have touched Kaladin like this in public, not in the loudness of this room, with intent in his eyes. But tonight, Adolin felt bolder. Maybe that was the alcohol. He could pretend. 

And Kaladin could pretend too–pretend to move away. But Adolin knew the truth now, he could read it in small movements of Kaladin’s body, the way he’d slightly shifted, his body angled towards Adolin.

Kaladin took a drink from his cup of wine, his eyes finally looking over at Adolin. His gaze was intense, unwavering. Adolin felt a shiver even in the warmth of the room.

“Rules?” Kaladin asked, quietly. The soft haziness of his eyes was just there, barely peeking through the usual intensity. 

“I’m feeling inspired by Bridge Four. Just Heralds,” Adolin responded. He took a long pull on his wine. He knew what he was falling into. He reveled in the anticipation.

There was a moment again before–

“Talenelat.”

Adolin smiled. Kaladin always liked to push, wanting a dare, a challenge, even now.

“Don’t hold back.”

Kaladin raised his eyebrows.

“That’s my dare?” he asked, eyes weighing Adolin.

Adolin nodded, excitement thrumming in his veins.

“Easy.”

Adolin shrugged. 

“Your turn,” Kaladin said.

Adolin nodded.

“Chanarach.”

Kaladin looked at him, eyes showing not even a hint of surprise. He raised his eyebrows once before slowly taking a sip of his drink again. Adolin could feel his heart beating in his chest as he waited for whatever rule Kaladin would make for him.

“I think we both know you don’t need to play Heralds to follow my rules. Do you?”

Adolin felt the hitch of victory as he took a breath, the arousal that had been simmering all night suddenly razor-sharp and visceral. Stormy brown locked with clear blue, and he knew they both understood how tonight would end. They’d known since Adolin had walked into the winehouse, but this was the game. 

He would have Kaladin, and Kaladin would have him.

***

They made their way to Adolin’s rooms separately. Kaladin left first.

He’d leant into Adolin for just a moment and Adolin, unable to resist, had leant towards him as well, inhaling the clean musk of Kaladin’s scent. But then he’d been gone, quick and quiet as always, as though that small movement between them had never happened. Adolin wanted to follow immediately, drawn to Kaladin as he always was, as he had been from the beginning, but he knew this was part of their game. He needed to wait again. 

Sex with Kaladin was different from sex he’d had before. 

But maybe that was because he’d never known anyone as he now knew Kaladin. At first Kaladin had set his teeth on edge, their interactions uneasy and contentious. Adolin looked back with some shame upon realizing why he’d behaved in such a way. But Kaladin had saved his entire family. And once he’d seen him, truly seen him, as he jumped into the duel to save him and Renarin, they didn’t even need words anymore. He’d known him then as only extreme action can prove who a person really, truly is. So he knew Kaladin, better than he’d known any other lover.

Maybe that was why the sex felt different. Maybe that was why this relationship stuck. Or at the very least this game they played, finding each other in moments of need, didn’t end. Maybe there was another reason. But Adolin didn’t want to think about that. 

He watched Bridge Four, still playing their game, watched as many of them grew more and more drunk, but he didn’t really see them. He may have looked around the room, but his mind was full only of thoughts of Kaladin, waiting, craving, desire blooming in him like ink in water.

The prospect of Kaladin in his room induced an intoxication more intense than the violet he’d been drinking. He wanted to drown in that feeling. Adolin didn’t know how long he really stayed before following, his mind drunk on anticipation more than anything else.

***

Adolin opened the door to his room to find Kaladin inside. He’d removed his jacket, which sat neatly on the large cushioned chair by the fire.

The room was lit only by one or two spheres, but Adolin swore he could see Stormlight rising from Kaladin’s skin. Maybe that was the alcohol in his system. Most of the light came from the crackling fire casting dancing swathes of light across both the room and Kaladin.

Their eyes locked, hunger meeting want and storms, Adolin knew he couldn’t wait anymore. This game of waiting–he didn’t want to play.

Adolin didn’t know how their bodies met so quickly, but he didn’t waste time thinking about it. He gripped Kaladin by the shoulders, mouth pressed against Kaladin’s, as he backed him against the wall. Kaladin’s hands moved up to grip Adolin’s head in place and took what he wanted from him even as they settled against the wall. His hands were strong, his touch firm, and Adolin felt himself melt into it. Kaladin tasted both of the wine he’d been drinking and of something uniquely Kaladin, and Adolin licked hungrily into his mouth as if trying to consume it all. 

How could he get exactly what he wanted but only end up wanting more? His hunger for Kaladin only whetted itself on his desire, growing in an endless crescendo. His hands moved down Kaladin’s body to feel underneath his shirt, fingertips on his hot, bare skin. Kaladin moved into his touch, their bodies pressed together, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, chest to chest.

They settled like that for a moment, kissing hungrily until Adolin pulled away just slightly to press open mouthed kisses down Kaladin’s neck to the hollow of throat. Adolin felt Kaladin’s hips push up against his just slightly, almost as though he was trying to resist, like he was still trying to cling to control. Adolin vowed to make him lose that battle. Hadn’t he told him to not hold back?

He moved his hand down Kaladin’s leg to the back of his thigh, gripping there tightly. Kaladin brought his leg around Adolin’s waist almost immediately, bucking up slightly. Adolin could feel the hardness beginning to grow there and he felt his own cock fill further at the feeling. He nipped lightly at Kaladin’s collarbone. In response, Kaladin, whose hand had gone to Adolin’s hair, tugged slightly.

“Bed,” Kaladin growled, the word just short of a command. It was just as well he’d said that: Adolin had been ready to drop to his knees right there.

Adolin obeyed, lifting Kaladin up until his legs were wrapped around Adolin’s waist. He heard Kaladin huff but Adolin just grinned as he kissed a spot just under his ear.

Putting Kaladin on the bed, Adolin moved to take off his shirt but felt Kaladin’s hand on his wrist. 

“Knees, Princeling.”

Adolin didn’t know if he’d ever hastened to obey anyone so quickly in his life. He was beyond embarrassment or shame in that moment. Only Kaladin’s command and the hunger in his eyes existed. 

Kaladin rarely spoke during sex, mostly single words: “There. Good. Faster.”  Maybe because he still felt he couldn’t want this, or because he didn’t know how to ask. But it didn’t matter much. Adolin could read the way his breathing changed, the way his grip shifted, the way his hands moved quicker. Or, in moments like these, when he didn’t need to read anything, and Kaladin just told him. 

Kaladin looked at him for a moment, hand going to Adolin’s chin and tilting his head up before bending forward and kissing him. It was a filthy kiss, a slow kiss, in stark contrast to their frantic movements earlier. The words ‘don’t hold back’ still echoed in Adolin’s mind. He really hoped Kaladin wouldn’t.

Adolin made to reach for Kaladin’s trousers, the idea of giving Kaladin pleasure overwhelming him, burning him from the inside out. This was what the night had been building toward ever since Adolin stepped into the winehouse. Hell, it was what the day had been building toward ever since they’d made eye contact in the morning. A week without the touch they’d grown used to and they’d both known.

But Kaladin knocked his hand away.

“Not yet,” Kaladin said, his eyes burning into Adolin’s. 

Adolin almost whined, but stopped himself. He’d asked for this. 

Kaladin reached to loosen the laces on his trousers before pulling out his cock. He looked at Adolin for a moment, seemingly considering him. Adolin waited. 

After a moment, Kaladin offered his hand to Adolin who licked a broad stripe up his palm, Kaladin took himself in hand, stroking slowly, still watching Adolin.

To be this close to Kaladin and not be the one touching him was agony. But these moments were when Kaladin knew him best, when he asked for control from Adolin, when he made Adolin wait. 

Adolin’s hands went to Kaladin’s calves, needing something to do. His fingers dug into the hard muscle there as he lent in his nose nuzzling lightly at Kaladin’s knee before his chin rested on it as he looked up at Kaladin’s face. The pleasure moved in ripples across Kaladin’s face as he drew his eyebrows together. Adolin wanted to see more of that, only that, like the universe had narrowed to only Kaladin in front of him. He felt his own cock hard and leaking in his trousers, his own need building as he watched Kaladin touch himself, controlled yet on the edge. Kaladin’s eyes, usually focused and unfaltering, had fallen closed, his mouth slightly open, but not quite slack, like he still held onto his control the same way he held Adolin in a state of obedience.

He kissed at Kaladin’s knee, rubbed up and down on his calves, wanting in some way to be touching Kaladin more, to give him pleasure, to send him to a place where he could no longer feel any sense of control. He had told Kaladin to not hold back and he was, by making Adolin wait. 

It felt like ages before Kaladin finally opened his eyes, his hand slowing. He found Adolin’s lips with his thumb, and Adolin opened his lips gladly to suck enthusiastically on his thumb. He looked up at Kaladin, eyes showing him how much he wanted him.

Kaladin finally gave him a nod.

Adolin’s hands moved up Kaladin’s legs, feeling every inch of lean muscle until they stopped on his upper thighs where he massaged a little. Keeping eye contact with Kaladin he leaned down, his mouth leaving open mouth kisses all over Kaladin’s heavy cock. Adolin closed his eyes, his senses overwhelmed at being so surrounded by Kaladin. Being closer to the heady, musky scent of him blunted the edge to his hunger, but it wasn’t enough.

The wetness at the tip of Kaladin’s cock smeared across Adolin’s lips as he licked broadly, learning each vein and ridge of the velvety smoothness he held in his hand. He swirled his tongue around the head of Kaladin’s cock, his hand going to stroke at what he couldn’t fit in his mouth. He heard Kaladin’s breath hitch in the way he loved to hear. He sucked more of Kaladin into his mouth until he felt the familiar ache in his jaw he always savored. He looked up through his eyelashes at Kaladin while working his lips over his cock. Kaladin looked dazed, finally the veneer of control slowly started to slip. His pupils were dilated, his breathing heavy and Adolin wanted nothing more than to memorize every moment of this. To know nothing but this, the way Kaladin looked when Adolin made him feel this good. Only Adolin.

Kaladin brought a hand to Adolin’s hair, fingers running through it softly. The softness of the touch contrasted greatly with the slick, obscene sounds of Adolin as he took Kaladin deeper until he felt the touch of Kaladin’s balls at his chin. Adolin held him there for a moment before pulling back and going back to sucking at the head of his cock, feeling every twitch of Kaladin in his mouth as he found all the right spots to tease at with his tongue.

He moved his hand towards his own crotch, rubbing just a bit before he felt Kaladin pull at his hair. He moaned at the feeling, the sudden movement jerking him off of Kaladin’s cock. He drooled a little onto Kaladin’s cock, as he looked up.

“Focus,” Kaladin said, the sharpness of the single word knifing down Adolin’s spine. He knew it meant he couldn’t touch himself just yet.

Adolin nodded quickly, his mouth finding Kaladin’s cock again and taking him in deeply.

Kaladin gripped his hair a little harder, causing Adolin to moan around Kaladin’s cock and suck harder. His hips began to rock slightly and Adolin eagerly responded, hands going up to Kaladin’s hips, moaning as he encouraged Kaladin to thrust up into his face. Kaladin responded in kind, hands moving back to the bed to give himself some leverage as he began to thrust up into Adolin’s waiting mouth. 

The room was full of wet, obscene sounds along with Adolin’s eager moans and Kaladin’s hard exhalations through his nose. 

“Adolin–” Kaladin breathed, his voice low and straining. 

He knew when Kaladin was close. There was always a slight shift in his breathing, though he tried to control it. Adolin swallowed thickly around Kaladin’s cock, savoring the ache in his jaw, the stretch in his lips, the feeling of wetness on his chin.

Kaladin groaned, hand tightening in Adolin’s hair as he thrust up into his mouth one more time, and Adolin tasted the bitter-salt of Kaladin’s release on his tongue. Adolin swallowed eagerly, sucking enthusiastically through Kaladin’s orgasm until he tugged again at Adolin’s hair to pull him off. Adolin felt his own dick throb, but he still didn’t touch himself even though the temptation mounted. 

He looked up at Kaladin, wiping his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, meeting Kaladin’s hazy, blissed out gaze where he leaned with one hand behind him on the bed and the other still in Adolin’s hair. He put his head on Kaladin’s thigh as Kaladin came down, fingers moving much more softly through Adolin’s hair. Adolin’s cock was hard and he felt the wetness in his trousers, but still he didn’t move to touch himself. There were rules tonight, after all.

Finally, Kaladin said, “Come here.”

Adolin moved into the bed next to where Kaladin was, immediately moving to kiss Kaladin. Kaladin kissed him, the taste of him mingling in their mouths. Kaladin’s hand moved to Adolin’s thigh, and this time, Adolin whined.

“Kaladin,” Adolin managed, his breathing ragged, not knowing quite what he meant by just saying Kaladin’s name. He pushed his forehead into Kaladin’s neck, wanting to be closer as he tried to push his hips towards Kaladin, clumsy and needy.

“Lay down.”

Adolin obeyed, and Kaladin undid Adolin’s trousers. Adolin breathed out when Kaladin finally pulled his hard, wet cock out, stroking it quickly. His eyes closed automatically, his mind going almost blank with arousal.

Adolin knew he wouldn’t last long. Not with Kaladin over him like this, the taste of him still on his tongue–

As if knowing this, Kaladin said, “Not yet.”

His hand moved in a quick rhythm over Adolin’s aching cock as he leaned over him. Adolin needed the sweet relief of release, the pleasure-pain building and building, but he wanted to hold on until Kaladin said he could come. He wanted that tonight. He could do that. He’d asked for it.

Adolin moaned, lips finding the skin of Kaladin’s shoulder and moving against it, somewhere between a kiss and a bite. He was too close to the edge. He didn’t know if it was a minute or a month before finally Kaladin said, "Come for me."

His hand applied just the slightest hint of more pressure, just the way he knew Adolin liked. And Adolin, knowing that Kaladin could read him like that, could give him exactly what he wanted--the groan pulled out of him as his orgasm crashed over him was ripped from somewhere deep inside him. His entire body clenched as he came, painting both Kaladin’s hand and his own shirt with stripes of white. He felt Kaladin’s hand move over his flagging cock through his climax, but Adolin was so lost in feeling by then he just felt Kaladin in every nerve ending.

He felt Kaladin lay down next to him, shoulders touching. He could barely hear anything over the way his pulse rushed in his ears or feel anything except the buzzing sensation of where Kaladin’s body touched him, even through a layer of clothing. They lay there like that for a short while, until he felt Kaladin get up. 

The loss of any contact between them felt more jarring than it had in the past.

The bed suddenly felt almost too big, like it wasn’t quite right, like there was something missing. Someone, maybe. He wanted Kaladin to stay there, lay in the warm haze of their afterglow together. But it wasn’t something Kaladin was ready to give yet. 

Another rule. A different game. 

Adolin moved up the bed, stretching out, arms over his head, arching his back. He tried to focus on the way his muscles stretched and relaxed and not on the vague unease that came with Kaladin getting up.

He looked down in time to see Kaladin’s eyes following the movement of his body. He had paused after cleaning himself up, eyes roving over Adolin.

He liked these moments after sex now. Before, Kaladin had been unable to look him in the eye, confused and somewhat embarrassed. But now, he’d moved past that it seemed. Now, the hunger was like a cast on his face, only visible in a certain light.

Kaladin’s eyes met Adolin’s, and his expression changed, looking almost like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. 

Kaladin looked away, going back to busying himself with his shirt.

“So, do I need to take a drink?”

Adolin laughed. Heralds.

“Hmmm,” Adolin responded, his voice a little rough. He reveled in the feeling, knowing he’d sound like this tomorrow, and only he and Kaladin would know why. He pretended to think as he put his hands behind his head. “Didn’t feel like you held back so, I guess I can say you passed.”

Kaladin snorted.

“And me?” Adolin asked.

“You’re good at taking orders from me. But we already knew that,” Kaladin said, giving him a look that made Adolin feel bold.

“You could always stay,” Adolin said after a moment, his head popping up off of the pillow of his hands just to look at Kaladin. He sounded to himself like he was just on the wrong side of sincere.

That seemed to snap Kaladin out of it. Head still down from where he was doing up his trousers, his eyes flicked up to meet Adolin’s.

“You know I can’t.”

The truth was Adolin didn’t know that. Not really. He knew it was a rule, but he didn’t know why Kaladin couldn’t. And he didn’t want to ask why. Not yet, not now.

Because somewhere, Adolin knew exactly why he wanted Kaladin to stay. And it had nothing to do with any game they played tonight or any other night. 

But Adolin knew today wasn’t the day to broach this so he nodded once and lay back. He’d need to change out of these dirty clothes, but he felt too tired to move just yet. Kaladin always wrung him out in a way his muscles discovered anew each time.

Kaladin walked to the door, Adolin’s eyes following him the entire way. 

Kaladin hesitated for a moment at the door. Adolin willed him to turn around, to come back to the bed. But he didn’t. After a moment, he left, the door closing with a snick.

Adolin dragged a hand across his face and took a deep breath.

Maybe next time he’d make him stay. Next time, this wouldn’t be just a game they played, and there wouldn't be any rules.

Next time.

[francesminos-tt]

religious!Daeron x little shit!Joffrey

Daeron, a follower of faith and defender of "society's moral values", is corrupted by his provocative nephew.

The sept was dark and quiet, the strong scent of incense filling the air. There were seven statues in the sept, representing the faith of the Seven. Daeron took off his helmet and handed it to his squire at the door, before entering the stifling sept.

The sept had no window, the only lighting source was the flickering candles scattered around the altar. The septon nodded to Daeron as the prince entered, but they didn’t exchange any words. Daeron wasn’t offended, for he was only a humble follower of faith, not a prince, in a holy place like this.

Daeron lit a candle and placed it on the altar before kneeling down to pray. It was his routine, a quick prayer after training. He was the only one of his siblings who kept a strict routine of daily prayers, before breakfast, after training and before bed. He accompanied his mother to faith services three times a week. They called him Daeron the Daring, but he might as well be Daeron the Faithful.

Daeron closed his eyes and whispered a simple prayer. The Faith taught its followers to always be grateful and thoughtful during their daily lives. Daeron was training for a tourney a fortnight from now, but today’s training didn’t go well as he expected. He was distracted most of the time, and was even knocked off his horse two times.

“Please give me strength, Warrior.” Daeron whispered.

The quietness of the sept always calmed his mind, but today, the scent of incense only made him restless. Daeron frowned, trying to concentrate, but failed miserably.

“Something bothering you, my prince?” The septon asked next to him.

Daeron felt something touched his arm, gentle as a feather. The prince turned his head sharply to the septon, only to find a pair of dark eyes staring back at him.

The septon wore a simple linen robe, loose around the collar, exposing his pale, smooth neck. A mop of dark curls cascading down the septon’s shoulder, dark as raven’s feather, a sharp contrast to the paleness of the neck. The septon had a small smile on his face, pink lips curling up slightly, reserved with a hint of hidden mischief.

No. It was not right. The septon was an old man with brown spots on the wrinkled skin. The old man was bold, with a pair of dull, green eyes. The young man in the septon’s robe was not the septon.

“What are you doing here,” Daeron hissed, looking around as if to make sure no one could hear or see them, “Joffrey?”

“Did you miss me?” Joffrey asked as his smile widened, the feigned reservedness giving way to mischief.

“Why are dressing like a septon?” Daeron shifted away from his mischievous nephew, “Where is Septon Eustace?”

“Drunk. I sent him to rest.” Joffrey kneeled down beside Daeron and place his hand on the blonde’s shoulder, “I think perhaps I can take his place when he’s resting. The sept needs a servant of the Faith to receive faithful man like you, doesn’t it?”

“You don’t even follow the Faith, Joffrey. It’s highly disrespectful-”

“Is it?” Joffrey came closer, his face inches away from Daeron’s, “I am so sorry, uncle. I mean no harm. I promise.”

“Get away from me.” Daeron tried his best to ignore the warm breath on his cheek when Joffrey spoke, “And get rid of that robe.”

Joffrey did as he was told. He backed down, stood up and took off the overly large robe, exposing his naked body underneath. Joffrey wore nothing under the robe, showing off his body as if it was the most natural thing to do.

Daeron’s heart skipped a beat as he felt a rush of blood to his cheeks. He jumped to his feet in less than a second, taking off his cloak in the process and throwing it over Joffrey’s shoulder, concealing the brunette’s nakedness in a desperate attempt to save whatever holiness left in this sanctuary of the Seven.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Daeron was on the verge of losing it completely, “This is a sept! Not a whore house!”

“You told me to get rid of the robe.” Joffrey replied, blinking, his long and thick lashes batting innocently, “I only did as I was told. I have been a good boy, uncle.”

“No, you have not.” Daeron shoved Joffrey to the back of the altar and pinned the boy on the cold marble, “You didn’t attend training today, as you should. Instead, you wasted your time here playing dress up.”

“Is that why you looked so grumpy when you entered?” Joffrey tilted his head to side, a strand of curls falling to his face, “Because I didn’t show up at training today?”

“I don’t give a damn about your training, but you ignored your duty today. You are not good, Joffrey. You are a lazy, unresponsible, shameless, unholy piece of shit.”

“Then what are you going to do to punish me, uncle? As a loyal follower of the faith?” Joffrey smirked, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “Spank me?”

Daeron was silent for a while, his nostrils flaring and his lips pursed tightly into a thin line. He was angry. No, furious. How dare Joffrey interrupt his moment of holy prayers? How dare Joffrey dress up like a septon but act like a whore? How dare Joffrey be so disrespectful of the gods?

And why Daeron couldn’t keep his eyes off the brunette boy? Why did his heart ache with desire when he saw Joffrey’s long neck and fluffy curls? Why did his pants become so tight all of a sudden?

“I will do much worse.” Daeron said after a long pause. He flipped Joffrey over, lifted his own dirty cloak and parted the boy’s butt cheeks after giving Joffrey’s butt a loud slap.

Joffrey let out a muffled moan, his head rolling back and his legs began to shake. He was exhilarated and satisfied, proud of himself that he had successfully corrupted the most faithful follower of the gods.

Daeron would choose him, Joffrey, a lazy, unresponsible, shameless, unholy piece of shit, rather than the fair, gentle, justified and holy Seven.

[ravellaarryns]

who: @jaehaerysiitargaryen what and when: literally right after the incident with graham royce and the mystery opponent, queen ravella of house targaryen is seen speaking with king jaehaerys targaryen amongst the stands.

the sound of lance against lance was almost deafening, ear-splitting amongst the sounds of the screams and the gasps that filled the stalls. her orbs of ice need not have even glimpsed over to the sight of the knights of the vale, whose man graham royce had always been, long before the crown had put forced upon his head as a result of actions orchestrated by herself, his brother axell, and his close companion domeric stone. it had been the three of them that caused the indirect murder of the falcon king as a result of his own ambitions, and it was graham royce who knew her head all too well.

who knew the shadow that would be cast over the entirety of the realm the moment the crown sat upon her head. and he was right.

and it was when the champion turned on his steed and charged again did the true chaos begin; there was multiple people of out their seats, wondering whether they were witnessing a madman and the attempted murder of a king consort. she saw the figure of graham royce slip from his horse, in a way he should not have; she did not watch to see whether he had been trampled by the horses, and saw various colours spread across the playing field. the knights, the squires; and her own orbs shot towards the dragon king.

all knew of the tensions of their realms; the vale of arryn had not hesitated to speak of the presence of the dragon within the mountains of the moon. only days earlier, deimos velaryon had spoken to the king himself - in which he had been made abundantly clear the dragon would be going nowhere. her eyes flickered over the playing fields again, half expecting to see the king consort of the vale trampled, but instead she found him standing in the dust. how he always seemed able to rise from the worst. with that look on his face.

she were on her feet after making eye contact with the dragon king. she only indicated towards the champion that was being surrounded by guards and squires alike, for this was more than game spirit; the man had attempted to murder a king, and use the joust as an excuse. she heard jack grafton yell about foul play as she moved down the stands, rising the bottom of her skirts as she sped by it. she felt as though she were spinning on the ice again.

"your grace." ravella spoke, her tone clearly half in shock, and half increasingly furious in that numb, cold way she often did. she did not look towards his queen consort, speaking directly to the reigning sovereign. "it is imperative you transfer rights to withhold to the knights of the vale." the attack had happened upon the lands of the crownlands, but it would be the knights of the vale alongside the master of laws that tried attempted regicide in the vale of arryn. as was ancient custom.

they had begun to walk toward the scene where she saw multiple men forcing the removal of the man's helmet, turning back towards graham - who was speaking with high commander, the lord commander and the master of ships. she maintained eye contact with him. "do you know of him, your grace?" she asked, as the man's helmet was forced. she resisted the urge to spit in his face, and to dig her nails into his eyes until they popped. "his name. get me his name." she directed to the surrounding knights, but her voice. her voice boomed. it was deep, with the accent of the mountains of the moon.

[blackyote]

Luz hurried to the den, giddy with excitement. "Guys, you gotta see-"

"Shhh." Willow held a finger to her lips, but what Luz saw on the couch had already stopped her short.

In truth, it took a second for the tangle of limbs to resolve into a clear picture. It was Willow, her right arm wrapped around Hunter, and Hunter out like a light: his head precariously balanced at the crook of Willow's neck, with Willow clearly holding as still as she could to keep him from falling into her lap. Mouth slightly ajar, forelock tickling her chin, he looked more peaceful than he had since they arrived here. No wonder Willow was suffering him like an owner pinned by a purring cat.

Not that she looked to be suffering.

Luz squished her own cheeks, making the face she made at anything cute or halfway sentimental. She stage whispered so as to not wake him, "Oh my goodness, look at him! How long-"

Willow couldn't help the crooked smile on her face. "A few minutes, I guess. We were just talking-" The way her smile flickered gave Luz an idea of the weight of the topic, the two of them having a quiet moment together. "-and I... I gave him a hug, and... Well."

"And he just collapsed?" Luz's eyes were shining. Hunter had a soft side! His kill switch was HUGS!! She checked over her shoulder, making sure no one came barging in like she did, and whipped out her phone to immortalize the scene.

Willow blushed, side-eyeing Hunter in her arms. It was true he hadn't agreed to a photo opp, but she wasn't going to tell Luz no, either.

"This is just for you," Luz promised, and snapped a picture: Hunter close to drooling on his friend, Willow looking like she didn't mind one bit.

She gave a small smile in thanks, and Luz tucked her phone away, saying, "When he wakes up, meet us outside, okay? Gus and Amity just discovered squirrels."

Willow frowned. "What's a squir-rel?"

A smug look. "Wouldn't you like to know?" With a little fingergun goodbye, she headed for the patio door.

Willow glanced at Hunter, still dreaming, pressed against her side, and decided the mystery could wait a little longer.