#sausage fingers has taken the crown

[duchessdi]

i’m so anti charles and camilla to the point where the queen dying has made me miserable.

#liz i was rooting for you outlive him #sausage fingers has taken the crown #the royal family

[lunarsands]

ESMP S1 Fanfic - A Garden’s Path - Ch 2

Characters: Mythical Sausage, Scott Smajor, Bubbles the Dog, Sir Carlos, appearances by the rest of the cast of Empires SMP S1, featuring blaze-hybrid emperor TangoTek, and introducing: The Children of Mythland (specific characters to be tagged when they appear in each chapter)

Relationships: MythicalSausage/Scott Smajor, LDShadowlady/Smallishbeans, Shubble/Katherine Elizabeth, TangoTek & SolidarityGaming, Joey Graceffa/Xornoth

Tags: Empires SMP S1 AU, scosage, adoption, fluff, wholesome, so much wholesome fluff you would not believe, a bit of angst here and there, Sausage has a few nightmares for Plot reasons, acknowledgement of amputation (not sure how else to tag that but just in case)

WARNINGS: fantasy racism (human v elf), loss of parent (with adoption inevitably comes orphans), minor character death in a later chapter

Chapter Summary: The debut gala for the princes of Mythland proceeds and the boys meet a wide variety of rulers from across the Empires. Most of them seem determined to embarrass Sausage, Scott has a heartfelt conversation with Gem, and Xornoth spends some quality time with his nephews. Later, Azahar asks for a special favor, which his fathers are happy to provide in order to foster his interests.

(Also available on Ao3!)

[ Prologue ]  [ Chapter One ]

[A/N: Sorry for the delay in updates, irl stress and writer’s block hit me hard. I made a few revisions and moved some events to other chapters, hence the title change on this one]

- --

Chapter Two – The First Gala

The day of the gala, along with cooler autumn weather, seemed to arrive in no time at all. The castle was abuzz with activity as finishing touches were added to the ballroom and other guest areas, while the boys spent the morning half-excited, half-worried, until the early afternoon when it was time to get ready. Rather than simply have servants help them while they themselves got ready, Sausage and Scott were quick to don their own outfits, both wearing a mix of red and yellow in Mythland style with matching fur-trimmed capes. The main difference was elven-styled filigree on Scott’s clothes as well as his crown being made of ice crystals. They then assisted the boys.

The combination of Rivendell and Mythland styles had come together nicely under the tailor’s skillful eye; embroidered patterns of shining gold that mimicked Mythland heraldry ran down the front of each doublet, accompanied by matching gold buttons. The same pattern repeated along the outer seam of their leggings and encircled the top of their color-coordinated boots.

Sausage was currently brushing Elowen’s hair, wearing a glove over his prosthetic hand to avoid any strands getting caught in the metal joints. He hummed a calm, quiet tune while the boy fidgeted slightly. Azahar was reading the guest list and practiced saying the names of the rulers to himself. Scott had gone to greet an early arrival, so Sausage had taken over braiding the sides of the younger boy’s hair.

Elowen fidgeted some more. “Is it going to look okay if you do it? I never had my hair long enough before.”

“I promise I’ll make it look nice. I’ve been practicing on Dad’s hair. His looks fine today, right?”

Elowen nodded without thinking, subsequently pulling his hair out of Sausage’s fingers. Sausage smiled and gently picked up the strands that were intended for the braid. “Sorry, Papa.”

“It’s all right. We’ve got plenty of time. And Dad can fix it when he gets back if you like that better.”

“No, it’s okay.” The boy tried very hard to stop fidgeting, but once Sausage finished both braids and had moved to secure them together at the back of Elowen’s head, he blurted, “What if I trip? And fall? And break my crown? What if everyone starts laughing, and they think I’m a bad prince?”

“Oh, well… Then I’ll just have to throw them in the dungeon!” Sausage chuckled and walked around in front with the hairbrush to playfully dash Elowen’s fringe over his eyes.

“But – I – I don’t want that either! I’d be the one who broke something!”

Sausage now parted the boy’s fringe neatly to either side. “I promise you won’t be in trouble. Only people who are mean to my son on his special day will go in the dungeon.”

A voice familiar to the human but unknown to the boys called from the doorway, “Well, sounds like I had better make sure I get along with my new nephews, because I would really hate to have to stay in the dungeon every time I come for a visit. I have to hand it to you, Sausage, you’ve got a good grasp on the protective parent thing already.”

The purple-haired elf wearing Rivendell regalia who leaned around the doorframe grinned, only for Scott to push past him into the room. “If you keep going with the puns, I’ll throw you in the dungeon. Boys, this is your Uncle Xornoth. He likes to make jokes about Papa’s prosthetic arm. Xornoth, this is Azahar and Elowen.”

Xornoth stepped fully into the room and bowed. “It’s wonderful to meet you. I would have liked to see you sooner, but your Dad left me to run a kingdom by myself, so I’ve been very busy. This gala was just the break I needed, so thank you for becoming my brother’s sons!”

Azahar looked at Xornoth with uncertainty at his casualness while Elowen came over to join him. “Um, you’re welcome… sir?”

“Psht, might as well call me ‘Your Highness, King of Rivendell’! Uncle, uncle! You can call me Uncle, or just Xornoth, or ‘that silly guy related to Dad’!” Xornoth laughed for a moment, but when both boys continued to look unsure, he bowed again – apologetically. “I’m sorry, forgive me, I do like to try to keep the mood light. I am genuinely pleased to finally see you in person. Your dad has told me about you in letters and I was happy to get the invitation. I wanted to be the first here, and it looks like I made good time.”

He now more politely took Azahar’s hand and bowed over it, then did the same to Elowen, smiling softly when the latter tried to offer a brave smile. “Welcome, my nephews, to the family. I hope we can chat a little more later. I have to join the other guests, but I’ll see you out there soon. Don’t worry too much about impressing anyone today, and it’s okay to be nervous, too. If it would make you feel better, I can tell you all about what happened at both of your fathers’ debut galas—”

Scott took his brother by the elbow and pulled him toward the door. “That’s enough for now, I think. You can go.”

“Aw, Scott, don’t you want me to tell them about how much mischief little Sausage got into when he still had his original arm?”

“No. We’ll see you downstairs.” Scott closed the door in his brother’s face, then sighed.

Azahar covered his mouth to hide a laugh, while Elowen’s curiosity was now piqued. “Did Uncle Xornoth fight the dragon that ate Papa’s arm, too?”

“No,” Scott replied, “He was somewhere else at the time. But he helped us when we got home after that, so Papa could rest.”

Sausage cleared his throat as he removed the glove and set it aside. “Let’s not worry about that old story right now! It’s time for the present! And presents! Are you ready for some stuffy ceremonial traditions, and then some fun dancing and chatting with everyone?”

“Yes!” the boys chorused, trading hopeful looks, eager to finally see the crowns that had been mentioned.

Scott leaned in to comment to them, “Papa thought the ceremonial part was very boring at his gala. Uncle Xornoth wasn’t wrong about the mischief part.”

“Excuse me! Excuse me!” Sausage protested. “My grandfather was a very boring man! I know there are supposed to be a bunch of official things that go along with this, but we’re taking the shorter route today so everyone can have a good time sooner!”

As they left the anteroom and crossed toward the curtained area over the staircase that led down into the ballroom, Azahar pondered to himself why Sausage had specifically mentioned his grandfather, and no other relatives. He kept the thought to himself for later; up until now he had been more concerned with the adjustment period and getting to know only his new parents, with less thought given to his possible extended Mythlandian family.

The grand staircase had three levels that wound downward until it reached the polished marble floor. Sausage peeked out through the curtains to see how the gathering below was going, then smiled back at everyone. “Okay, everything looks ready. Just wait here until you’re called. We go out first.” He sketched a bow to Scott, then held out his left arm. Scott smiled and hooked his arm around Sausage’s, then also gave the boys an encouraging nod.

Beyond the curtain, the herald announced, “Your hosts, Lord Sausage and King Regnant Scott!”

The two rulers exited through the curtain, pausing on the top step to give a brief wave, then walked down to the first landing.

“And presenting: Prince Azahar and Prince Elowen!”

Azahar quickly squeezed Elowen’s hand, then they copied their fathers as they stepped out. Scott and Sausage parted, waiting to either side for the boys to join them, then they all walked down to the next landings. On the final landing awaited two attendants who held cloth-covered red cushions. It was here that Scott moved to the side so that the boys had center stage with Sausage, who turned to the attendant on the left and lifted the cloth.

Upon the cushion sat a gold filigree crown with a shield-shaped ruby in the center, stylized swords crossed over it in protective symbolism as well as serving the practical purpose of holding the gemstone in place. Sausage held up the crown then lowered it onto Azahar’s head.

He then turned to the other attendant. The cloth was lifted to reveal another filigree crown with a six-sided pale blue agate in the center, this one with snowflake-shaped details keeping the gemstone centered. Sausage lifted it and then placed it over Elowen’s hair, nestling it just right where his braids were secured.

A ripple of applause flowed through the crowd. Elowen seemed about to shy away, but Sausage took his hand with another encouraging smile. Scott saw it as a cue to step forward and take Azahar’s hand. They both used this as a way to guide the boys to face the ballroom, then raised their joined hands and bowed. The applause continued, then the kings moved down the rest of the stairs with their sons.

Xornoth was already waiting to the right, clearly trying to contain his grin to an acceptable level. Sausage and Scott halted on the last step as the other elf bowed. The herald called from the landing, “The Monarch of Rivendell, Xornoth!”

“Good evening, Your Highnesses. It is a pleasure to meet the young princes.” Xornoth snuck in a wink and whispered to the boys, “Again, as it were. We’ll hang out after you get through the guest list.” He straightened and subtly glanced over his shoulder where other rulers were lining up behind him.

Scott and Sausage nodded in polite accord, then Xornoth meandered over to the other side of the staircase. He accepted an offered glass of chilled cider and casually watched the rest of the typical proceedings as the herald announced each ruler in turn.

“The Codfather, Jimmy, of the Cod Empire!”

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” Jimmy gushed as he bowed then looked the boys over. “This is real! You really both became fathers!” He grinned incredulously at Sausage and Scott, then composed himself. “Ahem. Greetings from the Cod Empire, young princes!” he announced in an exaggerated formal tone, then added quietly, “You make sure to give these two lots of trouble. Do it for me, your Uncle Jimmy!”

“You’re not their uncle!” Sausage hissed quietly, “Get out of here, Jimmy!”

The Codfather bowed again but also traded grins with Sausage as he moved aside.

“Blaze Emperor Tango, of the Tek variety!”

The boys couldn’t help staring at the flame-haired man, whose crown appeared to be made of floating staves that seemed almost molten – or, at the least, were glowing. “Ohhh, these are princes! They’re like mini-kings! I get it now!” There was glee in Tango’s red eyes with their closely-matching red sclera as he leaned closer, then he sharply drew back. “Oh, sorry, I’m forgetting the overworld etiquette. Hi! Nice to meet you! Greetings from, ummm, the Burning Dark!” He started to bow, then took another step back and bowed fully, avoiding any of his flames getting too close to the royal family. After they nodded politely back to him, he jogged off after Jimmy.

“Count fWhip of the Grimlands!”

“Hi, hi! Hello, young princes! Sausage, I can’t believe you pulled this off, it’s so fancy! Good to know you haven’t broken my best work while running around playing, as I’m sure you’ve been doing!” fWhip gave a wink then said in a more serious voice, “I’ll take a look at it later, just in case. I can only assume you haven’t broken it yet.”

Sausage made a shooing motion with both hands to prove the prosthetic one was working just fine. As fWhip began to move away, Sausage leaned between the boys to mutter, “This is one of the parts I hate. It’s boring standing here, and you have to be polite while listening to all sorts of nonsense like that. I think it’s easier to just chat out on the floor if someone has something to say, instead of all this blah-blah-blah.”

Scott nudged him, then outright pulled him back into place. “We can complain later. Do I really need to tell you to be the one to behave, Sausage?”

The human laughed behind the back of his hand, then cleared his throat. “No, no. I’ll set a good example. Serious time, boys. Well, serious but polite.”

“The Wizard GeminiTay of the Crystal Cliffs!”

Gem’s eyes twinkled as she stepped up. “Oh, it’s so wonderful to finally meet you, Azahar and Elowen! You look like such a proper family standing together like this! I hope Sausage hasn’t been embarrassing you too much with his recklessness. Sausage, you better not be getting them involved in your recklessness, either!”

Sausage huffed. “Is everyone just going to poke fun at me this whole night? This is a special event for my sons! You stop embarrassing me in front of them! Now go tell everyone behind you to not bring up anything else! My god!”

Gem laughed at his supposed outrage. Encouraged by her reaction, Elowen found some of his nerve. “Yeah, don’t pick on my papa! He’s been super nice to us! And he makes sure we don’t do anything dangerous! He only lets Azahar use the practice swords, and—”

Gem gently laughed again, then bowed to him. “I believe you, Prince Elowen. And I expect you to be just as outspoken when you come to my school for further magic lessons.”

Realizing the outburst might have been out of line, Elowen shrank back a little, but Scott put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and smiled down at him.

“PearlescentMoon of Gilded Helianthia!”

“Hello, boys,” the farmer queen greeted, her tone warm but mischief in her eyes.

“Pearl,” Scott said warily, “I know that look of yours. You’re up to something.”

“Why would I be up to something?” she replied with a cheeky smile.

“You brought them battle axes or two-handed swords, didn’t you, Pearl?” Scott accused flatly, although the corners of his mouth betrayed amusement.

“Well, it’s never too early to consider their favorite type of defense,” Pearl explained. She smiled at each of the boys in turn. “That aside, it’s a pleasure to meet you. If Sausage ever gets too soft on you with training, you can come battle with me.”

“Um,” Elowen replied, “I’m learning magic. I’m not old enough for real swords anyway.”

“Thank you, Auntie Pearl,” Azahar said, deciding to test out the familiar title even though this was the first time they had met. “Maybe we can talk about it after I move up from practice swords.”

“Calling me ‘aunt’ already! That’s honestly very sweet of you, Prince Azahar. We can definitely talk more in a bit, and I’ll give you some tips on the weak spots in your dads’ fighting styles.”

“Pearl!” Sausage scolded, “Didn’t you hear what I told Gem? And just because I lost my sword arm doesn’t mean I have weak spots! Come on, now!”

He continued to grumble as Pearl went on her way. Scott patted him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’re not bored now.”

“If I didn’t have to stand here, I’d go get some food.” Sausage then whined, “Can we get rid of this tradition, too, in the future? This part isn’t fun, right, boys?”

“Actually,” Azahar said with some mischief of his own, “It kind of is.” Elowen covered his mouth with both hands to hide his laugh.

“Oh, fine,” Sausage responded with a gusty sigh. “Since it’s for you, I’ll let everyone keep teasing me. I bet they’ll tell you all sorts of stories about me when I’m not around, anyway. Just remember, your papa is a brave adventurer!”

Pixlriffs offered a laugh, too, as he stepped forward despite their discussion drowning out the herald announcing him. “That is what I’ve heard.” He, at least, bowed low. “Your majesties. It’s lovely to meet you, Prince Azahar and Prince Elowen. I see bright things ahead for the future of Mythland with such lively young people ready to follow in their parent’s footsteps.” He leaned in to whisper, “Although, maybe be a little more careful and don’t lose a limb on your journey.”

“Not you too, Pix!!” Sausage squawked.

The Copper King grinned. “This could be a new tradition for you. Keep Lord Sausage humble so he doesn’t start bragging so much at parties.”

“I’m taking notes,” Sausage warned. “And so far, the guest list for the next party is getting shorter! Unless the boys want to invite someone, so you better be nice to them, at least!”

Azahar whispered to Elowen, “I think he really is going to throw people in the dungeon.” Elowen giggled, but when Pix was literally overshadowed by the next person in line, the boys took on looks of awe as their gazes went up, and up…

Elowen was so stunned that he blurted, “G-Giant blue fish lady!”

The equally overshadowed man with a green streak in his hair standing next to the smiling sea queen corrected, “Giant blue axolotl lady, actually.”

The herald’s announcement made it over their chatting this time. “Queen Lizzie of the Ocean Empire and her husband, King Joel of Mezalea!”

Lizzie didn’t seem to mind the mix up. “Hello, tiny princes,” she said, sounding a little awkward, herself. “It is nice to meet such good new additions to the Mythland monarchy. I wish you well in all your endeavors.” She bowed without even reaching low enough for them to see the top of her head.

Joel followed with a bow of his own. “Well, I don’t think I can beat the formality of that! Hello, lads, nice to meet you. Remind your dads to tell you how rich Mezalea is!”

“Joel,” Scott said with a patronizing smile, “Rivendell is known for its gold as well.”

“Scott, we’re not in Rivendell,” Joel fired back. “What does Mythland have? Iron. You know what’s pretty common? Iron. Gold is rarer and more beautiful! Also, if we’re going to talk Rivendell, there is wool. You know what wool is if you try to build with it? Susceptible to fire. What does Mazelea have? Terracotta. It doesn’t catch fire and comes in just as many colors as wool, and—”

Lizzie quickly interrupted to rein in her husband. “Now, now. No arguing between empires today. We need to set a good example for these potential future rulers. It wouldn’t be good to make enemies when neither my empire or yours have an heir yet, Joel.”

Sausage resisted the urge to step between Scott and Joel. “I think enemies might be a strong word. A little friendly competition between empires is fine, right? Mythland does well with imports of dark prismarine and terracotta, after all!”

Joel sighed and muttered, “Right, right. I was only saying that Mazelea has rich culture that these nice young lads might like to hear about.” He held a hand out to Lizzie regardless of actually being able to reach her hand. “We shall take our leave since we are taking up too much of your time at the moment. Come along, dear wife, we shall sample some of the food.”

The royal family watched them walk away with mixed amused looks at Joel’s parting tone.

The boys’ attention was next drawn down as the herald announced, “Guardian Shrub of the Undergrove!” Neither of them had met a gnome before, nor a fairy as Katherine closely followed.

Scott glanced around when it seemed Katherine was the end of the line. He murmured to Sausage, “Where’s Joey? I know he sort-of falls under ‘other’ on the invitations, but he should still be following ruler obligations and giving greetings.”

“Um. I think he got a little distracted by something else.” Sausage held his right hand up to block his left from everyone else’s view as he pointed to the other side of the staircase, where Xornoth and Joey were chatting away over drinks. Sausage uttered a short giggle. “Maybe some things don’t change—”

Scott quickly elbowed him to shush him, but no one else noticed their exchange since the boys were busy marveling over Katherine’s wings.

“So, you have them all the time?” Azahar was asking. “You don’t need a magic tattoo or flight gadget?”

“Nope,” Katherine answered, fluttering her wings so that they could see how they were different from the bird-like wings created by elven magic. Shrub had remained to watch the demonstration.

“Th-They’re really pretty,” Elowen stammered, internally hoping he wasn’t saying anything out of line.

Katherine smiled at him. “Why thank you, Prince Elowen.” She then snuck a glance at Shrub before stepping aside to be facing Azahar, while Shrub moved to face Elowen. They curtsied at the same time, then Shrub asked, “Would your highnesses do us the pleasure of having the first dance with us?”

The question – or perhaps being officially addressed in such a way – broke through Azahar’s sturdy calm and now he was the one to stammer. “U-Um, we would – we would be…” He looked to his parents for a cue, but they were distracted by Xornoth and a winged man who hadn’t been announced by the herald, but had the bearing of someone important.

Or self-important. He was currently complaining that since he hadn’t been let to the front of the line, seeing as how he was such a great ally to Mythland, he found it insulting to have to stand as last in line.

Azahar mustered up a serene smile and placed one hand on his chest, sweeping the other out at his side as he bowed. “We would be honored, your ladyship, your guardianship.” He straightened and extended a hand to Katherine. Elowen stared at him for half a second, then hastily copied him, ending with a hand held out to Shrub.

The movement of the boys heading out to the middle of the ballroom with the two leaders beside them seemed to be the perfect signal for the musicians to start the dance set. The sudden rise of a violin almost drew Sausage out of scolding Joey for not simply lining up at the same time as everyone else then maybe he would have been further up in the line and not at risk of having insulted his sons by not properly presenting himself, and Sausage had half a mind to throw him in the dungeon for an hour or two—

Further interruption came when Xornoth reached between the arguing pair to offer his hand to Joey. “If I might have this first dance, dear ruler of The Lost Empire?”

Joey tittered, feigning bashfulness. “Oh, my. Why yes, dear Monarch of Rivendell, I would be delighted.”

Scott and Sausage traded looks as if both were trying to hold in an outburst of laughter. They were – fortunately – distracted from their secret amusement by the approach of Pearl and Gem. Pearl simply grabbed Sausage by his left hand and hauled him toward the dance floor, while Gem took the politer, formal way by curtsying to Scott then holding out her hand. He also accepted and they followed the other two.

Sausage took note of Azahar and Elowen seeming to have a handle on everything alright on their own. Then he grinned at Pearl. They soon somehow managed to turn their dance into aggressive battle stances despite the tempo of the music.

Scott kept an amused eye on Sausage as much as he maintained a watchful one toward the boys, but so far it looked like they were having fun. From what he could tell, both Katherine and Shrub were accommodating the young elves’ inexperience with formal dances.

Meanwhile, Gem was being patient with his distracted state. She kept her palm pressed against his despite the swivel to his head. “They’re doing just fine,” she assured him. “I think you can relax a little. The rest of us are just as happy for you, and no one will get upset if they literally step on someone’s toes.”

“It isn’t the rulers I’m worried about,” Scott replied, finally returning his attention to her face, where a sympathetic smile awaited him. “I’m worried how either of them will react if that happens. I think Azahar can handle it, but Elowen gets nervous in crowded places full of strangers. He knows these are all responsible leaders here, but he has only just met everyone, and—”

“Scott. Calm down. Out of everyone here, Katherine and Shrub are probably going to have the most patience and kind words for the boys. Shrub knows how precious every child can be, and Katherine knows how best to nurture fragile life. Now, I’m not saying anyone in particular suggested they ask for the first dance, but there might have been some discussion ahead of time…”

Scott gave her a relieved smile. “Thank you, Gem. Maybe Sausage and I were more nervous about this than our boys were.”

“I could tell by how antsy Sausage looked during introductions.”

“I think that was just Sausage being Sausage,” Scott said with a chuckle.

“Has he been doing alright throughout this? No issues with the boys being too curious about his arm?”

“Sausage improvised in the moment and told them a dragon had eaten it. They were impressed that we fought one alongside our friends Gem and fWhip. No particular details about the dragon, of course.”

“Of course,” Gem agreed in a murmur. She quickly scanned the area. “I’ll pass that along to fWhip, but you know we’ll—"

“I know,” Scott cut her off as Jimmy and Tango happened to twirl too close. “I appreciate it, Gem.”

She nodded and smiled with a measure of bittersweetness, aware of how the children weren’t the only ones a secret was being kept from.

They finished the dance by bowing to each other, then Gem slipped away through the crowd of changing partners to find her brother. Scott turned to look for Sausage, but ended up with Xornoth holding up an outward-facing palm to him. They shared a grin and made exaggerated bows to each other before taking up positions to await the music.

Meanwhile, Jimmy had sidled up to Sausage, but it was merely to cut in and whisk Pearl away. Sausage took the moment to skim the crowd and check on his sons; he saw that they were now standing with Pix as Katherine and Shrub took their leave together. He smiled in relief, since it looked like the first dance had gone well for the boys.

Then he abruptly found an enthusiastic Tango popping up in his line of vision. The blaze hybrid started rambling about how amazing everything was, and that he would love to have the honor of dancing with one of the party’s hosts. Sausage agreed with a grin, happy that the newcomer was enjoying the social life of the surface world.

Three dance sets and some chatting with various emperors later, Azahar and Elowen stood by the grand staircase taking a break while simply watching the adults continue. Xornoth wandered over with a plate of tiny pastries and sat down on the steps beside them. “Hello again, nephews. How are you liking the gala so far?” He held the plate out to them, inviting them to help themselves to some desserts.

Elowen took one but before biting into it said, “It’s really fun! I thought it might be scary. Well, it was scary at first, being up on the stairs with everyone looking at us… But everyone has been nice. I’m not worried about messing up as a prince anymore.”

As he ate the pastry, Xornoth reached to pat him on the head, although being careful not to disturb his crown. “I’d say you’ve been very princely so far.” He then glanced to Azahar for his thoughts.

“It’s very different from what we were used to in our village back home – back in Rivendell,” Azahar replied, thoughtfully gazing around the ballroom. “The only thing we knew about royalty was what was in storybooks.” He then grinned at Xornoth. “No one said silly things about the kings in those stories. Everyone treats Papa like they know he gets into trouble all the time. But they’ve had good things to say about him, too – and about Dad. So, I feel like I’ve been able to learn from this, making it more than just a very fancy party. It’s been nice to meet so many different people from other empires. When I get older I’d like to go see all the places everyone is from, and hear their stories.”

“A fine goal,” Xornoth replied with approval. “Perhaps one day you could be Mythland’s ambassador.”

Azahar rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “I don’t know yet if I want a… royal position like that. Dad said I can just be a kid for now and not worry about having a job as a prince.”

His adopted uncle nodded as he munched on a pastry. “Wise words. My brother isn’t half-bad at this parental guidance thing.” He offered the plate to them again.

After taking one and chewing it pensively, Azahar inquired, “Do you… mind if I ask what you know about Papa’s grandfather? He hasn’t talked about any other family much. This was the first we had heard of him. And… if it’s okay… yours and Dad’s parents, too?”

Xornoth smiled gently. “I suppose I can tell you a little. I’m not sure how much of it is my place to tell; your papa might share the stories with you when he’s ready.” He placed a splayed hand against the center of his chest. “Our parents went on a diplomatic mission to another elven kingdom across the world, leaving me in charge as eldest son. Now, as for the Infamous Z. Kielbasa – the ‘Z’ is silent – he was very strict about proper behavior and tradition, which is probably why your papa is so mischievous…”

He regaled them with his assorted knowledge for over half an hour, including little hints about Sausage’s adventures, and was just about to share embarrassing accounts of Scott trying to get a handle on his ice magic when Joey sauntered over.

“Hello, Xorny… I was wondering if you’d like to dance some more – with me.” The ruler of The Lost Empire then blinked as if only just now realizing Azahar and Elowen were there. “Oh, riiight, these are your… nephews. Look, I’m not good with children, okay? But, um, it is nice to meet you, I guess.” Joey took the plate from Xornoth and pressed it into Elowen’s hands. “Here, have more snacks, and… have fun over here. Bye~”

Xornoth found himself being pulled to his feet and back toward the dance floor. He managed a small wave, which Azahar returned while Elowen stared after the pair as he absently ate another pastry. “That was… kind of weird.”

Azahar laughed and grabbed the remaining two pastries before Elowen devoured them all. “I think that parrot-man has a crush on Uncle Xornoth.”

“Is that what a crush looks like? How can you tell?”

“Just a guess.”

The two princes went back to watching until Shrub came over and asked Elowen to dance with her again. Azahar entertained the thought that she was being considerate of how the younger boy would be comfortable dancing with someone close to his own height. Azahar himself turned down an invitation from Pearl, who nodded in respect and looked for someone else who was available.

Azahar then wandered over to the group of musicians and stood where he figured he might be the least obtrusive as he observed the way in which the violinist brought forth melodies from the strings.

He got a little too caught up in it, because he didn’t register when the set changed to a slower tempo, nor did he pay attention as dance partners switched to a majority of the romantic partners in the group – until Elowen began tugging at his sleeve while saying in a hushed voice, “Azahar! Look at Dad and Papa!”

The older boy looked to where his brother was indicating. He saw Scott and Sausage in the middle of the floor with a hand on each other’s waist, their other hands clasped together, and dreamy smiles on their faces as they gazed into each other’s eyes. Azahar smiled softly. Elowen leaned against him as they kept watching, enchanted, then he whispered, “If the other thing was what a crush looks like, I think this is what being in love looks like.”

“Yes,” Azahar agreed. “I think they love each other very much.” He hugged Elowen around the shoulders with one arm. As the set wound down, he reached for Elowen’s hand and stepped out onto the floor. “Come on,” he said with a persuasive smile. The two slipped between the other couples and came to a halt where they could beam up at their parents.

Sausage glanced at them first; he removed his hand from Scott’s waist and held it out to Azahar. Scott then did the same with his hand held toward Elowen, and as the musicians switched to an upbeat set, the four of them danced together.

It wasn’t clear who started the chain, but soon all of the others had linked hands and were dancing in a circle around the royal family. Xornoth broke away from it to put himself between his nephews, and he smiled with fraternal love at his brother while mouthing the words, “Here’s to a new future.”

~*~

After another round of official traditions in the form of bidding each guest a good night, the boys took their leave to get ready for bed. Azahar held his crown between both hands, getting a better look at it. He gazed at the swords crossed over the jewel before placing it in front of the row of books on the dresser. “I forgot to ask if there’s a proper way to store these for the night. I don’t know what Papa does with his crown.”

Elowen giggled. “His doesn’t look like it would be comfortable to sleep with it on.” He held his crown up so Azahar could put it next to his.

The older boy gazed at the two crowns side-by-side and smiled softly. “It’s almost like we’re in a fairytale of our own. Two little boys from out in the countryside chosen to be princes of a foreign land.”

“We could write our own story and put it in a book!”

“Maybe someday. Let’s wait to see what other adventures we have. You’ve got a chance to become an amazing ice wizard – unless there’s something else you’d like to do?”

Elowen hopped up onto his bed and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Not really. Dad said there is a lot to know about using magic, and I know it’s gonna take me time to learn all of it! What about you? Do you wanna do something besides learn sword stuff?”

“I was thinking of something… but I guess it can wait…”

Elowen leaned back on his hands and regarded his brother critically. “Azahar, are you nervous about something?”

“Um, what makes you say that?” The older boy tried to be casual as he adjusted the position of his crown on the shelf.

“I just… kinda get this feeling, like… you’re acting in a way I’ve never seen you act before.”

Azahar chuckled lightly. “You’ve caught me. Well…” He sat down on his own bed. “You know how Dad has his magic, and Papa is a good sword fighter? I’m thinking of something we haven’t seen them do, so I’m not sure how I would learn, or if it would be a bother because they like to spend time with us with magic and sword lessons.”

Elowen needed to think that one over. He eventually nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense. Are you gonna tell me what it is?”

“Maybe wait until I ask them so we’re not both disappointed,” Azahar admitted sheepishly.

Elowen jumped down and ran over to hug Azahar around his middle. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll say yes! You did a really good job at being a prince today! You could even ask for it for your birthday!”

Azahar hugged him in return. “I hadn’t thought of that. That’s a good idea. Thanks, little brother.” They parted and grinned at each other.

“You’re welcome, big brother!”

~*~

Azahar waited to make his request for a solid three weeks before Elowen egged him on enough to finally ask. He chose one of the days where he and Sausage were having a lesson – and, he had to confess, one where Azahar threw himself into it with unexpected ferocity due to nerves. When their practice fight ended in a draw, father and son took a moment to rest beside the weapons rack before Sausage stowed his blade and took out two drying cloths, tossing one to Azahar so he could wipe the sweat from his brow.

Sausage patted at his own face, then disconnected his prosthetic to allow some air to flow around the cuff protecting his stump. He laid the prosthetic on top of the cabinet containing the cloths. “That was a great match! I think with a little more practice you’ll be able to defeat me! And once that happens, you can move up to training with Pearl. I have to warn you, she won’t go easy on you like I have!” He winked and grinned.

“Actually, um…” Azahar contemplated the cloth in his hands, then glanced at the weapons rack – where Pearl’s gift of a two-handed broadsword awaited the right time and the gain of strength. “I think I would like to take a break from having only sword lessons. I was wondering, um, if it would be alright to ask, um…”

Sausage started to look at him with concern. “You can always ask me anything! Is – Is everything okay? Does it feel like the lessons are too hard? We can scale it back if you need to! You don’t have to fight Pearl any time soon, either! I was just joking about that.” Sausage laughed awkwardly, then cleared his throat. “Sorry. You’re, uh, not usually this hesitant.”

Azahar uttered a nervous laugh of his own. “Y-You’re right.” He took a deep breath. “Papa, since my birthday is next month, I wanted to – well, I would like to – ask for something specific instead of having it be a surprise. Well, I guess two things. And I’ve been thinking about this for a while, so I’m not trying to be impulsive, and I don’t think you would have to worry about me losing interest and wasting time or money on it, or…”

Sausage nodded eagerly to show his support, eyes wide and with an also broadening smile. “Go ahead, tell me! What new interest do you have?”

Azahar continued, “At the gala, I really enjoyed listening to the violin music. May I… have a violin, and could you have someone teach me how to play…?”

Sausage hopped on his toes and moved his arms to clap his hands – but forgot for a second that he had removed his prosthetic, and so he stopped short, staring, as his left hand crossed in the air with nothing alongside his outheld stump. “Ah – heheh.” He retrieved his prosthetic and pointed it at Azahar. “You absolutely may! I’ll contact the court musicians to see if someone is available to be your tutor, and if not, surely we can find someone – even if we have to bring them all the way from Mazelea!”

“Thanks, Papa. I’ll work hard to learn just like with your lessons. W-We can still have sword lessons because I love spending the time with you, but I would like to try new things, too.”

“Of course, of course!” Sausage agreed, attempting to re-affix his prosthetic while fidgeting around, his body simply on automatic gesticulation mode as he talked. “You and your brother can explore anything that interests you! It doesn’t have to always be things Dad and I do, but it worked out so nicely that they can bond over ice magic! You and I could have found something else to do together, too, if you weren’t interested in sword-fighting! Botany for one thing, or alchemy, or a little bit of engineering. I can’t rely on fWhip for help with this thing forever! But don’t you go feeling pressured to learn that, either! I can learn new things, too!”

“Papa—”

“Yes, sorry— see, this is exactly what I mean. Sometimes it’s a little finnicky when I put it on by myself. I need to talk to fWhip about that when he does the next upgrade…” Sausage seemed to be having trouble holding his stump at the correct angle to slip the prosthetic into place without it catching on the fabric cuff.

“Papa, let me help.” Azahar took hold of the prosthetic by the forearm section. He smiled gently at Sausage. “Elowen and I can do things for you, too.”

Sausage chuckled softly. “I’ve gotten used to relying on Dad. Thank you, son.” He held still and instructed Azahar on the best way to fit the inside basket structure over the fabric cuff. Once it was settled in place, he flexed the fingers then lowered his arms. “The Winter Market opens in a few days. I think I know just the booth we can stop by for a finely crafted violin!”

~*~

As promised, once the market had opened and Sausage had enough free time, the four of them went on a nice outing to peruse the wares with the eventual intention of buying a violin for Azahar. Elowen kept close to Scott’s side this time, since Sausage was the one most familiar with the craftspeople of the market. The younger boy tried not to be too clingy, but Scott would gently squeeze anytime Elowen started to grip his hand too tightly.

When they found the booth, there was a lengthy explanation of how the type of wood that was used to make an instrument affected its sound, then the craftswoman played a few of the different ones she had for sale so Azahar could decide which he liked best. She even let him try the one he chose right there at the booth, giving him a brief introductory lesson and helping him to hold the bow correctly before he ventured into coaxing notes from the strings.

Azahar handled it as if it was the most fragile thing in the world, but the craftswoman assured him that once he had established his connection with the instrument he would understand its limits. Elowen watched and listened with fascination, although he kept his hands in tight fists against his legs, similarly terrified of breaking something by accident.

Scott and Sausage looked on, happy with how joyful and excited Azahar appeared regardless of how cautious he was handling the violin. They were all too aware of how he might have let this opportunity pass him by in order to ensure Elowen was the happier of the two.

There was plenty of chatter around them to override the sound of the violin, and Sausage was drawn to gaze at the surroundings, feeling content to see Mythland bustling with so much life and activity.

Yet, his attention automatically snapped toward a young voice calling out, “Papa, I want that one!”

Across the lane was a booth selling cloth dolls. A little girl was jumping up and down while pointing at one that wore a frilly princess dress. A wistful expression fell over Sausage’s face as the girl’s father took the doll from the seller and handed it to her; she promptly hugged it tightly and thanked him.

Scott noticed that Sausage was distracted, and followed his line of sight. “Fatherhood has turned you sentimental. That’s quite a look you have in your eyes. What are you thinking…?”

Without glancing away from the father and daughter as they walked away with the girl holding the doll wrapped in one arm while holding her father’s hand with the other, Sausage asked, “Do you – Do you think the boys would like to have a sister?”

~*~

That evening they had a family discussion wherein the boys agreed that having another sibling could be fun, and arrangements were made for another trip to Rivendell the following month. The carriage – and the two kings – would go without royal adornments to distance themselves from too much influence again.

When that day arrived, Azahar and Elowen waved as the carriage set off from the stable yard. Sir Carlos and Bubbles, charged with keeping watch over the princes, waited on the steps into the castle, allowing the boys to take their time and mentally adjust to their parents being away for the first time since they had come to Mythland.

Elowen was actually pondering a different question. “If I’m like Dad with magic, and you’ve been learning with Papa, what do you think our sister might end up like?”

“Maybe she’ll be like Bubbles.”

“No, that would be weird!”

Bubbles barked, sounding like she had taken offense at that comment. Azahar, meanwhile, laughed. “We’ll have to wait to find out. Come on, my violin tutor will be here soon. You can sit in on the lesson.”

“Yay! You know, even when you only practice a few notes, it’s so pretty to listen to.”

[To Be Continued in Chapter Three: The First Princess]

#empires smp #empires smp fanfic #empiresshipping #mythicalsausage #scott smajor #empires xornoth #empires jimmy #tangotek #empires fwhip #empires geminitay #empires pearl #empires pixlriffs #empires lizzie #empires joel #empires shrub #empires katherine #empires joey #*gaaasssppp* I think that's everyone #champions au: garden path #empires smp s1 #scosage #lunar yarns

[manonblaqkbeak]

Family Time

good morning/afternoon/evening/night. hope you’re all doing well and staying safe!!!! i have a rowaelin fic that i wanted to post before rowaelin month started since im focusing on those prompts atm

i cant wait to see what everyone has in store for rowaelin month, im very much looking forward to it!

enjoy! :)

1835 words

The day that Aelin had been looking forward to was finally here.

She and Rowan were going to spend a week in their spot in the forest. A week was longer than usual, but it was much needed. Not only had she and Rowan been working extremely hard to the point where they weren't going to bed until the middle of the night, his family was arriving to Orynth to visit for a few weeks in a week and a half.

And not just a few members of his family, almost the entire Whitethorn family was coming, with the exception of a few—namely Sellene, who would be gifting them with personal letters and presents, and those that were too old or just didn't feel like making such a long journey.

Aelin was looking forward to it, to meeting those she hadn't, to hearing others perspectives on Rowan's childhood. Her mate, however...not so much. Rowan was looking forward to catching up with the cousins that he liked, but not so much for the meddlesome ones. He warned her that whatever secrets that people were hiding wouldn't be secrets anymore, that the nosy ones liked to make a game to see who could learn the most secrets.

Aelin admitted that could be a problem, but in his letter, Enda claimed that everyone would be on their best behaviour.

Rowan wasn't entirely convinced. And not just because of that, he was worried that the conversation of when Aelin and Rowan were going to have children was going to be brought up as Rowan had written that they were forbidden from doing so.

Months ago, only several weeks after the war, after a meeting with the Lords and Ladies of Terrasen, Aelin and Rowan came to the decision to wait for a while to have children after Lord Gunnar had brought up the topic of heirs. Aelin could still remember the silence, at her speechlessness of how suddenly it was mentioned. How Rowan had turned to Lord Gunnar and demanded not just to him, but to everyone around them, that it was a private matter between the Queen and himself, and that it was not up for public discussion.

It wasn't a very long conversation—they both wanted to have a family, but Aelin wasn't ready. She was having nightmares from her time with Maeve and Cairn, and throwing pregnancy in the mix just screamed disastrous.

Rowan took her hands in his large warm ones and promised that he would wait for as long as she wanted. Whether it was one year, five years, or one hundred, he would wait until she was ready and willing.

Aelin had never loved him more.

Since then, Rowan was taking a contraceptive tonic. It hadn't taken very long for it to spread around the castle, but neither Aelin or Rowan would let others opinions change their minds.

And it wasn't like they were completely without family. They had their friends and Fleetfoot, with the canine joining them on their week long getaway.

Aelin and Rowan helped the servants set up the Royal tent and the square wooden table where they would be eating and playing chess and card games. There were a few books that Aelin was very much looking forward to reading, too.

Aelin was excited for this week away, to forgo her corsets, dresses, pants and breast-bands. She was determined to stay in Rowan's shirts and her slippers the entire time.

So the moment that everything was set up, the trays of sweet and savoury foods on the table, and the servants and guards were gone, Aelin stripped down to nothing, swaying her hips the way that Rowan liked when she spotted him drinking her in and slipped on one of his shirts and put on her well loved slippers.

Grabbing the picnic blanket from one of the chests, Aelin turned to see Fleetfoot sniffing hungrily at the trays of food, moving closer with each second that passed. Just as she was about to inhale the food, Rowan took the pup out of her misery and feed her a handful of sliced fermented sausage.

Aelin smiled at the sight. Rowan might grumble about the mess Fleetfoot made and how she kept slobbering on his pillow but Aelin knew he loved her—even when she ate his socks.

Aelin set up the blanket and pillows against a thick oak tree, ready for her week of relaxation.

X X X X X X

Aelin's stomach was near to bursting. She hadn't intended to eat that much food, since there was a leg of lamb and chopped root vegetables roasting in the cauldron above the fire, but everything was just too good to have just the once. She ate and ate until there was nothing but crumbs left.

She didn't regret it, however.

She was close to sleeping as Rowan ran a free hand through her scalp as he used the other to read. Her head was on his lap, the sun was warm, and from the happy yips that were coming from the woods, Fleetfoot was having a fun time running around.

Aelin glanced at her husband, his face relaxed as he read his book. And she had no idea why, but she found herself saying: “What would you look like with a beard?”

Rowan blinked, the only surprise he'd show at the question. “Like an old man,” he answered after a moment.

“You are an old man.”

He flicked her ear, and then went back to running his fingers through her scalp. “I grew a beard, once, when I was young. I looked like my father.”

“So you looked very handsome, then.” Rowan had taken up sketching in the quiet moments. He had drawn his parents and they were a very attractive couple. Rowan inherited his fathers hair, eyes, nose and sharp jawline, but got his mother's lips, cheekbones and eyebrows.

They had died long ago, but Aelin would have liked to have met them. Rowan said that they would have liked her, eventually, as he believed that they wouldn't have known what to do with her at first.

Aelin gave Rowan a big smile as the question formed in her mind. And since Rowan knew her so well, he said, “No.”

“You don't even know what I was going to say!” She protested, but it was a lie.

“I am not growing a beard.”

“Please, for me? Just a little one?”

“No.”

“How about some stubble?”

He sighed, exasperated, knowing that there was no point in arguing. “Fine. I'll grow some stubble and that's it.”

“Mm-hmm. Whatever you say, buzzard.”

He sighed again, but there was a small smile on his lips. He returned to his book, and telling her what it was about when Aelin asked. It made her heart swell that her warrior found time to read, as he admitted to her months ago that he never really had the opportunity when he was sworn to Maeve.

Not wanting to ruin today with thoughts of her, Aelin grabbed her own book by her pillow and read, luxuriating in Rowan's warmth and love and in the company of a good book.

X X X X X X

Aelin was losing, but she made sure that the irritation that was coursing through her didn't show on her face. Playing chess with an experience strategist was an absurd idea, but she was determined not to quit.

Rowan had been wanting for her to make her move. Had been waiting for fifteen minutes. Fleetfoot was by her feet, but she was just waiting for the roast lamb to be done.

Five minutes later, Aelin finally made her move. Her eyes flicked up towards Rowan, but his face was stone. He made his move in a blink of an eye. “Checkmate.”

Fire coated her throat as Aelin screeched in frustration, which just made Rowan laugh. Fleetfoot howled and ran off.

Aelin grumbled under her breath as she put away the chess board (for now, they would definitely be playing again once Aelin had more food in her stomach) while Rowan put their dinner on the plates, smiling all the while. Behind him, his mate vowed that she would beat him one day at chess. His smile widened.

Rowan knew that if he said he could beat her even with a blind-fold on, she would go on about how big his head was.

Fleetfoot came back, getting in the way of his feet as he put his and Aelin's dinner down. He gave Fleetfoot the plate reserved for her, using his powers to cool it down, not missing Aelin's soft smile as he did so.

They ate dinner in companionable silence, with Rowan's thoughts on his cousins. He was sure that he wasn't going to get a single thing done while they were visiting. Or if he did, he knew that some of his cousins would want to intrude.

Thinking about it more, he knew that they were going to intrude. Enda had written in-between the lines that there were some cousins that didn't really believe that Rowan was King-Consort and would only believe it once they saw him in action.

That they would actually believe once they saw him in his crown.

And even then, he was sure that there'd be at least one or two that still wouldn't believe it.

Rowan would let them think whatever they wanted about him, it wouldn't matter to him.

Maybe he should have just invited Enda and his mate—but Aelin was looking forward to meeting his family, so he would just deal with it.

It would only be a couple of weeks, possibly three. At best, four, since it was a long journey. He could last.

Rowan could do it, he would just have to block them out if they became too much. He had done that in the past.

“If you keep furrowing your brows like that, they'll replace your eyes,” Aelin said, slathering a fresh slice of bread with butter and running it through the left over gravy on her plate.

Rowan grunted but tried to relax his forehead. It took him a minute longer than it should have.

Later on, they went for a late night swim. Which was slowly turning into something more, up until Fleetfoot jumped into the water with them, saturating them further.

It was the best first day that Aelin could have asked for, and was very much looking forward to the rest of the week.

X X X X X X

Aelin woke up to one of her favourite sights. Rowan shirtless, sleeping on his stomach, his tattooed arm curled around Fleetfoot who slept between them all night. The hounds golden head half on Rowan's pillow, her paws stretching towards Aelin, her furry face soft in sleep.

Smiling, Aelin shuffled closer, and wrapped her own arms around the pup, her fingers just touching Rowan.

Joyful, Aelin fell back asleep, a smile still on her face.

#rowaelin #rowaelin fanfiction

[dudeandduchess]

Yakuza!Kyōjurō x F!S/O: Sugar and Spice (Mafia!AU, Modern AU, NSFW Series)[Chapter 5]

Summary: Kyōjurō and (Y/n) meet at a party, only to find out that their lives would change forever— since they had been arranged to be married.

Warnings: Making Out, Dry Humping, Extreme Fluff

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4| Chapter 6

***

(Y/n) wasn’t a stranger to fast food establishments at all; especially when she was far away from her family at university, and well away from having to keep up pretenses— on the off chance that an off-the-rails paparazzo would recognize her and hound her for an interview.

She liked to partake in the occasional burger from McDonald’s, and the odd fried chicken from KFC every once in a while. But it was the first time that she’d even been to a fast food restaurant while dressed to the nines.

Hell, she was even wearing statement jewelry that her mother had told Rin to make her wear. And that had her gripping her seatbelt even tighter than before; especially as Kyōjurō pulled up right in front of the busy McDonald’s without a care in the world.

As if he owned the road, which he may as well have— what with the wide berth that people and cars had given him.

(Y/n) couldn’t blame them at all; she would have dived for cover the moment that she had spotted the 4444 digits, as well as the little crown at the corner of Kyōjurō’s license plate. But that was before she had come to be engaged to a Yakuza member— the heir of the family, no less.

“Are you serious? We’re eating here?” She didn’t have any qualm with fast food at all— it was just that they were extremely overdressed. And it was already garnering the attention from a couple of pedestrians, which had her sinking into her seat even further.

But Kyōjurō seemed like he couldn’t give two fucks about what anyone else thought, as he unbuckled his seatbelt and didn’t even bat an eye as he got out of the car; rounding it, all so he could open her door for her.

Gentlemanly, and it wooed (Y/n) a little, but it did barely anything to ease the embarrassment that she got from the stares of all the passersby.

“Why, princess? Too casual for you?” Kyōjurō teased, watching with amusement as his fiancée huffed a little while undoing her seatbelt. And, as a little act of rebellion, she ignored his hand and stepped out of the sedan as gracefully as she can— impressing Kyōjurō even more, as she seamlessly rose up without even parting her legs to move.

“In this case, yes. And in case you haven’t noticed, Kyōjurō, everyone has been staring at us.”

“So? Let them stare; it’s the first time that they’d seen someone as beautiful as you.” The Rengoku answered smoothly, taking (Y/n) off guard and making her cheeks bloom a vibrant red from embarrassment.

And, with a soft chuckle, Kyōjurō quickly took his fiancée’s hand into his own— before tugging her towards the bustling McDonald’s for a quick breakfast.

To Kyōjurō’s surprise— and his utter delight— she managed to finish her pancake and sausage meal; before giving his remaining pancake longing looks across the table.

(Y/n) tried to avoid looking at the fluffy pancake, as it was rude to do so, but her eyes always gravitated towards it; her stomach speaking for her and making her mouth water for the sweet treat. After all, pancakes were one of her most favorite breakfast items— if only for the fact that her father had always taken her to get them before school, before he was the Prime Minister.

The faintest of smiles graced her lips at the fond memories that came flashing in her mind; a reaction that wasn’t lost on Kyōjurō at all, especially since it gave her such a soft and ethereal glow that had him completely transfixed.

His mouth would have fallen open, had he not caught himself in time and kept it closed. And, before he could help it, an equally subtle smile tugged up at the corners of his lips— all while he admired the woman whom sat adjacent from him; the woman who was going to be his wife.

“What’re you smiling about?” The question wasn’t harsh at all, it was merely inquisitive, which had Kyōjurō playfully tilting his head slightly and amping up the wattage on his smile.

However, instead of being teasing, he decided to be upfront with her— hoping to catch her off guard.

Which he did, with his answer.

“You. The way you’re the most beautiful person here without even trying...”

(Y/n)’s lips pursed at those words, but the smile that she tried to hide with that action still crept through the tiny cracks in her façade. It completely enamored the Rengoku even more, as opposed to turning him off from her false placidity.

“You’re too much of a charmer, Kyōjurō,” (Y/n) conceded in a somewhat playful tone, before idly taking her cup of orange juice and taking a sip of it— if only to hide her oncoming blush and flustered smile behind the action.

“Only for you, princess.” And honestly, he really meant it; he’d always been charming, but it was only with her that he truly meant everything he said.

***

A two hour drive later found (Y/n) staring in awe up at the tall trees that bordered a two-lane road up in the mountains. They had turned off from the main road five minutes ago, but she had yet to see where her fiancé was taking her.

If she were to be honest, she would say that she was getting slightly nervous. She couldn’t help the reaction though, as it made sense— all because of Kyōjurō’s job’s nature. She had come to like him to a degree, but she had yet to put her trust in him.

After all, she had to be careful, as she had gone into the arrangement with her eyes wide open. His family was cashing in a favor her father owed, and she could never forget that.

But that didn’t mean that she should hate him for it, as she’d come to realize during their breakfast. He wasn’t all that bad, and he was very easy on the eyes— which was an extremely huge plus.

“I hate to ask this so late, but where exactly are we going?” (Y/n) finally piped up, turning away from the seemingly neverending foliage and looking over at Kyōjurō— whom had his full attention on the road.

He didn’t even turn towards her when he answered, “Somewhere special, and somewhere... private.”

The way that the last word rolled off his tongue was packed with so much meaning, that she couldn’t help but feel herself get a little hot under the collar at his double entendre. Still, she pushed for complete placidity, and even opted to cross her legs at the ankles— if only to squeeze her thighs together.

“I’m sure you’re gonna like it there, sweetheart. Best of all, you won’t have to deal with your mother for a while,” Kyōjurō joked with a grin, still not looking at her, but turning to his left before veering the car left.

A sharp gasp escaped from (Y/n)’s lips at the reckless move, only to be truly left speechless when she got an eyeful of the view in front of her. From a break in the foliage, she saw that they were on a cliff face, with a traditional Japanese mansion down below— complete with an expansive garden— and partnered with such a breathtaking view of Saitama’s lush mountains serving as the backdrop.

Not even the sound of Kyōjurō pulling up the handbrake ruined the tranquility of the moment.

She had been to so many beautiful places in the world, but something about the place just seemed so... tranquil. Like it had touched not jusy her heart, but also her soul.

From his seat, Kyōjurō watched in fascination as his fiancée’s expression became even lovelier as the seconds ticked by. She took in the view so hungrily, that he wasn’t prepared for the sheer admiration in her eyes when she turned to finally look at him.

“Is this yours?” She asked softly, her voice barely above breaking a whisper.

And, with a subtle shake of his head, he gave in to his instincts and leaned in closer to bridge the gap between them— cupping her cheeks in his hands and bringing her face in so he could brush his lips against hers. “It’ll be yours too. Soon, Mrs. Rengoku.”

It was only meant to be a quick peck, but Kyōjurō couldn’t help himself and deepened it into a proper kiss; one that had (Y/n) melting right into his touch. She pliantly parted her lips for his tongue, moaning softly against his mouth when he moved to play with hers.

But things didn’t stop there for the couple, as (Y/n) released more of her control and allowed her lover to pull her over the console and right onto his lap. Thankfully, her dress was flared enough to have not ripped when she instinctively straddled him.

It was a tight fit, with her pressed flush against him— as the steering wheel was digging into her back— but she paid no mind to it as she traded kiss for kiss with her fiancé. All the while, the Rengoku’s hands anchored themselves to either side of her waist, kneading her sides before the right one moved down to cup her ass and squeeze it through her dress.

“Fuck, baby, I want nothing more than to fuck you right here,” Kyōjurō hissed, as he hungrily devoured his lover’s lips with open mouthed kisses. He had even taken to nipping at her lips every once in a while to ease the frustration he felt, especially with her pussy pressed flush against the steadily rising bulge between his thighs.

But he couldn’t break his own word— that his cock was a wifey privilege. Because not only would that be embarrassing and needy as hell for him, it would be going back on his word. And if there’s anything that Kyōjurō hated, it was going back on someone’s word— especially his own.

In response to that, (Y/n) began to grind her pussy up against Kyōjurō’s erection; wrapping her arms even tighter around his shoulders, while her fingers buried themselves in his hair. “Do it. Fuck me right here.”

Part of her was surprised at her shameless words, but she couldn’t very well take them back anymore so she decided to remedy her gaffe by being the one to dive in for another open mouthed kiss— if only to distract her lover from what she had just admitted to wanting, in a roundabout way.

Kyōjurō’s cock was throbbing with need at that statement, but he still forced himself to pull away before things could press on to the point where even he would lose sight of his own control. It was the hardest thing he’d had to do in a while, and it was obvious by (Y/n)’s expression that she did not appreciate being rejected once more— which he tried to smooth over with one last kiss to her luscious lips.

“Wifey priveleges, princess. Not until you’re officially mine.”

#rengoku kyoujurou x reader #kyoujurou rengoku x reader #rengoku kyojuro x reader #kyojuro rengoku x reader #kyojuro x reader #rengoku x reader #kyojurou rengoku x reader #rengoku kyojurou x reader #demon slayer x reader #kny x reader #jen writes

[toadwarts]

Special Delivery

Companion piece to Safe At Last.

After two humans escaped from an abusive home and found a new home working alongside Duke, they have begun settling into their new lives as merchants and their polyamorous romance with The Duke. Our primary character (aka the Reader) is struggling with the way he is perceived by the villagers, but is pleasantly surprised when The Duke returns with a special gift... Just the thing to help him feel better.

Fluffy hurt/comfort poly oneshot written in first person but made so that you can insert yourself if wanted. This story centers on a transmasculine protagonist!

Read on A03 or Fanfiction.net!

I sat in the back of the Duke’s caravan, lonely and bored. Both the Duke and my primary partner had been out for hours, making deliveries around the village and to the factory. I had stayed behind to look after the caravan and make sales to anyone who might approach--not to mention I wasn’t terribly keen on meeting any of the four lords yet. It had been months since we began staying with the massive enigma of a man, and only a few days less of that time since we had become a delightful little polycule. 

Life in the village hadn’t been easy--there were a lot of mysterious dangers, and you had to be cunning with both your words and weapons. Even still, it was as if The Duke commanded respect of all who lived within the confines of this little world, and so the three of us were safe/ When asked, The Duke would simply flash an award winning smile and say, “I suppose it’s one of the perks of having world class customer service!”

Still, The Duke being so...enigmatic could be exhausting, and perhaps a little bit annoying at times. But he was a good friend and even better lover, and always made sure that we were cared for. If he wanted to keep his secrets, I suppose it was his business. One day, after building up plenty of trust...perhaps we would be privy to them. After all, we had our own secrets too.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” 

I startled at the sudden noise, hopping up to my feet. No one had approached the caravan all day, but I needed to make sure my customer service was perfect, else The Duke would be most displeased!

“Hello,” I said, my voice chipper. “How can I help you out today?” The customers seemed to be a couple--a thin man and woman, dressed all in black with their hats pulled low on the crowns of their heads. Their hands were intertwined, both of them shivering in the cold. 

“We were looking for meat. Sausage, if you have it. And a few nails so we can fix our fence.” The man said, fidgeting with his jacket. 

“Of course! Anything to help out a loyal customer. Just let me go and grab them from the back.” I said cheerfully, forcing a big smile. I wasn’t prone to very much facial expression myself, but trying to mimic The Duke definitely helped. It was almost like putting on a costume.

I traversed back into the caravan, rooting around for what was needed. I kept my ears perked to listen to the customers as I unraveled a rope of thick sausages, placing them gently into a pristine paper bag. 

“I wonder where that girl came from. The boy too.” The woman said. “The Duke has seemed to take quite a shining to the two of ‘em, and it looks like The Lords don’t mind them too much either. Surprised Dimitrescu hasn’t taken that maiden for herself.” 

I felt ice shoot through my bloodstream. The girl. The boy too. A sour feeling entered my mouth. My partner didn’t go by any gender, and me… Well, it seems that my binder didn’t work well enough today. Really, I suppose it was my voice that gave me away. I had always felt disconnected from its lilting, high pitch. I hunched my shoulders and huffed, finishing packaging their order. It couldn’t be helped. A lot of people couldn’t understand.

I approached the front of the caravan, wanting this transaction to be over as soon as possible. “Here you go.” I said, doing my best to open up the back of my throat and make my voice sound deeper. Foolish and a waste of time, I’m sure. “Everything is packed up now. I hope that you find it all to be of the highest quality. If you have any qualms, please come back to see us.” 

“Thank you ma’am.” The woman said as her husband dug around in his pockets for the appropriate amount of lei. “Such a sweet young girl. Where did you come from, dear?” 

My stomach twisted, and I did my best to keep the discomfort out of my voice. “Um… Further away. I left home, and stumbled across the village while looking for somewhere to camp.” I didn’t see the point in correcting them and starting up a whole new conversation that they likely wouldn’t or couldn’t want to understand. 

“How unfortunate. We’ve been having a lot of problems lately, miss.” The man said, counting up his lei. 

Tch. Did they have to keep gendering literally everything they say?! Geez.

“Like werewolves?” I couldn’t help but smirk a little. “Well, it’s definitely a step up from where I came.” 

“I suppose so. Especially with special treatment from the merchant.” The man sniffed, flinching when his wife elbowed him. 

“I’m sorry about that. He didn’t get enough sleep last night,” The woman apologized, handing me the lei. 

I nodded, smile tight and strained. “No problem! I do hope you get to feeling better.” I handed them their items and swallowed hard. “Have a wonderful rest of your day and good luck fixing your fence!!” 

They waved me off, and I slunk back into the caravan. I knew the village definitely had a few gossips, but I hadn’t imagined it would be so annoying. I had already heard some adolescents talking about how funny it was to see a woman with such short hair and a flat chest, chattering about my partner and I… I’d argue that the most dangerous thing in this village wasn’t the werewolves, but perhaps the strain on the villagers that had them biting at each other’s ankles… Or mine, at least. Maybe they’d eventually warm up to me like they did The Duke though. Even my partner was having an easier time settling in to it all. 

I guess I just felt out of place. The only time I did feel right was when I was curled into The Duke’s soft side, my hand entwined with my primary partner’s across his ample belly, their soft breaths lulling me into a comfortable slumber. 

My ears perked as the door to the back of the caravan opened. My primary partner stood there with a broad grin, eyes shining. “Hey there, dear!” They said happily. “We have a surprise for you. Well, Duke does, I’m just happy and along for the ride!” 

I cocked my head. A gift was certainly something to perk up the mood--and The Duke was certainly top tier at finding the perfect gifts… Who knows what he may have brought?

Speaking of The Duke, he leaned on his cane as he squeezed into the wagon. “Hello, my dear boy!” He said happily. His words sent flutters of delight through my stomach, making me smile. “I’ve got a bit of a gift for you. Something you’ve mentioned a few times. I hope you might like it!” 

I stepped forward, eyes glinting curiously. The Duke turned a bit, shutting the door to the wagon behind him. When he turned, a small black box was in his hands, seemingly procured from thin air. Without skipping a beat I came closer, feeling my cheeks pinken with shyness. “What is it?” 

“Well, you’ll have to open it to find out, won’t you?” The Duke smiled broadly, holding the box out. 

I took the box from his hands as he sat down, my partner bouncing with giddiness. I carefully unfolded the top, seeing that whatever was inside was wrapped in deep red satin, the color of blood. Fitting, for the village. Gingerly, I pulled the satin back, curiosity thrumming through my fingers. 

I gasped. 

A little vial, full of clear liquid, and a set of alcohol swabs, syringes, and band-aids. 

It couldn’t be. 

“Is… Is this…?” The words were so small in my throat, barely breaking out of my mouth. 

“It is.” The Duke nodded, clasping his hands together and smiling softly. “Testosterone.” 

Tears sprung to my eyes, a laugh emerging unbidden from me. Ever since I had come out, I had wanted to transition--but I had never had the opportunity in my old abusive home, and I imagined somewhere out here would never hold the chance either. I had dreamed of the changes for so long--a deeper voice, bottom growth, body hair, facial hair… Hell, even building more muscle easier so I could achieve the musclechub look I had always been enamored by! 

“How did you do it?” I choked out, pressing the back of my hand against my watery eyes. My primary partner was at my side, arm around my shoulders. They planted a kiss on my head, holding me tight. 

“Why, I can procure any goods I need!” The Duke laughed heartily. “It is only a matter of time before an item is in my hands. And now it’s yours, free of charge.” 

I sniffled. “Duke… I don’t know what to say. This is amazing. This is my greatest dream. Thank you. Thank you so much!” I handed the box to my primary partner and ran to him, throwing my arms out. He leaned forward, hulking arms wrapping into me and pulling me into him. “Thank you!” 

“Of course, my dear! Anything for you.” He planted a gentle kiss on my forehead as he pulled me up to his chest. “And I know from our conversations about hormone replacement therapy before that you had concerns about vaginal atrophy and hair loss. Remedies for those are on the way as well!” 

“You are amazing.” I said breathlessly. After all the abuse my primary partner and I had endured over the years, I never could have imagined that we would have ended up in a place so terrifying and yet...so safe. So like home. A place where dreams could come true. 

“Well thank you, my dear. The customer is always right!” He said cheekily. 

My primary partner approached, holding the box as if it were the most prized thing in the entire world. “My good sir,” They said with a flourish. “I believe it is time for your first injection of boy juice!” 

“Boy juice.” I repeated. “Wow.” Then took a deep breath. “Yeah. Let’s do it.” 

“Let me administer the first shot for you, to show you how it’s done.” The Duke said, lowering me into the seat next to him. 

I nodded, suddenly feeling my palms get sweaty. “Yes. That sounds nice. I’m a little scared of the needle.” I laughed nervously. “Hey hon...you think you could hold my hand?” 

My primary partner nodded, fingers intertwining with mine. “I’ll be right here.” 

The Duke took the box, balancing it on top of his belly. Carefully, he loaded up the syringe with the testosterone, making sure to get the air bubbles up and load the approximate dose. “Now now, my boy, the friend I got this from let me know that this is a subcutaneous injection, and we’ll be starting off with a lower dose to start, and then you can choose if you want to go lower or higher from there. If we can get a bit of your blood later, I’ll have another friend of mine run tests on it to make sure it’s safe.”

“Wow, you really can do anything and everything…” I smiled, shaking my head in disbelief. “You’re incredible, Duke.” I lowered my pants, revealing the skin on my thigh.

“Perhaps so, but you must know that you are just as wonderful. It is a pleasure to get to share my life with such a wonderful man.” The Duke said pleasantly, swabbing some skin on my thigh. “Truth be told, I had grown a bit lonely myself. Having you two as companions and then something more… Well, I have to say it’s the happiest I’ve been in a long time.” He sighed. “Ah, to love and be loved. One of life’s greatest joys, right next to lei.” 

My primary partner grinned. “Always with the lei.” 

“I’m a man who knows what he wants in life!” The Duke tapped the syringe with one finger. “Now, are you ready?” 

I looked to my primary partner, feeling as if some holy light was glowing behind my eyes. Starting now, I would be transitioning. I would be something new, something self made. I would be myself. They squeezed my hand, nodding encouragingly. “You got this.” 

I took a deep breath. “Alright, Duke. I’m ready.” 

#the duke #resident evil village #resident evil 8 #re8 #the duke re8 #the duke x reader #the duke x oc #duke x reader #writing #my writing #fanfiction #transmasc #trans #trans man #transitioning #hrt #hrt testosterone #transgender #fat reader

[tuscanwalker]

August 29, 2021: That Most German of German Cities

Greetings from Nuremberg. Caught the train around 10 this morning after a hotel breakfast that brought back memories. Kim and I always load up on fuel at breakfast as we rarely have a place to buy lunch. Today I had the typical walking breakfast of breads, deli meat, cheese, a boiled egg (or two), muesli with yogurt (never milk), juice, fruit, some raw veggies and coffee. If I don’t start walking soon, I will be rolling down the trail.

I arrived in Nuremberg to find my hotel (Victoria) was right beside a major gate through the old city wall (most of which is intact). Built in 1898, the Hotel Victoria is unspeakably old and beautiful outside, yet sleek and modern inside. All of this for about the same price as Air Canada charged me to choose an exit row seat on my flight here.

After dropping off my luggage, I headed out to explore, orient myself and grab some lunch. I spent about 5 hours simply wandering about, with a bit of little guidance from Rick Steves and Larry Bailer. It was interesting to me that, as the old town was almost totally destroyed by bombing in WWII, the residents have restored only those buildings that were realistically salvageable while replacing the rest with modern but architectural sympathetic structures. All in all, this has created an almost Disneyesque, but still very attractive, ambiance. It was also interesting that, for a clearly tourist oriented town, it seemed very quiet today. I don’t know whether this is because of COVID or because many things are closed on Sunday.

For lunch, Mark Lisac (who knew that so many people I knew had been to Nuremberg?) recommended that I try a “3 im weckle” (3 finger sized nuremberger sausages on a bun). Locals swear by them and I must admit that they are mighty tasty, but I only hope that I don’t have a coronary from all the cholesterol.

While there is no Cathedral in Nuremberg (no Bishop), there were several churches that were suitably impressive. Like all the churches and many public buildings here, the sculpture is breathtaking but instead of marble like Italy or France, here they are carved from wood.

The 15th Century Church of St Lawrence was one of the first churches to renounce Catholicism during the Reformstion. When it was decided, the city fathers (who paid for most of them) made it conditional on retaining its beautiful Catholic artworks. In other churches, they were destroyed for being icons (graven images that “thou shalt not worship”).

The 13th Century St. Sebaldus is named for the patron saint of the city and is a Romanesque Basilica style church (no transept) that was later modified to include Gothic elements.

Next I visited the Imperial Castle (the Kaiserberg) which was LGB’s very good advice. This was one of the homes of the Holy Roman Emperor who moved among a string of Castles keeping his eye on the Empire and his nobles. He kept his Imperial Regalia (crown, orb, lance etc) in Nuremberg for over 350 years, but the original is now in Vienna with only a copy here. Unfortunately, while it is large and impressive, one can only visit a very limited numbers of rooms and, as his furniture travelled with him, it is unfurnished and somehow less Imperial as a result.

Along the way, I saw a lot of other interesting things like the Chain Link Bridge, great public art, the Holy Ghost Hospital and the home of Albrecht Durer (Renaissance Artist and native son). For me, the most fun was the aptly named Schoner Brunei (Beautiful Fountain). Fun because pulling one down on one of the gun barrel-like tubes diverts water from the spray and creates a drinking fountain. I even had my picture taken beside it to counter my wife’s frequent complaint that I never appear in the blog or our photo albums.

Anyway, I have bored you enough today, so I will leave you with a little teaser. Tomorrow is museum day and I know how much all my friends love it when I hit the geek button and wax lyrical about some obscure historical event or artifact🥱. I hope you are looking forward to it as much as I am😂.

[idjitlili]

I see stars

summary:

Imagine getting drunk at the feast of starlight , and becoming over happy,and dancing like the complete opposite to what elves are used to. Leasts just say Thranduil is more than impressed.

translations:

rukhs shirumund caragu=beardless orc dung

warnings:two boners

wordcount:2356

After the dwarves and you were taken prisoner,Thranduil had kept you with him once he sent Thorin to the cells for refusing his offer. Before he was even able to begin to talk to you the dwarves had escaped,theu had left a note which the guards handed to Thranduil ,who read it before passing it to you. His face was unreadable you didnt know what to expect,as the scrap paper was upon your hands. The rushed note had read:

"Our friend from strange lands,

your journey ends here, come vist us in erebor once it IS safe,not now,we  cannot afford to lose anymore family.

much love,

ps Thorin says if you get the chance near that rukhs shirumund caragu lowers,bite it off."

Your face lit up with embarrassment,knowing Thranduil had known what Thorin was implying for you to do,it was a good idea,but hiding a knife in your vagina and then chopping it off with that. That seemed like a better idea,what if you had his coxk in your mouth,and you bite it off and then you choke to death on it,it happened to dean winchester just with a sausage. You looked up to the king ,you was watching you intensely. "Thank you." you had spoke quietly,folding the note placing it in your front pocket of your jeans.

Yes you were still wearing your clothes from home,you had cleaned them last at a stream,but when you had first joined the company ,they had given you spar tunics , blankets and such. You had known them since you fell froma portal ,four feet from the ground infront of the company. They had grew to think very fondely of you ,and protected you from all danger.Now you felt very insecure with out them around ,especially when this king seemed very scary.

"what for?" Thranduil had questioned you circling ,your body ,you had crossed your arms and faced the floor. "for allowing me to have that note from my friends." he had stopped circling to look at you ,he liked you not like that at least not yet,you were being held captive yet you were treating him with kindness.

He hadnt kept you in a cell,infact he given you a room,it was locked at night and such incase you tried to kill him. In a few days you had warmed up to the king,but now erebor was reclaimed and he qould be going to reclaim his jems. You had practially begged him to take you with,so you could see your friends. He didnt like the idea,but then you started crying,you enjoyed the kings comapny when you would eat with him and such ,but you couldnt not go especially if you could prevent somes death. In the end he had agreed and sat you infront of him on his elk,you were excited to see your friends ,you just hoped Thranduil wouldnt kill them. You had been shy with Thranduil at first ,but you soon found out he was very nice,and you came out of your shell.

That led you to be literally bouncing on the elk once you had arrived infront of erebor  ,with Thranduil having to have his arm around your waist,which led you to be very close to each other.  He had to tell you to stop,as nice as he could,you hadnt realised you had caused the king a little problem.Which luckily his outfit hid,he didnt tell you that was why,he had just stated someobe might aim for him and then hit you with an arrow. Bouncing looked like yeah.  You had spotted Thorin whos gaze lingled on you ,he thought Thranduil was using you so they wouldnt try kill him.

However you smiled widely up at Thorin. " Thorin! Your crown looks very lovely on you!" you had shouted up at the king ,who sffered from dragon sickness,his mouth twitched slightly before turning back into a frown. "You are fooling around with an elf?and an elf thats him?" he had scoffed in disgust at you,your face fell. "no,thorin." you had been hurt at his words,thranduil had tighted his grip on you waist,protectively.

Once you had found out that Thorin and his best fighters had been led into a trapped ,you had forced Thranduil, totake you there and help save them. In which had surprisingly did,you also may have used your sons also heading there ,what if he gets hurt and you couldve saved him. You ended up jumping on azog's back ,legs around his waist stabbing him in the back with daggers,so thorin could go for the kill;you literally looked like drax. Now your life was complete ,you looked awesome,you had also saved fili and kili. Darn Fili deserves more screentime. Azog had flipped you over his shoulders ,slamming you into the ice,strangling you with one hand and blade in another sending a slice up your arm, You had just became loki ,being slammed by hulk,and now you needed stitches. "I...c-can...see..y-your cock." you had to try to speak,face red,unable to breathe.giving Thorin the chance to end his life.

Thorin pushed azogs body away from you,pulling you into his arms. "you are very much crazy ,y/n and for that I will be forever in debt to you as you saved my family and I" he spoke stroking your hair, as you gained your breath back,your neck was definitely was going to be bruised. "I ...r-repaid..my debt for keeping me safe in this strange world all those month,plus i got to see that majestic hair everyday." you reached your hand up,to his hair,running your fingers through it, "i am really sorry for saying what i did earlier, I do not want you getting hurt that was all." he spoke sincerely to you. "dont worry little man,no one has taken my innocence." you smirked in which Thorin smiled at you in relief  before carrying you bridal style to erebor to find oin,trying to avoid hurting your bleeding upper arm.

That was until Thranduil stopped him on his elk,his eyes wondering over your injured form,you smiled at the king. Thranduil knew he had to take you home with him,he had felt things he had never felt before ,even with his now dead wife. "let me take her back with me,to the woodland relm,we have the finest doctors." he had spoken sternly,Thorin had scoffed in response. "oin is the best in erebor!" he had growled,he didnt want you with an elf at all. "more like the only one." Thranduil had annoyed Thorin with this,his stomach bubbled with anger.  "Thorin, its fine I have to go back anyways ,I left belongings there." you tried to convince the dwarven king,however he was stubborn,so it would take more than that. "i will buy and have you made new belongings." he really didnt want you to go,he felt like it was his duty to protect you,he thought of you as a daughter almost.

"Thorin , I will come back,and if not straight away, I will write." you had jumped down from Thorins arms ,before hugging him tightly,and pulling away. Your eyes watered ,as you looked at back at Thorin who's did the same ,as Thranduil lifted you up onto his elk infront of him.

Also you forgot to mention,Tauriel fell off a cliff , rip. Legolas was going away for a while,but promised his father he would try to visit on the feast of starlight. Thranduil had comforted you saying Thorin was safe ,there wasnt any huge chances that something could happen to him while you were gone,you would be able to see him again. Anyways that was many months ago and you wrote to the dwarves and bilbo often,Thranduil would even get elves with drawing talents to draw you so you could send them back for Thorin and Bilbo. Bilbo had requested it. But tonight was the feast of starlight,Thranduil had you a dress made ,and fitted , it was mint green,come to think of it looked exactly like Arwen's dress in return of the time. Maybe you become friends with her tonight ,and gift it too her in the future as she loved it so much. wink wink. Thranduil had personally came to chambers,and walked with you to the feast. Yeah so you had been staying in the woodland relm way longer than you had thought you would have been staying.

Thrandul had sat on the end of the table ,while you sat at the side of the table next to him,there was many high elves at the table such as celeborn,Elrond,Lady Galadriel,and many others,you could barely remember any of there names. However there had been wine,you were barely an adult ,let they kept topping up your glass ,no one told you how strong elvish wine was. You were tipsy very quickly,you didnt make much conversation with anyone as you very nervous of saying something innappropriate. Soon as you all had entered the hall ,the music filled your ears it was quiet boring music. So you just lingled around Thranduil , drinking wine ,which was everywhere ,soon you were very loose  ,and very close to Thranduil. Basically jumping around him, that was until a slightlly up beat song started playing. "Thranduil I am going to go danceeeeee." you had spoke excitely ,gripping the kings arm he had simply nodded.

You had skipped off to the dance floor,letting out a "wooooooo" hitting your fist in the air,Thranduil watched you as you tucked a part of your dress into your short legging shorts,he had gasped at your action as your whole thigh was revealed. You began dancing like you were doing just dance to umbrella,singing the lyrics,pointing to Thranduil ,gesturing him to join he shook his head,you shrug at him. You had learnt this not only because of tom holland but as a child you loved just dance and memorized the movements.

"you have my heart

And we'll never be worlds apart

Maybe in magazines

But you'll still be my star

Baby, 'cause in the dark

You can't see shiny cars

And that's when you need me there

With you, I'll always share"

you had began,as the elves had changed the music to suit the music , you smirked at heart you had gestured to Thranduil,who's face was a beet,he couldnt deny he liked it.

"When the sun shine, we shine together

Told you I'll be here forever

Said I'll always be your friend

Took an oath, I'ma stick it out to the end

Now that it's raining more than ever

Know that we'll still have each other

You can stand under my umbrella

You can stand under my umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh

Under my umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh

Under my umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh"

you gestured under your dress before ,winking at Thranduil,before pulling the dress off swiftly,causing the elves to gasp ,leaving you in a tight black corset from Thorin and black shorts,you threw the dress at Arwen mouthing keep it.These fancy things

"Will never come in between

You're part of my entity

Here for infinity

When the war has took its part

When the world has dealt its cards

If the hand is hard

Together we'll mend your heart."

You strut over Thorin ,high and might ,getting very close ,before turing and dropping your ass slightly grazes him ,before flicking a leg out then bring it back in and doing the same with the other. Before standing up quickly,facing him wipping the back of your hands down his face before going back the dance floor.

"When the sun shine, we shine together

Told you I'll be here forever

Said I'll always be your friend

Took an oath, I'ma stick it out to the end

Now that it's raining more than ever

Know that we'll still have each other

You can stand under my umbrella

You can stand under my umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh

Under my umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh

Under my umbrella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh"

Thranduil stares at you,licking his lips at your performance,he was deeply attracted to you there was no doubt about that. You skin glittering in the light as it reflected onto your sweat,

"It's rainin', rainin'

Ooh, baby, it's rainin', rainin'

Baby, come here to me

Come into me

It's rainin', rainin'

Ooh, baby, it's rainin', rainin'"

you finished off ,voice hurting slightly,before grabbing a glass of wine chugging it,bow at the elves that claped for you, smiled brightly,they hadnt seen anything like that ever. You didnt get to anything else before Thranduil practically run at you. You had revealed you love Thranduil ,in your song, He cupped your cheeks gently with his large hands before he pressed his soft lips against yours ,the elves around you clap  around you,as you both kiss passionately.

"will you marry me,y/n?" he spoke once you both pulled away,you nod eagarly before pressing your lips to his quickly,you bow once more before pulling out of the hall,he thanks everyone for coming as you walk out.

lets just say you dont bite his cock off,you went to visit Thorin with Thranduil the next day , they put aside their differences for you ,as Thranduil tells them about your stunt ,not about the boner he hid when you slut dropped infront of him.

#the hobbit imagine #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit x you #thranduil imagine #thranduil x reader #thranduil x y/n #thranduil #the hobbit imagines

[mewmedic]

A Very Kingfield Christmas

Read it on AO3 here.

Summary: Dwight and David are both working at the mall during the horrendous holiday season. They sometimes keep each other company to make the job more tolerable. Dwight wants to move forward in their relationship but can he get into the Christmas spirit to pull it all together?

Warnings: Mentions of sex but no actual sex occurs.

Notes: My first DbD fic was supposed to be either Megdette or Dwake because those are my favorite ships. However, I came up with a clever Kingfield Christmas idea and Christmas week also happens to be Kingfield week. Fate had taken the wheel from me on this one. I hope it's alright because I haven't written any fics in years. Enjoy!

       It was finally time. After four hours of pain and suffering, the moment Dwight had been waiting for had assuredly arrived, his legally mandated 30-minute lunch break. It was two o’ clock in the afternoon, late for lunch but a perfect time for a break as it was exactly in the middle of his shift. His Job? He played the role of “Mr. Elf” in the fantastical production of daily life many would call “being an assistant for a mall Santa.” He served this noble part-time cause all for the glorious reward of eight dollars an hour.

      Dwight quickly rushed past the employee-only doors and headed to the punch out machine. Once upon a time, this wouldn’t be such a nerve-wracking experience but now lunch brought the opportunity to talk to a certain someone. He had recently started a relationship of sorts with a fellow employee, a British fellow by the name of David King. That is, if you considered getting fucked in a car within one of the mall’s many parking lots a relationship. He was currently trying to upgrade to getting fucked in a bedroom at the bare minimum. A man can dream, can’t he?

       Sometimes the two would be able to chat as they eat, but other times David’s schedule just didn’t line up perfectly with his. Dwight always took his break at the same time every day, so it was really up to David to reciprocate. He had finished giving his precious time data and fingerprint to the punch out machine, rounded the corner, and there he was. David sat in a cheap foldable chair at plastic table, eyes on his phone for a moment but then he looked up and nodded to Dwight.

       David’s dark red uniform consisting of a billed cap, button-up top, and cargo pants could use an ironing, but Dwight really had no room to talk. His own uniform had him trapped in itchy elf ears, an even itchier sweater, and a pair of pantaloons over leggings he had to thrift because he ripped the original pair. The worst part was the bells attached to the pantaloons, which jingled with every step he took towards the fridge. He grabbed his lunch box out of the fridge and plopped down on the chair across from David. Within Dwight lunchbox was a ham and cheese sandwich, a chocolate chip cookie, a bag of cheesy chips, and a water bottle. David on the other hand, had nothing but a beige-colored protein shake.

       “You arrest any shoplifters today, mister mall cop?”

       “You know I’m not a damn mall cop-“

       “You’re a supervisor contracted out by a security company that works with the mall.” Dwight placed his chin in his palm and his elbow on the table, attempting to lean his body towards his companion. David crossed his arms, sharing a performative pout as he reclined back in his chair.

       “And no, I didn’t arrest anyone. Even if I wanted to, I can only observe and report. They don’t even give me handcuffs!”

      David did not have handcuffs at the ready, he tossed that fantasy out of mind. Dwight and David enjoyed the faux verbal jousting and it always quickly led to complaining about their jobs. Sometimes it was nice to have a routine, especially during the chaos of the holiday season. After all, nothing united coworkers quite like shit-talking a job with the risk that their boss may potentially be within earshot.

       “Today, a girl who had to be at least eighteen threw herself onto Bill’s lap and started yelling about wanting a new gaming rig. I had to pry her off of him while her friends laughed at us. I thought the old man was gonna break his hip.”

        “Customers act like Christmas is open season to being an asshole to us. I hoped maybe Americans would be different but they’re just as wild as back home this time of year.”

       There was a pause between the two as David gulped down a long sip of his protein shake. Dwight seized the moment to rip a bite out of his sandwich, it had grown soggy after sitting for hours in the poorly maintained refrigerator. It was then that he realized that he knew nothing about English life and learning more could be a way to get closer to David.

       “What is Christmas like in England?”

       “Well, when you’re a kid. You don’t send your letters to Santa off to the post. You burn it in the fire.”

      “That’s insane. How is it supposed to get to the North Pole?”

      “I don’t know! The same way Santa’s fat-ass slides down the chimney. It’s all stupid magic that parents makeup. We also got this thing called a Christmas cracker.”

      “Oooh, sounds yummy.”

      “It’s not a snack. It’s a present you pull on both ends and it cracks open. Usually has a paper crown and other trinkets inside.” While David spoke, he pantomimed the act of tugging on the ends of this so-called cracker and then wiggled his fingers to represent the explosive crack. A smarmy grin creeped across his lips, “Of course, Christmas really gets interesting once you can get piss drunk.”

       “C’mon, we do that here in the States too.”

       “No, I mean really drunk. Parents will even leave out brandy and a mince pie for Santa too.”

       “Wow, I couldn’t imagine being like ‘Okay Junior, we have to make sure Santa can get wasted tonight.’ Sounds wild.”

      The two briefly chuckled for a moment. David consumed another gulp of his shake; Dwight shoved a handful of cheesy chips in his mouth. The two sat in silence for another moment, the only sound the crunching of said chips.

      “Do Americans eat chipolatas on Christmas?”

      “I have no idea what that is.”

      “It’s a sausage, for Christmas we wrap it in bacon.”

      “That sounds fucking incredible.”

      “One thing I see here that I wish more folks did back home is all these fairy light. Americans love to have a show of things.”

        “Oh, I have my apartment decorated like that.” This was silly little lie. Dwight was too busy working one and a half jobs to adorn his dwelling in accordance with any festivities. The poor fool could barely clean his bedroom once a month. He would be willing to make time to decorate if the glow of Christmas evening were enough to attract David.

      “Well, I’d be delighted to see your flat. What’s it like?”

      “It’s… Cozy.” This was not a lie so much, since ‘cozy’ was basically the millennial code word for ‘tiny studio apartment.’ Dwight gulped and could feel a line of sweat drip down from his hairline. This was the pivotal moment he had been anticipating every time he punched out for lunch. He just needed to work up the courage to make the move. “I’m free this weekend if you want to come by. I’ll have eggnog and we can watch a movie… If you want, that is.”

      “I’m free Saturday after eight. That good for you?”

      “Sure!” Dwight accidentally spoke with a little too much enthusiasm and the realization made his cheeks redden a little. He averted his gaze from David and looked down to his mediocre sandwich. The two continued to enjoy their meals, and each other’s company, for a brief moment until they were interrupted by an alarm on David’s phone. The Brit returned his protein shake to the refrigerator and gave a parting salute.

     “See you when I see you.”

     “Have fun supervising.”

      He couldn’t help but let a small smile spread across his face as David exited the break room. He really pulled it off. Now he had to sacrifice what precious free time he possessed to pull off an exterior and interior decoration job. He could pull the whole operation off in the next three days, right? Did Dwight have what it takes to make this Christmas merry? Not really, but he can damn well try.

#Dead by Daylight #DbD #KingfieldWeek2020 #Kingfield #Dwight Fairfield #David King

[writingsofmyimagination]

28 Days |Epilogue|

GIF by: @suggamiin​

Genre: Werewolf Au (Jimin x Reader)   Part 1  Part 2

Rating:18+

Summary: It’s your birthday and well...you get treated. Sinful PWP to end this.

Word Count:3188

Warnings: Swearing,Smut - Slight exhibitionism, sex toys (cock ring) SUB Jimin... I repeat Sub Jimin.

Final Part!!!!! Loved this sooo much.

@safi4x​ @nerdygaloresposts​ @sockie-the-dumbass​ @jimin-75​

You were gratefully stolen from your nightmare of failing your end of year exams by the soothing scent of waffles. The glucose of the maple syrup powerful but tantalising to your drowsy senses. Dragging yourself from the comfort, you made a stumble to the kitchen area. A waffle sliding off the spatula onto the plate, his neck nudging his head into your newly emerged direction. You went to retrieve your fluffy dressing gown from the arm of a chair. His gaze briefly frozen on the curves of your behind feebly covered by the black lace hot pants teasing from under his shirt. The only skin available for your eyes to feast on was the occasional trail of veins running down his arms. Ripped denim skinnies sat over black and white vans, laces gleaming white. Red tee with the cutest pocket over his chest fitted and tucked into his leather belt. Heaven forbid he ever look scruffy to go out.

“Take a picture it lasts longer” you toyed covering the view and making your way over to him

“How many times have I asked you?” he countered serving the question straight back

“No, you’ve asked me if you can film us fucking, slight difference” your return bouncing the un-returnable ball in his court.

“Hey I’ve needed something while you’ve been busy revising and FINE! I’m asking now” He pulled you closer by your behind, hands having a firm squeeze for breakfast. You dodged his incoming kiss, leaning to the side to slide your finger through the maple syrup drizzled on your plate. His eyes frozen on the way your finger disappeared in your mouth and sucked on the digit he easily wished was his cock.

“I’m more hungry for actual food right now” You pecked him on the cheek kidnapping the plate from behind him.

“You’re insufferable when you tease you know that”

“You have your finals to focus on today”

“I know I know” His leather jacket sliding on his shoulders smooth as silk.

“Good luck”

“Happy Birthday baby” The drawn-out kiss on your forehead brought a beaming smile to your lips, insides heating up to a pleasant warm fuzz. Before he had the chance to straighten out your hands captured the back of his neck dragging him into a heated kiss which he fell weakly for.

“Remember to wear something nice for me later”

“As if I’d let you take me out in anything but. Can you not even give me a hint?”

“Nope”

You had no idea how dressy you needed to be.

Are we going out out or just just out?

//

Opting for as mid ‘out’ as you could you dug out your button front dress. The dress was belted with a silk tie, it stopped mid-thigh scooping slightly at the sides. The chest and long sleeves were laced in a pretty delicate floral pattern. Your hair was curled swooped over one shoulder and pinned. White hi-top converse snug on your feet.

Fuck heels, I need comfort

He rocked up at your door in black skinnies which were tight around his thighs.

Jesus lord mother of Mary

That alone could make your mouth hit the floor. The cotton fresh white v neck tugged tight into his gold buckled belt. The same leather jacket, silver zips scattered across in silver strips. Face bright, the concoction of exams going well and the reaction to the approved visuals of you.

“Ready?”

“Don’t I look ready?”

“I mean you look stunning but did you really have to wear something so easily taken off?”

“Is that a complaint?”

“More of a why do you have to be such a teasing bitch?” he chuckled as you swatted his arm.

//

He blindfolded you as soon as you got to his car.

//

You were cautious to your feet guided by Jimin until he ordered you to stop.

“Don’t move”

“Like I’m going to wander off” you shot back.

A click was the only thing reaching your ears. The smell of the room was familiar but your brain was too intrigued and giddy to bother working out why.

The blindfold fell from your face leaving only scrunched up eyebrows until the glint above you drew your attention. You were in the university library, the floor normally underneath tables had been pushed to the side, table legs flaying the air. It was astronomy week and the students had secured fairy lights to the ceiling in the shape of a star constellation. The blinds were shut, the fairy lights intermittently twinkling above you; like diamonds on a royals crown. He emerged from behind the desk with a wicker picnic basket and a rolled chequered blanket tucked under his arm. His sweet smile only subtly laced with triumph. Your gaze still fixed on the false sky.

“I know how comforting you find the library and how much of grump you get when your cold so didn’t want to take you out…”

“I love it!” you beamed nearly knocking the picnic basket from his grasp as you smothered him with a hug; his free hand steadying the influx of your weight against him.

“But If you haven’t got sausage rolls in there I will seriously reconsider our relationship” you teased plonking yourself down on the cleared floor atop the blanket.

“They were the first thing I picked up” he calmed.

//

“Ready for your present?”

“Mmmhmm” you hummed mouth full of scotch egg. Jimin fished out a small box from his pocket.

“Well open it. I’m not proposing” he beckoned after your stared at it for a moment too long.

“Jimin it’s beautiful” you cooed looking and the tear drop pendant weaved in your fingers. The outside ripples of silver, the main body was crystal clear, shimmering as you tilted your hands.

“Look closer” he urged. You did as you were told for once.

“How did you…?”

“You’d be surprised at who Yoongi has as contacts” he explained. Carved into the gem was the unmistakeably twizzled in swirls of patterns of haemoglobin. Something heavily involved in your thesis and wanted to specialise in in regards to how some viruses attack this area.

“I knew your nerd ass would love it and all jokes aside you give me so much life and I do feel sometimes you’re my oxygen that I need flooding through me to live” he paused.

“You know like haemoglobin”

“I’m more than aware of its function Jimin” you chuckled. He was sweet; the sweetness coaxed water to fill your eyes with none of it falling.

“I love you too you big softy” You were already clipping the chain around your neck. He lent over to you lips pressing hard into you. The other gift he’d presented was far less innocent.

“Are you planning on getting the strawberries and cream out or what?” you mouthed speaking into his kiss, lightly grappling at his bottom lip. The sucrose in the air was all too suffocating.

“Are you not sweet enough?” he teased failing to hold his cringe filled laugh. You lightly shoved his chase away from you.

“Get that cheese away pllleeaase” you begged. In order to maintain your dignity your leg was slightly bent and raised before you. Your thigh was more exposed but at least your underwear was covered.

//

“Oops” You shook your head, the cool cream conveniently dripping onto your thigh as Jimin fed you the last but one strawberry. As straight as his face was his true intention hadn’t been masked in his eyes.

“Well are you going to clear up your mess or not?”

“Well if you insist”

You planted both hands behind you leaning back, his warm tongue collecting the cool cream escaping down your thigh.

“I think you taste sweeter” he hummed, his tongue spanning his lips before disappearing back into his mouth. Your sudden movements caught him off guard. Enough to let you have advantage and push his weight back enough to fight yours to be on top. You scrunched his shirt up to his neck. Perfect olive skin. Muscles taught and firm under his skin. His eyes diligent in following the drips of cream pooling over his stomach, his muscles twitched at the temperature. The last strawberry dragged through the milky coating on his skin before half of it disappeared in your mouth.

“I think you do”

“Why don’t you come up over here so I can taste you again?” You were by no means going to say no but you were going to tease him until he pleaded for it. You stood, shimmying out of your underwear. His brows knitting together when you sat back down still over his hips and not his face.

“Don’t pout!” the buttons on the front of your dress one by one slowly became unhooked. His hands automatically resting firm on your hips after his hands quickly laid claim to your chest.

“I just thought I’d make myself that bit sweeter for you”

“And how do you think you can do that?” he challenged. He was too busy admiring your front he’d not seen your hands dip behind and retrieve the cream pot.

“Like this?” You watched the trail make its way down through the valley of your breasts running over your stomach to pool in between your thighs and run down his sides. His eyes now shifted to your core laced in creamy glucose.

“Fuck princess” he whined, those unstoppable flecks raging in his eyes.

“Get up here now!”

Excuse me?

Your expression clearly mirrored your thoughts

“Please” his tone so whiny compared to his last demand.

His purr vibrated at your core, cream smudging around his lips. The cat who definitely got the cream. Your hand flew to his tangle in his hair, the other flying out to secure yourself against the beech desk in front of you. Nail meeting the smooth surface with nothing to grip onto.

Your head dropped; his eyes were closed held together in the total ecstasy of you. Only when the moans started trickling from your lips did his eyes burn up hard into you. The more pressure he put against your core the less you were able to hold his clouded over fuelled red eyes. This boy could have you cumming on his tongue quicker than anyone else. Whether it was because he could hear your heartbeat or the whole essence thing made it more intense but it he could have you so damn quick. You knew he was taking his time; any other day you’d already be begging him for your third release already, easy. The torturous slow stripes he made with his tongue had the deep groans boiling in your throat.

“Please make me cum already” you whined tugging his hair, grabbing his attention to your face and not the feast he was making between your legs He’d kept you dancing on the edge for too long.

“Make yourself” he coaxed in between the breathes he was catching up on. It wasn’t a sarcastic comeback. Definitely not.

“Want me to ride that pretty face of yours?” current roles subtly switching.

“Mmmhmm” he hummed swiping your arousal from his lips with his tongue, eyes blown, completely fucked out. You breathed a ‘sigh’ with a jesting eye roll. You were inebriated, addicted to how he loved it when you used him to get off. He was equally to you using him. His head stayed docile, his tongue a podium still and stiff for you to take your prize. Both your hands now steadied against the desk, hips gyrating over him.

No longer would he dance you along the jagged edge of your release. You threw yourself off, all the weight of previous refusals crashing on top of you. You fell hard. Your head hung; exhausted for a moment before giving Jimin room to breathe.

“Does this hurt?” You teased palming his cock straining against the tight denim of his jeans. The hiss and chokes echoing in the room answering your questions with perfect clarity.

“Well we can’t have that”

“Go behind the desk” He did as he was told.

“Why have I never thought about fucking you over the library desk” He cursed himself.

“I never said you were going to fuck me” Swirling the new cock ring he’d bought for you round your finger.

“Guarantee you’ll need me to fuck you when you’ve finished toying with me”

He always fucking knows.

His top discarded, slung over the top of the desk that shielded you from the rest of the library. Your hands guiding themselves across the perfect sculpture of his back, nails purposely leaving red trails. The cool leather of his belt resting against your skin. The front of his jeans pulled down his cock strained with the ring. Gargled moans and pants disrupting the calm of the library each time you hand gripped and moved.

“Going to beg yet?”

“No..o” Your hand snaked up his back, hair taught in your wrists.

“How about now? You breathed dangerously close to his ear, back arching in a crescent obediently to you. Vibration now throbbing through his already painful member. Neck strained, unrestrained grunts bobbing his adams apple. He blissfully regretted the present he got for you already; not too much though.

“Fuck” he whined, restraint and control leaking from his voice.

“Okay okay” Tolerance snapping as you your hands stroked him in a torturous slow movement

You stopped, pushed the power switch on the ring. Straightening yourself. Hands staying where the stilled; a potential threat if his words were not satisfactory.

He took whatever breath he could into his lungs, knuckles white gripped on the table.

“Pleeease let me fuck you, please let me cum mmm…. hand, mouth I don’t care” His arms struggled not to buckle, desperation thick through his strength.

“Are you that desperate that you don’t even care anymore?” Your thumb glazing over the end of his cock.

“Jesus…yes” his voice breaking in sync with his cracked resolve. With him facing the front you could only see his jaw tensing up, the side of his eyes straining to stay open.

“Are you that desperate that you don’t even want to make me cum before you?”

“mmm…No!”

Correct answer!

“Good boy” you praised

“Now I’m going to turn this back on and you’re going to wait until I allow you to cum. You’ve got to fuck me now. I’m dying to have you inside me”

Unanimous profanities bubbled into the room; bodies finally entwined. You both stilled, him fully inside you. Everything just felt too good. Senses overwhelmed with sweet sensations. Your arms crossed at the back of his neck fingertips tight to his skin. The perspiration glazing his forehead mingling with yours. Both looking down to where you connected.

“Ready?” asking and clenching around him at the time had him pinning his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Mmm” he breathed breathing through your torturous tensing.

“Words” you lightly scolded clenching again. His throat bobbed tense.

“Yes” he finally managed.

The throbbing vibrations resumed through him. The patch on top of the ring now vibrated through your clit each time he jolted his hips into you. His laboured breathing indicative of him holding back, funnelling control in his movements. Hot air swirling between you. Your head incapable of moving against the firm hand keeping your head with his. The muscles in your legs tensing, verging on cramping with how tight they gripped at his waist keeping the vibrations on you as much as possible. His bucks sudden and precise, enough apart that he can just about hold onto himself.

“Fuck, please give… it up to…” He was desperate, he needed you to cum so badly so you would show mercy on him.

“Hold it” you ordered. He whimpered, uncertain of his ability to do as he was told. His head drooped to the nook of your neck teeth latching on in a weak attempt to transfer some of the frustration and distraction somewhere else. He choked when your legs locked and pulled him as close as humanly possible. His restricted movement gave you the control to circle your hips around him directing the vibrations in the rhythm you needed. His hot breathes became jagged, fanning across the front of your shoulder.

“Count to 3 then cum for me baby” You panted.

“1” his hips snapped once.

“2” you clenched around him, controlling your muscles not to give. His moans stuttered.

“3” the count was almost breathless; almost devoid of sound. You arched into him shoving the vibrating pack back harsh against your clit, tightening around him again.

Swear words groaned out of his mouth, your core pulsing around him in waves washing you with serotonin. The rush of exaggerated senses never stopped overwhelming you too see white spots shadowing your visions. Sex with your essence was ridiculously other worldly; normal sex now completely transcended. You viced onto his body until his hips finished jerking.

Ugh! No condom, going to be an uncomfortable trip home. But..

“Jesus you’re going to kill me” he panted as you tapped at his hips

Move back

Powering down the ring, slipping it off with a grunt from him.

“Well you got me this remember so really you’ve done yourself in” Your index fingertip beckoning a hot soft kiss to your lips.

“I want one more thing from you baby”

“Anything” he confessed popping the buttons of his jeans back into looking decent.

“I’m not making my way home with your mess dripping out of me. Clean it up” You couldn’t decide who donned the filthier smirk Jimin or you. Within a beat he was on his knees, tugging a leg over his shoulder. Hurrying your hands behind you stabilising yourself from cracking your head on the top level of the desk. A gargled groan eliciting from the flicks of his tongue, the sensitive nub quietly welcoming the soft warm strokes. When his motions became less focused on collecting and began to circle more at your clit you gripped and yanked his hair.

Fuck, he looks sweet

“Look at you with your own cum glistening on your chin…so sexy” The visual pulled at the recovering coils in your core; but the light smile on your face slowly erupted into a small laugh. In retaliation he bounced up forcing an unbalancing harsh kiss. Transferring the chimera of your climaxes to your lips. You fingers teasing your buttons at the front of your dress closed, away from the already wandering eyes of Jimin.

“You taste so good mixed with me” He purred burying into your neck inhaling the after sex intoxicating scent he swooned for.

“Stop talking like that or I’ll wanna fuck you again” you warned. He burrowed further hands tightening at your hips

“And?” he countered

“I’d much rather you take me back home so I can do it with YOUR new favourite toy”

“Is it my birthday or yours?” His body remembering how hard he came with the new purple strap on you loved torturing him with.

“Having you in tears begging for me to go harder is all the present I need”

#bts #ksmutclub #smutcentralnet #sub-bts-network #kwritersworldnet #networkbangtan #bangtanarmynet #btsguild #jimin x reader #bts smut #BTS jimin #park jimin #28 days

[minidigidestined]

Coiled Hope Part 1

This is mostly just worldbuilding and first-meeting explanation kinda-sorta-diary-style-ish thing for my very self indulgent fair folk/magical creature story featuring my darling and I’s nagasonas. I was thinking of rewriting it since it’s kinda blocky, but I like this diary first person pov for my planning and plain ol blurb stage. I’m excited to do more with this and other ideas, vore and otherwise–but first I’m excited to figure out the magic system and history of this world.

Anywho, a sand boa is brought to a remote mountain forest after keeping fair folk in captivity or servitude has been outlawed, whisking her away from a contented life with her human master. The small, pampered naga reminisces on life as she tries to figure out what to do next, and is shocked when she comes face to face with a wild fair folk–a massive rainbow boa many times her size.

I huddled, cold and silent, within the gnarled roots of an old willow. The ground was still damp with yesterday’s rain and the croaking of toads rung out like some sort of haunting choir–the realization that I had never been so alone seemed to smash into me face first. Like a sack of bricks.

Just yesterday, life was perfect. My Master had been stern, but she was kind. She adopted me from a lab study when I was still a juvenile–when the laws restricting the lab testing of fair folk became illegal–and had nurtured me in her home ever since.

I had become accustomed to human food, neverending warmth, and plenty of nice plants, sand and shredded bark to burrow through and had not wanted for anything since my youth in the labs. I had an entire room to myself in her home, and though I was never allowed out, I knew to be grateful to have come into the possession of such a wealthy and caring woman. I never asked many questions, but there wasn’t much I wanted to know anyways. I was just happy to be safe and content.

…Perhaps I was isolated too, but I certainly didn’t mind–nagas, after all, are solitary in nature, and so long as I had good food, a few books and a constant hot spot? Bliss.

Now that was all over though. Keeping the fair folk as pets or slaves was outlawed mere days ago, and my kind were granted citizenship in the human world–both captive and wild roaming “renegade” folk alike.

Thinking of my days back at the lab made me glad to have my “humanity” realized for sure, but… I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy being with my Master. Even if other humans may have deemed me a mere pet, she always treated me like something more, something precious and worth protecting. She gave me humanity after a childhood of being nothing more than a beast, desperate to survive test after grueling test.

A wash of cold dread came over me in a wave, a lump forming in my throat. I clenched my jaw and desperately willed the old memories away, scratching at the skin of my arms anxiously with my stubby claws. Not here, not now… I couldn’t afford a meltdown, especially since I wasn’t sure if the tranquilizer the FFC–Fair Folk Control–officers had used on my last fit in the van would still affect me if my blood pressure rose or if adrenaline started to flow. I imagined the drug turning my blood syrupy and blanketing my brain, hissing through my teeth and forcibly controlling my breaths. Think of Master. She was always so sad when you got like this.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss her silent appraisal and warm smile with all my broken heart, for sure. It was certainly better than this miserable mountain forest those FFC officers dumped me in after seizing me from my master, whisking me far away from human civilization. It was starting to sound a lot more like segregation than freedom the more I thought about it… I don’t think they even realized this was nowhere near my “natural environment”. Citizenship my tail.

For a small-sized sand boa like me, the damp air seemed to chill with a vengeance. I anxiously drew my chubby fingers over the nubby end if my tail, a nervous habit I formed in the labs. I distantly remembered both my master and scientists discussing portals to the Other–my birthright as fair folk, but a world I had never seen since being bred on Earth. Was that an option for me now?

My stomach began to knot painfully during my pondering, and I nearly keened with distress from imagining my master serving me my favorite dumpling soup in my flower bowl with the chipped paint.

No more dumplings. No more bowls. No more Master.

My senses seemed to heighten with my sharpening hunger, my tongue flicking out to scent the air. As much as the idea distressed me, I could smell the breathing creatures around me and knew that my wild kin would already be hunting… But I had only ever fed on pellets or human food, and though the idea of a full belly sounded nice, a belly full of cold, wriggling toads did not.

Miserable, I forced myself to slither from the roots. Maybe there would be another fair folk in these woods–if Master had thought so highly of my kind, then surely they would be willing to band together? Perhaps we could even talk about how much we loved our Masters together! Maybe we could find our way back. Maybe I could even learn more about the Other! For the first time since being taken away, I let myself begin to hope.

I winced at the mud caking on the pearly white underbelly of my tail and made a note to take a bath–or at least find a lake. I slithered along, clutching the hem of my baby pink dress tightly, my nerves utterly shot. I had always loved my adventure books, but going on an adventure myself? Not as exciting as I had dreamed.

I lost myself in the twisting anxiety and hope of my thoughts, barely registering twigs snapping loudly beneath the bulk of my tail or sharp stones scraping against my scales. I twisted the fabric of my dress thoughtfully over my knuckles, contemplating the fact that this was the last piece of my Master I would ever have, hand sewn and worn thin with love.I stopped, forcing myself to breathe evenly again.

I looked down into a muddy puddle, smiling sadly at my full-moon face. Even in my despair my eyes twinkled a soft pink, my round cheeks flushed and tangled brown curls tied to the side of my head, spilling over and hiding one of my pointed ears. I flex my tail and lift upwards a little to inspect my dress, pulling off stray leaves and admiring the roundness of my fat frame, all soft without an edge in sight.

My hips slipped seamlessly into a serpentine tail, in particular, the sausage-like shape of a sand boa. My scales are patterned pale brown and white with speckles of soft pink, the trio of colors almost like delicately flicked paint splatters. Master always told me I had the look of sweetness, if not a bit ditzy–but she always said it with a smile.

I tighten the band holding my curls together, ensuring the volume of the small poof at the crown of my head. I’m so utterly focused on my simple task that I almost blacked out in pure fear when another face appeared next to mine in the muddy pool.

I scramble forward with a cry and twist around, thrusting my hands out in a questionable showcase of self defense. I slap against something soft but firm–the slight yield of the intruder’s belly?–and jerk my hands back with a squeak as I look up to face the forest-dweller.

And up, and up, and up…

The creature before me is looming and massive, but sleek at the same time. I realize with a start that he’s a naga like me, but that seemed to be where the similarities end. Whereas my humanoid half is smaller than the average human, he was much, much bigger. His tail, though thin like the rest of him, is coiled with lean muscle and a deep red color like an apple, a few ebony markings ringing his spine.

“Hey, sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.” His smile was easy and genuine, but fear still made my heart race. “Are you okay?”

He was thin, a deep red cape draped across his shoulders and trailing the ground, its edges dirty and worn. Red scales speckled up his hips, torso and chest like freckles, blending in with the fuzz on his belly. His fingers were tipped by deadly sharp claws, his earthy brown hair long and messy. He looked equal parts ridiculous and regal, wild and in control.

I gaped like a fish out of water, pressing a hand to my chest when the clouds shifted and light came pouring over us… The massive naga seemed to suddenly swim with colors, his tail glittering and iridescent. I locked eyes with him and felt myself growing lost in the golden pools. “What are you?” My voice was a breath. Even in the labs, I had never seen another fair folk who…who shined. Not like this.

He smiled gently, opening his mouth to speak when a low grumble, slipping into a sharp growl, interrupted him. “Sorry, I’m starving,” He explained sheepishly, his long fangs glinting.

A chill ran down my back when I remembered the huge pythons back at the lab at feeding time, how they’d swallow human or fair folk prisoners whole since they couldn’t subsist off of engineered pellets alone. This guy definitely looked like a snake that would choose a whole person over a bowl of soup for a meal–but I wasn’t about to stick around and find out, pretty as his tail was.

It was as if my flight response finally kicked in as I whipped around to flee, but I was quickly halted by a glittering wall of scale and muscle. White noise filled my brain, my vision, my entire being.

Master… I thought. Please help me. Please save me again. I pressed the heel of my hands into my eyes, both trying to stop the tears and deluding myself into thinking I could hide.

“Yo, wait! You don’t wanna run that way. There’s some big gators there, they’d have you for a snack. You aren’t from here, are you?”

I still didn’t turn to look at him, but the naga’s voice held both concern and a trickle of amusement. He… he didn’t seem like a predator…

I tried to steady the stream of tears, turning to face him once more. “No, I’m not.”

His eyes widened at the glimmer of tears on my cheeks. “Hey, what’s wrong? You’re okay here, I promise. It’s okay.”

And before I knew it, it all came pouring out–both the unrelenting tears and my story. The huge naga listened intently, his lips pursed into a line of concern and his golden eyes focused right on me. I felt embarrassed by his rapt attention, but at the same time…seen. Really, truly Seen.

“I’m really sorry.” The larger naga reached down, his huge hand hovering inches above my plump little arm. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

I stared up at him with bleary eyes. “I’m so sorry. That all just burst out and I couldn’t stop and I just… You don’t have to comfort me.” I paused, heart twisting with a cocktail of shame and sweetness. “But uh…you can. Thank you. For being here. You don’t even know me and you’re…”

His hand was cool and firm, the skin rough. He gently stroked my arm with the pad of his thumb, his eyes looking far away. “You don’t need to apologize. Humans do bad things. They make bad choices, and then good people are left to pick up the pieces.”

His attention snapped back, his lazy smile returning as if he had never frowned in his life. “That’s why the forest is better, especially up on a mountain like this. I’m glad your…caretaker was good, but I promise a friend is even better.” The world ‘caretaker’s rolled off his tongue like a poison. Odd.

I couldn’t stop the rush of heat to my cheeks. “Thank you… Who are you, actually? I’ve dished out my whole life story and I don’t even know your name!” Now that my meltdown and blubbering had faded, I felt as if I could curl up into a ball and roll right away into nothing.

“Spectrum Maximus.” He grinned at my cocked eyebrow, flicking his lengthy tail to show off its iridescence. “I chose it myself! Now, who’re you?”

“You can do that?” I asked shyly, giggling at the name. “Well, in the study labs I was 42… My Master liked to call me Clover.”

Spectrum’s eyes fluttered with mischief. “I guess it’s appropriate, since it’s good luck that I found you here, but it sucks you never got a say. Who do you want to be?”

I couldn’t halt the flustered blush spreading across my face, though I couldn’t understand why. Who…did I want to be?

I looked downward, fiddling with the hem of my dress. I thought of every book, play and poem I had ever read, every bird and bug at the window, every season and holiday. Names and words flashed through my head, but still I came up blank. What in the world is a name? I never cared that Master called me Clover, but it didn’t feel like…

Home.

Maybe that’s what a name was–home. I thought of soft evenings in my room, Master smiling as she set down a bowl of homemade soup or curry or pasta on my desk and flipping open my favorite book. I thought of curling up next to her legs to eat, her slender fingers playing through my curls as she read to me. I thought of her teaching me how to read, how to write, how to sing along to a melody… I thought of one of our favorite treats to share together beneath my heat lamps, hot cocoa with peppermint chips and a sprinkle of cinnamon.

Cinnamon. Warm, cozy and inviting.

��I’m Cinnamon.” I felt a warmth spread through my chest. Maybe those days were gone, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t carry them with me. That didn’t mean I couldn’t define who I was today. Who I wanted to be today.

“Cinnamon,” He repeated, speaking my new name as if it were something holy and special. “I think it suits you.” I felt a different kind of warmth surge through my cold blood at the way the corners of his mouth dimpled.

“Please, you barely even know me! You’ve just seen me a blubbering mess.”

“Well if that’s your worst, you must be pretty great,” He grinned, eyes twinkling with mirth. “I really hope you never see me cry. It’s about as gross and snotty as a snake can get.” His stomach snarled pitifully once more and he slapped it, brow quirking. “Shut up, you! You’re scaring our new friend!”

I winced. “Oh… You noticed?” At the rate my blush was growing, I might’ve well have been a rosy boa!

“You gasping in fear and trying to run away right into a bog? Yeah. It’s fine though, I usually have that affect on ladies.”

I rolled my eyes, unable to stop the smile bowing my own lips now. “So… You don’t y'know…eat people?”

“I’m not going to eat you if that’s what you’re asking. I am hungry though–I can take you back to my cave if you’d like. I cook a mean stew.”

“I could actually cook for you if you’d like. My Master taught me a few things for fun. It’s the least I can do.”

Spectrum smiled, his eyes the color of honey dripping from the comb and just as warm. “If it’ll get you to stop thanking me over and over when I’ve literally done nothing but sit here? Sure. Plus the mean is literal. I’m a really bad cook, so maybe it’s better if the homebody cooks something instead of the weird forest hermit.”

I couldn’t help but smile back even wider–the man’s mirth was positively infectious. “Well, you did keep me from being eaten by a gator.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” He slithered around me, coils whispering across the ground. How was such a massive creature so silent–if not in voice, then in movement? “Sometimes they like to visit my cave.”

I scrunched up my nose and flicked my tongue out instinctively as he passed. He smelled wild–dirt, sweat and trees. So different from my old homes, but welcome all the same. Maybe this wouldn’t be the end of the world after all.

And so, I followed him.

#g/t #giant/tiny #implied vore #extreme cuddling #gianttiny #mini giant #naga #my writing

[thedistantdusk]

How about a cute hinny fic where ginny takes harry to a little underwear shop and tries some things on..... maybe getting a little steamy in the fitting room...

Oh, Anonymous... you should know better than to assume I would take this prompt seriously when you sent it to about a million different people! ;) Everyone else did an amazing job, so I decided to be a contrarian and skip the smut. For once. 

Thanks to @k-mi-la for proofreading and @floreatcastellumposts/Eslon for giving me some of the verbiage! (Side note, did you know they don’t have country biscuits in the UK? My mind was blown.) Anyway, enjoy! 

Happy belated birthday, @focusly!

On AO3.

_____________________

There’s nothing worse than this in between, Ginny thinks, staring at herself in the floor-length mirror. She shifts her weight, trying to ascertain if the dark purple bra fits her better than any of the others in the pile to Harry’s left. She slides her fingers beneath the strap and makes a face... because no, there’s still a space between the cup and the strap.

It doesn’t fit her — at least not yet.

For the past two weeks, she’s looked fat. Her face and body have swollen in odd places, and when Ginny looks at herself in the mirror, she doesn’t wonder why her changing body is a source of public speculation. At the moment, though, she doesn’t look pregnant; she just looks like she’s eaten nothing but butter for weeks on end while refusing to move from the sofa.

This awkward in-between phase is especially infuriating because they can’t dispel anything yet. Ginny can’t confront the shrewd stares and judgmental murmurs that follow her in Diagon Alley by announcing that she isn’t fat, thank you, she’s growing a human — she just happens to be in the yucky bit where she looks pale and bloated and sickly all the time.

The final blow to her self-esteem had arrived this morning as she’d dressed for their weekly Sunday at the Burrow. Ginny’s still not sure how, but literally overnight, the tips of her breasts swelled over the cups that fit her perfectly last week. She’d only been able to stare at her reflection in the mirror of their bedroom — at the chubby little crescents bubbling over the lace — as she’d wondered why her own body now reminds her of a sausage burst from its casing.

Ginny’s never been the vain sort, but she can’t bear to watch herself bounce beneath her clothes, either. So with a determined look in her eye, she’d marched up to her husband and informed him she needed new bras before facing her parents for tea.

Harry’d responded like he has to every single one of her demands for the past two weeks: by gulping, nodding his head, and doing whatever the hell she’s asked.

Ginny hasn’t quite figured out what’s going on with his newfound sense of submission, but not for lack of trying. Harry’s shrugged off her attempts to reason through the uncharacteristic silence and brooding stares she hasn’t seen since he was fifteen. Of course, he’d never dream of being rude or unkind. He’s Harry.

Still, the whole thing — the fact that they’re actually having a baby — has been a thrilling, terrifying, unexpected whirlwind. Ginny doesn’t blame him for casting furtive glances at her puffy midsection when he thinks she’s not looking. She’s certain he hasn’t meant to hurt her feelings, either, but the wide-eyed, fearful look on his face each time has done absolutely nothing for her already plummeting self-esteem.

Thankfully, Harry’s concerns (which she’s been utterly unable to wheedle out) haven’t stopped them from shagging. Albeit much more gently. Ginny hasn’t missed the way he grips her hips less tightly, even when she’s on top. Or the way he double and triple checks it’s ok before he does anything. Or the way he slides off her as fast as he can afterwards, as if the slightest pressure might make her crumble and break.

She peers over at the man in question as he sits in a chair in the changing room. He’s hunched over on his elbows, pensively staring at his clasped hands. Ginny bites her lip as she wonders — for the thousandth time — what’s changed. He’d been so happy when she told him. He’d cried. He’d held her and told her how much he loved her and that he’d never been happier and...

No.

She swallows and blinks. She won’t let her mind go there. She’s just confused that he hasn’t looked up at her since she’s put this bra on. Which doesn’t make her feel better. Ginny huffs, turning to the side, and vows to get out of here as fast as she can. But bleh, staring at her profile only makes her feel worse...

“Looks nice,” Harry offers from his seat in the corner.

Ginny sighs as their eyes meet in the mirror. “No,” she mutters, “it doesn’t. It looks—"

“—You look beautiful,” Harry says earnestly, his eyes focused solely on her face. Like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince her.

“Harry,” Ginny sighs — and although she tries to fight it, her voice breaks. “For once, can you just let me feel like rubbish?”

Shit.

There’s a pause as she swallows against the pang of hurt shooting from her chest and into her throat. She hates how easily everything upsets her these days. There’s nowhere safe. Nowhere she can hide. She cries when a mother bird feeds her babies. She sheds a tear when an old man limps down the street by himself. She bawls in a changing room when nothing fucking fits her and her husband won’t even validate her by admitting it.

Aaaand lovely, that one’s done it, she’s going off.

Ginny feels Harry before she sees him. His soothing warmth presses against her back as the first tear slips down her cheek, but she still can’t bring herself to look at him. The world swims in front of her, a hazy blur of blue carpet and her own pale, chubby reflection.

“I’m sorry,” she manages a moment later, blinking up at the lights. “This is so embarrassing. I’m—"

“No,” Harry whispers, his chin nestled on the crown of her head. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”

She gives his reflection a plain stare, pleased she’s stopped crying long enough to speak. “What have you got to be sorry for? I’m the one crying in a changing room because absolutely nothing fucking fits me, and—“

“—No,” Harry cuts across, his voice firm. She cocks her head and peers back, but the look on his face tells her not to interrupt.

“Listen,” he starts gently. “It’s just... this whole thing is....” He heaves a sigh, his eyes fluttering shut. When he looks up at her again, there’s a low, resigned quality in his voice. “You’ve got to understand, Ginny, that I’m not supposed to be here.”

She narrows her eyes. “I’m sure plenty of husbands accompany their wives into—"

“—What?” Harry looks alarmed.

Oh. She must’ve misread that.

“That’s not what I meant!” Harry insists. “I don’t care about — hang on, did you really think I’d care about being seen in here?”

Ginny just shrugs, looking away. Fine. Something else she’s been wrong about.

“I mean we’ve shagged in a changing room,” Harry continues. “More than once. Why would I suddenly care about that now?”

But between a sudden wave of nausea and how ghastly she feels standing on display like this, Ginny finds she hasn’t the patience. She gives him a plain stare. Get to the point.

“Right, right, but that’s not what we’re talking about.” Harry sighs, running a hand through his messy black hair. “Let me... let me explain, yeah?”

His concerned green eyes meet hers in the mirror, and Ginny nods back. Yeah.

Harry takes a few deep breaths to collect himself, to choose his words very, very carefully — and when he speaks again, Ginny knows he’s using deliberate emphasis.

“It’s just... I’m not supposed to be here,” Harry says, meeting her eyes. “In general. I’m not supposed to be—"

“Alive.” Ginny feels the whisper rip from her throat as a chill races up her spine.

She stares at the corner where the carpet meets the wall and tries to keep herself from crying. Again. Ginny hates this conversation, no matter how hypothetical. But at long last, she has an inkling of what he’s been going through.

“I was supposed to die when I was 17,” Harry whispers in a rush, his eyes downcast. She gets the distinct impression that, for some reason, he’s been holding this back.

“You were supposed to marry some faceless man, and I wasn’t supposed to kiss you again. I think that’s why I felt your lips when—" 

He cuts himself off with a swallow, his breathing going ragged: He doesn’t want to cry right now. She gives his hand an encouraging squeeze. Harry doesn’t mind crying in front of her, but he wants to be strong; he wants to finish.

Harry lets out a delirious chuckle as the rest of the words come tumbling from his lips, even faster than the first set.

“I didn’t die, though,” he says, grinning again. “And neither did you. And I know we weren’t planning on this, but I’m... Ginny, I’m so happy.” His face splits into an enormous grin. “I’m so… I’m so happy. I never thought I’d have a family, but now we’re actually doing this, and it’s… it’s amazing, don’t get me wrong, but…”

Harry peers up at her cautiously, his hand continuing to brush against the newfound softness of her midsection. “You’ve got to understand. It’s a bit surreal, too.”

Ginny smiles back at him and glances at her stomach. Of all people, she certainly understands. Surreal is the least of it. Nearly overnight, the body she’d spent years working on and listening to and shaping has taken on a life of its own. It’s been hard — really hard — to accept that there’s an inherent grace in simply letting that go. Of abandoning control.

“Is that why you’ve been so quiet?” Ginny ventures a moment later. It’s never been clearer they’re both been in their heads. She’s just been too distracted to notice.

“A little,” he admits, shifting his weight. “It’s just, the whole thing has been a bit abstract and mad, yeah? Like, ok, I saw the positive test, and I’ve watched you get ill, but it’s…”

Harry waves his hand and trails off; Ginny knows him well enough to know he’s searching for a metaphor.

A second later, he finds one.

Harry starts again, his voice more energetic than before. “Pretend there’s a new Firebolt being built, yeah?”

Ginny opens her mouth to wonder aloud if her husband is seriously comparing their baby to a broomstick.

He plows on before she gets that far.

“And that’s great and lovely,” Harry adds hurriedly, “but it won’t come out for a long time. I’m not the one in charge of making the Firebolt either, so all I can do is hear updates. Everyone says it will change my life when it comes out, and I believe them, but it’s hard to imagine.”

He pauses to draw a breath.

“But until a couple of weeks ago, it was a very… theoretical Firebolt,” Harry allows slowly, his eyes drifting to her stomach. “It was something that sounded amazing — but it just… it didn’t seem real. It seemed too perfect and brilliant and…”

He sucks in another deep breath, one that comes out a moment later as another delirious chuckle. “But here we are, yeah?” His thumb grazes her stomach. “There’s proof, right in front of me, that I didn’t die and Voldemort didn’t win, and you’re actually buying clothes because…” He swallows. “Because someone loves me enough to let me be a dad.”

There’s a heavy silence after his words.

Ginny shudders as the feelings wash over her — the love so fierce it’s painful, the hope so earnest it’s blinding, the swell of anything and everything she’s been fighting since they found out — but this time, she does nothing to stop the tears from flowing down her cheeks.

Harry continues staring at her stomach, oblivious (for once) to her tears. “But it’s scary, yeah?” he adds, his voice gruff. “It’s scary. Because I realized the other day that even though you’re basically showing, this could all just get ripped away from us. We could lose everything we’ve ever wanted, all before we’ve had—"

“—I know,” Ginny murmurs, eyes downcast. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she finally understands what the circumstances and hormones have thus far failed to explain. Harry’s not scared because she’s pregnant; he’s scared because he knows there’s a chance (however small) that she might not be tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

In an odd reversal, she’s now the one reassuring him. Ginny wipes the tear tracks and clears her throat until Harry meets her eyes in the mirror.

“That’s not going to happen, Harry,” she says fiercely, as soon as they lock eyes. “Do you hear me? He’s here.”

She brings both of their hands over the soft swell of her lower stomach. Harry’s hand shakes slightly beneath hers. It’s almost palpable, she thinks… the way his anxieties and apprehensions are splintering, right in front of her eyes. The way his doubts are making a reluctant departure, even as they cling to the sides of his heart.

“I know you’re used to having everything go pear-shaped and watching horrible things happen,” Ginny says softly. “But, Harry... you need to believe this will work out. Because if you believe it, I’ll believe it. If we’re together on this, it’ll seem a lot less terrifying. Ok?”

She peers at her husband to see that his face has relaxed into another watery smile, his eyes flitting between her stomach and her face. Ginny grips his hand more tightly against her and feels an irrational amount of pride that it’s not shaking. Not anymore.

They stare at each other for a few minutes, grinning like fools, before Harry breaks the silence.

“He?”

Ginny shrugs. In truth, she’s known for weeks. She knows it’s a boy with the same certainty she’d known Harry wouldn’t really die. With the same certainty she knows he loves her. With the same certainty she knows he always will.

“Pretty sure,” she confirms, peering back at him in the mirror. Harry shudders behind her, gripping her even closer, and for several more moments, they just stand there — Ginny in an ill-fitting bra, Harry in a Weasley jumper — as the world finally, finally stops spinning. As everything starts to make sense.

As such, she’s so wrought and emotional that she doesn’t even complain when Harry flashes her a wicked wink, his lips traveling down her jaw. She doesn’t bat an eye when he brushes himself against the small of her back, his left hand coming up to caress her hip.

Harry pulls back a moment later, his eyes hooded, his breathing ragged for an entirely different reason. “Get the red,” he manages, nodding to the pile in the corner. “You’ve always looked stunning in red.”

Ginny just giggles and pushes him to the wall, her arms draped around his neck. All of a sudden, she finds she’s far more interested in Harry’s unabashed assessment of her changing body, in the proper evaluation she’s been denied for weeks.

And far less concerned with how her bra fits, after all.

#hinny #harry and ginny #hinny fanfic #pregnant moping #fic

[theusurpersdog]

Waking The Dragon

Due to. . .recent events. . .I think it’s important to go back through George RR Martin’s books and really understand what he was trying to say with Daenerys Targaryen. She occupies the same space in the narrative that Jon Snow does, where she’s just stereotypical enough, just fantasy trope enough, that people take for granted who her character is and what she represents. But, like Jon, if you read her chapters with an open mind, you’ll notice all of these great subversions and character traits that you miss the first time.

Breaking down the journey she takes in A Game of Thrones, GRRM lays a lot of tracks for where the story will take her. . .

The Outsider

The first thing about Daenerys is that she is instantly an outsider. GRRM loves writing outsiders, and a huge amount of the POV’s in book one are introduced as an outsider in some way; Jon being a bastard in a society driven by status, Arya as a tomboy in a patriarchal society, Sansa as someone who doesn’t fit with her family, Tyrion as a dwarf in an ableist society, and so on. Daenerys takes this concept to its extreme; not only is she an outsider within her own world, she is an outsider within the narrative. All the POVs we’ll have in this book were the victors of Robert’s Rebellion. They may have lost things (like Ned losing Lyanna) but Robert’s Rebellion worked for them in a way that they either ended up better off than before, or received some form of justice for the wrongs they’d suffered. 

But Daenerys lost. She was supposed to be a Princess, to grow up in the Red Keep with an entire kingdom at her feet. Instead, we are introduced to a young girl who hasn’t truly known a home her whole life, a girl who thinks she was chased around a continent by assassins out to take her life. We know, because we’ve lived inside Eddard Stark’s head, that Daenerys’ family was unequivocally on the wrong side of Robert’s Rebellion, but suddenly we understand that even in a just war, innocent people will get ruined.

So, with Daenerys being the lone Targaryen POV we have, it creates a sort of dissonance where she is portrayed as sympathetic, yet is the natural enemy to the Starks who are our heroes. When her brother Viserys tells her these awful stories of “the Usurper and his dogs”, we know she’s being lied to because we know Eddard Stark, but yet we have to sympathize with this child who was supposed to have everything and, instead, was left with nothing. Like Tyrion, we as a reader don’t quite know how to feel about her, because she is the antagonist of our heroes, but when you see things from her perspective suddenly this black and white war turns into a hundred different shades of grey.

The House With The Red Door

Moving from what her existence means to the narrative, we begin to understand what Robert’s Rebellion did to her as a person. The first we see of her, she is feeling a dress so soft it scares her, as her brother Viserys tells her she must look like a princess:

A Princess, Dany thought. She had forgotten what that was like. Perhaps she had never really known.

For the first time in her life, she’s starting to get a real taste of what she lost as a child, and she’s scared. It becomes clear that Viserys is an abuser in her life, and seeing him so fevered is terrifying. For the first time in his life, he’s been given a clear path to reclaim the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Throne that by rights should be his. Viserys was old enough to remember Dragonstone and King’s Landing and the throne he lost; these are all tangible things that he can remember, that he knows someone stole from him.

But Daenerys doesn’t have that connection to Westeros. She wasn’t even born when her mother retreated to Dragonstone, and just a baby when Willem Darry smuggled her and her brother to Essos. Home is a very loose concept that Daenerys can never firmly grasp because she never truly had one. She understands that she was never allowed to just be a child, but she can’t place where it all went wrong. Viserys has this clear line, when he was 8 and a Prince and had everything; then suddenly everyone he knew was dead and he had nothing. Daenerys doesn’t have that; all she has is this memory of a house with a red door.

This house with the red door is so important to her, because it is the closest she has ever gotten to home; the one place she can look back on and feel like she had what she was supposed to:

She remembered Ser Willem dimly, a great grey bear of a man, half-blind, roaring and bellowing orders from his sickbed. The servants had lived in terror of him, but he had always been kind to Dany. He called her “Little Princess” and sometime “My Lady,”. . . That was when they lived in Braavos, in the big house with the red door. Dany had her own room there, with a lemon tree outside her window.

Yet, Daenerys knows that wasn’t really her home, just the closest she has come. Her character will chase that feeling, of being safe and in control and having things, for the rest of the books. The house with the red door works so well as a writing device from GRRM, because it is this vague idea of a thing; from the beginning it is clear that Daenerys herself doesn’t really understand why this house with a red door appeals so much to her, so she can never get that feeling back. From the start, Daenerys is chasing this thing that we know she can never have. What she does when she realizes that, is a question for later books.

But what, from a Doylist perspective, is this house with a red door supposed to be? Daenerys thinks it is home, but the symbolism of this house is childhood and innocence. The things Daenerys remembers fondly about it are important; Ser Willem calling her “princess”, the lemon tree, having her own room. The first is very important, because being a princess is what Viserys has filled her head with – it’s the childhood Daenerys knows she was owed by blood. The lemon tree is a bit more complicated; A Dance With Dragons will really start breaking down Daenerys and trees and all the imagery that goes with her arc, but trees is what Dany wants to want. To watch the lemon tree grow, is to spend years in the same place. And trees also need peace to grow; you have to love and care for a lemon tree. Having her own room also means that Daenerys was well off. Safe, comfortable, and well-off princesses have their own room with a lemon tree outside. So while the house with the red door represents childhood and innocence, I also think it’s important to recognize that it also represents Dany’s longing for her life of royalty. She doesn’t have the same murderous vengeance as Viserys, but she has that same passion for what was taken from her; a sort of blinding desire that gets in the way of seeing things clearly, especially when it comes to understanding that the Iron Throne wasn’t stolen from her family – they murdered it away chasing dragons.

Speaking of Daenerys’ connection to home, there is some interesting symbolism at play when Daenerys visits the markets. Daenerys loves the sights and smells of the Eastern market, the excitement of trying and seeing new things, experiencing something foreign. But she turns toward the Western market because it smells of home. When she was younger and went to the bazaar with Viserys, they hardly ever had enough money to buy anything but a certain type of sausage that Daenerys remembers fondly. She finds it again with her handmaidens and khas:

“They taste different than I remember,” Dany said after her first few bites.

“In Pentos, I make them with pork,” the old woman said, “but all my pigs died on the Dothraki sea. These are made of horsemeat, Khaleesi, but I spice them the same.”

“Oh,” Dany felt disappointed

Something is lost on the Dothraki sea, and home will never be the same again.

She Forgot To Be Afraid

The header has a hopeful sound to it, and the tail end of Dany’s first chapters do as well, but the first part of her story is incredibly bleak. Fear is such a heavy element in Dany’s story, partially because it really sets up the decisions she’ll make in her final chapters, but mostly because it is the reason for her character growth. Once Dany finds her place and begins leading as a Khaleesi, we start to see her true personality come out and she is a person again. But for the first few chapters, Dany has almost none of the character traits that later define her, because fear has suppressed them. Living under Viserys as she grew up, constantly dancing around his “dragon”, she had no space to be the bold, fierce, avenging girl she ends A Game of Thrones as. A couple of her traits really shine through in these first chapters, like how much more intelligent and perceptive she is compared to Viserys and some of the adults around her, because her others characteristics have been put on hold; but it’s really just tragic to read about Dany’s life up to this point. Viserys has lied to her (unintentionally, since he is delusional, but…) and made her think she’s only been one step ahead of assassins her whole life, and then turned around and abused her for things out of her control (like her mother Rhaella dying in childbirth, or how he sold their mother’s crown to feed her):

His fingers brushed lightly over her budding breasts and tightened on a nipple. “You will not fail me tonight. If you do, it will go hard for you. You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?” His fingers twisted her, the pinch cruelly hard through the rough fabric of her tunic

“We go home with an army, sweet sister. With Khal Drogo’s army, that is how we go home. And if you must wed him and bed him for that, you will.” He smiled at her. “I’d let his whole khalasar fuck you if need be, sweet sister, all forty thousand men, and their horses too if that was what it took to get my army. Be grateful it is only Drogo.

The picture this paints of what Viserys has been like to Daenerys for years now is shocking (later books will also elaborate that Viserys tried to rape her in the days after this, but Ilyrio’s men stopped him). And like I said earlier, the way Dany has to avoid waking his dragon consumes all of her mental energy. Between trying not to anger him, and longing for days before he became so cruel, there simply isn’t anymore left Dany can give.

The Blood of the Dragon

From the very first chapter, Viserys introduces us to a core concept of GRRM’s world, and for lack of a better name, I’d call it Targaryen entitlement. Even after Viserys dies demanding he be crowned in A Game of Thrones, we aren’t even close to understanding the full reach of Targaryens overstepping in the name of themselves. Fire and Blood Volume I shows us that Aegon conquered a whole continent to get his relative a girl, whether she wanted him or no. That’s the kind of history standing behind Viserys when he threatens Dany with Drogo’s khalasar.

But for now, Viserys is our look inside what led to the implosion of the Targaryen dynasty, and it’s not pretty:

The dragon does not beg

You do not command the dragon

The dragon speaks as he likes

The dragon is not mocked

And Daenerys’ inner monologue gives some context as to why “the dragon” sees himself as so far above the rest:

Dragons did not mate with the beasts of the field, and Targaryens did not mingle their blood with that of lesser men.

Later books and the extended canon will elaborate on this concept further, as we learn the Targaryens are quite literally the blood of the dragon (which is why their severe inbreeding leads to dragon/human hybrid babies); but the important thing here is that Viserys views himself as a God amongst men, a majestic beast unfit to mingle with the sheep. This god complex gives us an understanding of why the Targaryens act the way they do, though; when you’re so high above everyone else, their lives start to matter less and less.

The idea that Targaryens are inherently better than everyone else, drives Viserys as much as his own victimization does:

Ours by blood right. . .You do not steal from the dragon, oh, no. The dragon remembers

Viserys’ language is filled with quotes like this. While he does talk of getting revenge for his brother Rhaegar, or killing the usurper who sits on his father’s throne, an equal amount of his anger is focused on being a dragon. Not only did the Usurper take what belonged to him, but he dared to think himself equal to a dragon.

And Daenerys does not seem particularly interested in either of these things:

“Please, please, Viserys, I don’t want to, I want to go home.”. . .Dany had only meant their rooms in Illyrio’s estate, no true home surely, though all they had, but her brother did not want to hear that. There was no home there for him. Even the big house with the red door had not been home for him.

From the beginning, Dany has found strength in being Daenerys Targaryen, but not in the way Viserys did. She is empowered by it because it gives her a sense of identity; even though she doesn’t have a real home or real friends or anybody, she knows who she is. Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen is not meaningless, she is important; and Dany needs that to hold onto. Her last name cost her so much, but it’s also what keeps her going.

Once her relationship with Viserys starts to fall apart, Daenerys’ relationship to being a Targaryen starts to change. When Daenerys embraces the khalasar, she suddenly becomes very powerful; as long as Khal Drogo is alive, all the men must follow her commands or risk their Khal’s wrath. And being Khaleesi also gives Daenerys a certain sense of place; it’s never going to be home to her, but she belongs there much more than she’s ever belonged anywhere else. She fully begins to embrace their customs by dressing as they do, learning to speak Dothraki, and respecting their sacred beliefs. For the first time in many years she feels comfortable, and she can’t understand why Viserys won’t at least try and join her. The more Dany finds a place for herself, the more determined Viserys is to demean and reject the Dothraki. Where Dany is enjoying their travels to Vaes Dothrak and wouldn’t mind staying with the Dothraki for any number of days before sailing to Westeros, Viserys pushes and pushes to get what he bought with Dany’s marriage. He has no interest in living with the Dothraki, much less wearing their clothes and speaking their language. This divide between them finally allows Dany to see Viserys for what he truly is:

He was a pitiful thing. He had always been a pitiful thing. Why had she never seen that before? There was a hollow place inside her where her fear had been.

And seeing him for the pitiful man he’s always been starts to reshape how Daenerys sees herself. Like almost everyone from Westeros, Daenerys believes very strongly in two things: hereditary monarchy and the divine right of the Targaryen dynasty. Yet she sees Viserys, who by both those measures is the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, and understands he doesn’t deserve it:

Jorah pulled up his horse and looked at her. “Truth now. Would you want to see Viserys sit a throne?”

Dany thought about that. “He would not be a very good king, would he?”

“My brother will never take back the Seven Kingdoms,” Dany said. She had known that for a long time, she realized. She had known it all her life. Only she had never let herself say the words, even in a whisper, but now she said them for Jorah Mormont and all the world to hear.

Ser Jorah gave her a measuring look. "You think not."

“He could not lead an army even if my lord husband gave him one,” Dany said. “He has no coin and the only knight who follows him reviles him as less than a snake. The Dothraki make mock of his weakness. He will never take us home”.

Before I continue, there is one thing I want to emphasize – Daenerys never gives up on her brother. David Benioff and Dan Weiss trying to paint his death as a moral turning point for Daenerys is simply not true. She does put him in his place, like when she takes his horse away from him, but those are not bad things; he physically abuses her, and she removes him from her space by having him at the back of the khalasar. It was a logical and reasonable punishment for his behavior, especially because as Khaleesi she could have had him killed for it. Up until he tries to cut her child out of her, Dany never considers harming him and tries very hard to make him see reason. Even though she feels incredibly close to her dragon eggs, she offers them to Viserys as a last chance to make him happy and to save his life.

While she didn’t give up on him as her brother, she did give up on him as her King:

When her son sat the Iron Throne, she would see that he had bloodriders of his own to protect him against treachery in his Kingsguard.

I wish GRRM spent more time elaborating on this quote of Dany’s, because it’s fairly revolutionary. We know from being in Dany’s head that she has no intention of harming or killing Viserys; and yet, she sees her son sitting on the Iron Throne. Does she just assume he will do something stupid to get him killed on the way? Or has she removed him from the line of succession because he’s a vicious idiot? I’d like to know more on what Dany’s head space is at that moment.

It becomes very clear what her thoughts are once he dies, though:

He was no dragon, Dany thought, curiously calm. Fire cannot kill a dragon

Because Daenerys believes in the monarchy and in the divine right of Targaryens, she has to find a way to square Viserys being the “rightful” King and also being a monster she won’t put on the Iron Throne. And the concept of being a “dragon” is how she does it. Viserys constantly called himself one, and Ser Jorah Mormont said her brother Rhaegar was the last dragon, and once Viserys dies Dany realizes she is the dragon. Of course, everyone else was using “the dragon” in more metaphorical terms, but it becomes clear a little later in the story that Daenerys is much more literally a dragon. Viserys’ death is the first time we see Daenerys fully commit to who she is, the blood of the dragon. She rejects Viserys’ version of her family and starts seeing herself and her son as the future of House Targaryen.

Part of her really starting to embrace herself as being the blood of the dragon, is because she wants to go home to Westeros:

But it was not the plains Dany saw then. It was King’s Landing and the great Red Keep that Aegon the Conqueror had built. It was Dragonstone where she had been born. In her mind’s eye, they burned with a thousand lights, a fire blazing in every window. In her mind’s eye, all the doors were red

Before, when it was Viserys forcing Westeros on her, she never wanted it. But being Khaleesi, Dany realizes that she does want what her family lost:

If I were not the blood of the dragon, she thought wistfully, this could be my home. She was khaleesi, she had a strong man and a swift horse, handmaids to serve her, warriors to keep her safe, an honored place in the dosh khaleen awaiting her when she grew old. . . and in her womb grew a son who would one day bestride the world. That should be enough for any woman. . . but not for the dragon. With Viserys gone, Daenerys was the last, the very last. She was the seed of kings and conquerors, and so too the child inside her. She must not forget.

This is where some of Daenerys less charming qualities are coming out, as far as why and how she wants to take back the Seven Kingdoms. Wanting power or having it are not inherently bad things, but the problems start to show in how Daenerys wants to gain it. Her urge to conquer Westeros is explicitly tied to being Daenerys Targaryen; she wants to reclaim it in the name of “kings and conquerors”. There is no way to remove Daenerys from the long history of abuses Westeros had to suffer under Kings like Aegon the Conqueror, Maegor the Cruel, Aegon the Unworthy, The Mad King Aerys, etc, because Daenerys is coming for the Iron Throne in their name. She’s not just related to them, they are what drive her forward. Later books, and especially A Dance with Dragons, will dive much more into what Fire & Blood means to Westeros and Dany, but even in A Game of Thrones there is attention brought to the bloody history of House Targaryen. This passage also starts drawing attention to the two different people she is; there is Dany, who is a young girl eager for home and love and happiness and belonging, then there is Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, of the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel and old Valyria before them, the dragon’s daughter.

Daughter of Dragons, Bride of Dragons, Mother of Dragons

Beyond Daenerys’ familial connection to her house, there is a strong magical link to Daenerys and her dragons. Even though they aren’t born until the final chapter, A Game of Thrones really highlights the connection she has to them. She receives her three eggs as a gift at her wedding to Khal Drogo:

Dany gasped. They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen, each different than the others, patterned in such rich colors that at first she thought they were crusted with jewels

Right after this, Khal Drogo gifts her Dany’s silver, which she rides and for the first time isn’t afraid. There is a connection drawn between Dany receiving her dragon eggs, and then receiving a mount she finally feels comfortable on. For now, Dany will have to ride her silver, but soon her dragons will be her mount.

The parallels between Daenerys and her dragons are already very clear as well. When she first gets her eggs, they are beautiful but seemingly dead; hard and lifeless stone nobody expects to hatch. Similarly, Daenerys is overlooked by those around her in favor of her brother Viserys, and she’s seemingly dormant. She doesn’t have any ambitions to cross the Narrow Sea and take back the Iron Throne, and nobody is investing in her future. But instantly Daenerys feels something within the hard stone, and keeps them with her almost always.

When she’s at her lowest of lows on the Dothraki sea, at the height of Drogo’s abuse and her feeling lost and unloved, it’s the dragons that bring her back from the edge:

Yet when she slept that night, she dreamt the dragon dream again. Viserys was not in it this time. There was only her and the dragon. Its scales were black as night, wet and slick with blood. Her blood, Dany sensed. Its eyes were pools of molten magma, and when it opened its mouth, the flame came roaring out in a hot jet. She could hear it singing to her. She opened her arms to the fire, embraced it, let it swallow her whole, let it cleanse her and temper her and scour her clean. She could feel her flesh sear and blacken and slough away, could feel her blood boil and turn to steam, and yet there was no pain. She felt strong and new and fierce.

After that dream, her chaffed thighs start to heal and she can ride her silver much better than before. Mentally she also finds a new strength and is able to keep going, which leads to her embracing the Dothraki. She is able to draw actual strength from the eggs, and in return they also find strength in her:

She touched one, the largest of the three, running her hand lightly over the shell. Black-and-scarlet, she thought, like the dragon in my dream. The stone felt strangely warm beneath her fingers. . . or was she still dreaming? She pulled her hand back nervously.

As Dany starts to come into her own, her dragon eggs begin heating up. Both her and her dragons are starting to wake up. And as the book continues, Dany begins associating herself with dragons and as a dragon more and more; first when Viserys dies, then when Robert sends assassins after her, and again when she is claiming the Lhazareen women as her slaves:

The Usurper has woken the dragon now

“The dragon feeds on horse and sheep alike.”

As she grows more comfortable being the dragon, her eggs slowly get closer and closer to coming alive and Daenerys feels called to them:

Cradling the egg with both hands, she carried it to the fire and pushed it down amongst the burning coals. The black scales seemed to glow as they drank the heat. Flames licked against the stone with small red tongues. Dany placed the other two eggs beside the black one in the fire. As she stepped back from the brazier, the breath trembled in her throat.

Daenerys also has dreams of literally becoming a dragon:

A great knife of pain ripped down her back, and she felt her skin tear open and smelled the stench of burning blood and saw the shadow of wings. And Daenerys Targaryen flew. The door loomed before her, the red door, so close, so close, the hall was a blur around her, the cold receding behind. And now the stone was gone and she flew across the Dothraki sea, high and higher, the green rippling beneath, and all that lived and breathed fled in terror from the shadow of her wings

Daenerys being pregnant with her son also offers a lot of insight into what her future is as the last dragon. All of the prophecies and foreshadowing surrounding Rhaego are actually about Daenerys, and it’s the start of her destiny being intertwined with the beautiful horror of dragons:

She was lying there, holding the egg, when she felt the child move within her … as if he were reaching out, brother to brother, blood to blood. "You are the dragon," Dany whispered to him, "the true dragon. I know it. I know it." And she smiled, and went to sleep dreaming of home.

“As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his khalasar covers the earth, men without number, with arakhs shining in their hands like blades of razor grass. Fierce as a storm this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name.”

The first quote really affirms Daenerys’ role in the story as the true dragon, the last dragon. In A Game of Thrones, as well as in A Storm of Swords and A Dance with Dragons, Daenerys has dreams of turning into Rhaegar; while fandom argues what this means and there is plenty of different meanings it could have, I personally believe the foreshadowing is that Daenerys is the last dragon. Many times in the story that role is given to Rhaegar, but we see with Daenerys that she is more a dragon than he ever was.

The second quote is the prophecy given to Daenerys by the Dosh Khaleen in Vaes Dothrak, where they name her son The Stallion Who Mounts The World. This prophecy is obviously about Daenerys; the Dosh Khaleen assumed the future they were seeing belonged to her son, but they were actually seeing Daenerys’ own future. Rhaego dying makes it quite clear, but the prophecy referring to the Stallion Who Mounts the World as “fierce as a storm” really seals the deal; after all she is Daenerys Stormborn, named after the storm that destroyed her family’s fleet. This prophecy is extremely ominous, with lines like “His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief” and “milk men in the stone tents will fear his name”; this does not sound like Daenerys is going to be liberating Westeros (the “stone tents” is a reference to castles). The name this “prince” is given, The Stallion Who Mounts The World, is also very similar to another prophecy of Martin’s – the rape of Westeros Daenerys sees in the House of the Undying. The language used to describe how the Stallion comes to mount the world is bloody and violent; wives crying for their husbands, men living in fear, etc. It’s a very concerning look into the future.

If I Look Back I Am Lost

A lot of people had problems with Game of Thrones’ depiction of Daenerys in s8, based on the idea that her dark turn came out of nowhere. And in no way am I defending the show’s characterization of her, or the portrayal of her dark turn, but a lot of that criticism has gotten carried over to Daenerys as she stands in GRRM’s books, which is simply not true. Daenerys has struggled with darkness her entire arc, and it really comes to the forefront in her last several A Game of Thrones chapters.

The Dothraki raid of the Lhazareen village is a huge turning point for Daenerys. Once Robert attempts to have her assassinated, Dany is finally able to convince Khal Drogo to sail across the Narrow Sea and take the Iron Throne for her and her son. To do this, the Khalasar attack a peaceful village and a rival khalasar, and it’s Dany’s first real look at what her war for the Iron Throne will be like:

Dothraki hooves had torn the earth and trampled the rye and lentils into the ground, while arakhs and arrows had sown a terrible new crop and watered it with blood.

Daenerys see’s Khal Drogo’s men herding a young boy, teasing him until they get bored of the game and cut his head off. The men are also raping women atop piles of their dead people, and it’s sickening to her:

It was different with the townsfolk. Dany pitied them; she remembered what terror felt like.

As she continues to walk through the Dothraki’s destruction, she tries to steel herself to the horrors around her:

I am the blood of the dragon, Daenerys Targaryen reminded herself as she turned her face away. She pressed her lips together and hardened her heart and rode on toward the gate.

But as she realizes their captives will be sold into slavery, she breaks:

Slaves, Dany thought. Khal Drogo would drive them downriver to one of the towns on Slaver’s Bay. She wanted to cry, but she told herself that she must be strong. This is war, this is what it looks like, this is the price of the Iron Throne.

Notice what GRRM calls her here; in the first quote when she is able to harden her heart and ride forward she is “Daenerys Targaryen”, but in the second when she almost begins to cry GRRM softens and calls her “Dany”. I’ll get into it more below, but Daenerys is constantly at odds with herself and those are the two versions of her. Remember when I said the lemon tree is what Dany wants to want? There is a part of her that craves that simplicity, but life keeps pushing and pulling her towards that other part of her, the blood of the dragon, the seed of kings and conquerors, the part of her that is Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen.

But in this moment, Daenerys Targaryen loses. Dany, the part of her that remembers what it’s like to be terrified, to be a slave, decides to turn back:

Behind them, the girl being raped made a heartrending sound, a long sobbing wail that went on and on and on. Dany’s hand clenched hard around the reins, and she turned the silver’s head. “Make them stop,” she commanded Ser Jorah.

Notice how this passage starts: Behind them. Daenerys has to look back to save Eroeh. By the end of this book, Daenerys has made “If I look back I am lost” into her life philosophy, and it’s heartbreaking. Her last couple of chapters tell the story of a good-hearted person trying to help people and fix the mistake she’s made, yet when it all goes south she learns all the wrong lessons.

When Daenerys tries to claim these women to save them, she does it with all the naivety of a 14yo girl. We shouldn’t expect her to know what to do in these situations; she’s a young girl and she has a very simple understanding of what’s right and what’s wrong, and more importantly she has a very simple understanding of what is and isn’t a slave.

One of the women she saves in this town is Mirri Maz Duur:

They passed other women being raped. Each time Dany reined up, sent her khas to make an end to it, and claimed the victim as slave. One of them, a thick-bodied, flat-nosed woman of forty years, blessed Dany haltingly in the Common Tongue.

Mirri is the only woman who says thank you to Dany, whereas the others are terrified that Dany has spared them for something worse. So, when Mirri speaks up that she can help Khal Drogo, Dany stands up for her against the Dothraki and allows her to help him. The mental processes of Mirri Maz Duur are still actually very unclear, and I know a lot of people argue over when she decided what she was going to do and even what she actually did. But to me, it seems heavily implied that Mirri’s original efforts were made in good faith. Khal Drogo falls ill because he disregards every single one of Mirri’s instructions by ripping her poultice off, smearing his wound in mud, and drinking wine and milk of the poppy heavily. When Dany calls Mirri to look at him again, she instantly knows Drogo has ignored her:

“He has been dulling the hurt with milk of the poppy.”

“Yes,” Dany admitted.

“I made him a poultice of firepod and sting-me-not and bound it in a lambskin.”

“It burned, he said. He tore it off. The herbwomen made him a new one, wet and soothing.”

“It burned, yes. There is great healing magic in fire, even your hairless men know that.”

Mirri seems very genuine here, and lays out that Drogo ignored everything she told him. It doesn’t make logical sense that she could have done this to him, considering he ripped her poultice off almost immediately and preceded to do all the things she told him not to. I think Mirri made a genuine attempt to help Drogo, either altruistically or as an attempt to gain favor with her new master (Dany), and then is completely ignored, which seems to upset her. What also upsets her, is that Dany owns her:

“You do not ask a slave,” Mirri replied sharply, “you tell her.”

As we progress further, I really want to encourage readers to remember Mirri’s perspective in this story. I won’t dive too deep into her motivations, because this is about Dany and Mirri really deserves a meta of her own, but understanding her is key to understanding what GRRM is trying to say at the climax of Dany’s arc. Remember that Dany threw the first punch between them, and while Dany did try to help Mirri, Mirri tried equally to help Dany and Drogo and had her efforts thrown back in her face.

And while Mirri Maz Duur is entirely misleading at points, she never lies to Dany and she tries to talk Dany out of it:

Mirri Maz Duur sat back on her heels and studied Daenerys through eyes as black as night. “There is a spell.” Her voice was quiet, scarcely more than a whisper. “But it is hard, lady, and dark. Some would say that death is cleaner. I learned the way in Asshai, and paid dear for the lesson. My teacher was a bloodmage from the Shadow Lands.”

The first time Dany thinks to herself “If I look back I am lost”, is when Mirri tells her she knew that the price to pay was Rhaego and did it anyway. I’ve seen it argued that this is unclear or false, but I completely disagree. This quote here is evidence enough:

“Death?” Dany wrapped her arms around herself protectively, rocked back and forth on her heels. “My death?” She told herself she would die for him, if she must. She was the blood of the dragon, she would not be afraid.

Dany dying for Drogo would certainly lead to Rhaego’s death as well, since the sacrifice needs to happen before the night is done and Dany has no thoughts of going into labor. This quote makes it even clearer:

“No,” Mirri Maz Duur promised. “Not your death, Khaleesi.”

Dany trembled with relief. “Do it.”

She agrees before Mirri tells her what the sacrifice is. Dany would have given up anything in that moment to save Khal Drogo.

Like I said earlier, she is still a very young girl here and doesn’t have any reason to be able to handle the weight that’s been placed on her. But she gets incredibly focused on Drogo once he falls sick, and her care and compassion for anyone else seems to disappear:

Eroeh stared fearfully at Drogo where he lay. “He dies,” she whispered.

Dany slapped her.

Eroeh is the girl Daenerys saw gang raped atop a pile of corpses, the girl who’s wails turned Dany around.

After everything goes so horribly wrong, when Drogo’s men turn against her and Jorah brings her into the tent with Mirri and she loses Rhaego and Drogo and wakes up with nothing, Mirri tells her this:

“I spoke for you,” she said, anguished. “I saved you.”

“Saved me?” The Lhazareen woman spat. “Three riders had taken me, not as a man takes a woman but from behind, as a dog takes a bitch. The fourth was in me when you rode past. How then did you save me? I saw my god’s house burn, where I had healed good men beyond counting. My home they burned as well, and in the street I saw piles of heads. I saw the head of a baker who made my bread. I saw the head of a boy I had saved from deadeye fever, only three moons past. I heard children crying as the riders drove them off with their whips. Tell me again what you saved.”

“Your life.”

Mirri Maz Duur laughed cruelly. “Look to your khal and see what life is worth, when all the rest is gone.”

Mirri obviously makes some morally dubious decisions, but there is a lot of truth in what she tells Daenerys. What Dany viewed as saving, Mirri sees as a pitiful gesture; the damage was already done before Dany changed her mind, and she didn’t see or understand that. If Daenerys was in a more understanding mindset, Mirri has a great lesson to teach her about how you treat people, especially your slaves (because yes, Mirri is Dany’s slave).

That’s not the lesson Dany learns though, she learns If I look back I am lost; which is a callback to a passage from her earlier chapters:

Behind them the great horde might tear the earth and muddy the rivers and send up clouds of choking dust, but the fields ahead of them were always green and verdant

Deciding not to look back is a decision Dany makes so she doesn’t have to face the reality of her choices and mistakes. Everything is okay if she doesn’t turn back, if she doesn’t see the way her actions sow a crop of blood in the soil. But like I said, Dany’s best moments come when she looks behind her. If she didn’t look back for Eroeh, she would have left women to be raped and sold into slavery. Especially when we get to A Storm of Swords and A Dance with Dragons, it’s just so clear that looking back is essential to Dany’s morality. She tries not to through those books, but she can’t stop herself. Yet every time she does, she hates it. She hates that she saved Mirri Maz Duur and cost herself so much in the process. That’s why she tells herself If I look back I am lost, to remember to never look back again.

Waking the Dragon

This is the climax of Dany’s arc in A Game of Thrones; everything in her chapters is leading her to the moment she steps into Drogo’s funeral pyre. From her first chapter, she dreams of her dragons:

There are no more dragons, Dany thought, staring at her brother, though she did not dare say it aloud.

Yet that night she dreamt of one. Viserys was hitting her, hurting her. She was naked, clumsy with fear. She ran from him, but her body seemed thick and ungainly. He struck her again. She stumbled and fell. “You woke the dragon,” he screamed as he kicked her. “You woke the dragon, you woke the dragon.” Her thighs were slick with blood. She closed her eyes and whimpered. As if in answer, there was a hideous ripping sound and the crackling of some great fire. When she looked again, Viserys was gone, great columns of flame rose all around, and in the midst of them was the dragon. It turned its great head slowly. When its molten eyes found hers, she woke, shaking and covered with a fine sheen of sweat. She had never been so afraid. . .

Her next dream has a much more positive feel, but carries the same language:

She opened her arms to the fire, embraced it, let it swallow her whole, let it cleanse her and temper her and scour her clean. She could feel her flesh sear and blacken and slough away, could feel her blood boil and turn to steam

This dream really reminds me of GRRM’s inspiration for his title, Fire and Ice by Robert Frost:

Some say the world will end in fire/Some say in ice/From what I’ve tasted of desire/I hold with those who favor fire

When Dany is in Mirri’s tent, her dreams start to take on a very ominous tone:

A great knife of pain ripped down her back, and she felt her skin tear open and smelled the stench of burning blood and saw the shadow of wings. And Daenerys Targaryen flew. The door loomed before her, the red door, so close, so close, the hall was a blur around her, the cold receding behind. And now the stone was gone and she flew across the Dothraki sea, high and higher, the green rippling beneath, and all that lived and breathed fled in terror from the shadow of her wings

…

She woke to the taste of ashes.

The progression of her dreams tell an interesting story. At first, when Daenerys wants no part of Viserys’ dreams or the Seven Kingdoms, the dragon in her dream terrifies her and she wakes more scared than she’s ever been. But when the dream comes to her on the Dothraki sea, after she’s received her eggs as a wedding gift, she embraces the dragon in her dream; lets the fire mold and shape her, burn away her fear and hurt. And when she’s fever dreaming in Mirri’s tent, she takes the next step and becomes the dragon; flying over Westeros, chasing the red door. As Dany progresses through A Game of Thrones, she slowly embraces the dragon until she is ready to hatch them in her final chapter.

What’s most interesting is the framing of what that means. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that we are introduced to the concept of “waking the dragon” through Viserys’ threats to Daenerys. From the first chapter, we’re meant to understand that waking the dragon is really bad for Daenerys. She tries her hardest not to wake the dragon, because something very bad will happen to her if she does. And her first dream of the dragon from her second chapter feeds into this narrative; the dragon seeks to burn her.

In her second dream, she is much more comfortable standing before the dragon; but it’s important to realize that nothing has changed in the structure of the dream. Her dragon still wants to burn her, but now she finds strength in that; let this dragon burn away her weakness and temper her strength. She’s starting to grow closer to her eggs, and also more comfortable with her heritage. Being with the Dothraki stripped her of everything except herself, and she’s starting to fall back on that for strength.

A lot of time passes before she has her last and final dream before hatching her dragons, and the tone has now changed. She isn’t standing before the dragon; she is the dragon. In her dream, she hears Viserys saying “You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?” and as she dreams it slowly falls away until all she hears is “wake the dragon”. Through her travels on the Dothraki Sea, she’s gone from a scared girl cowering before the dragon, to the one flying overhead, making every living thing tremble in fear.

She has gone from Dany to Daenerys Targaryen.

And this isn’t supposed to be a good thing. Like I said, it’s not a coincidence that we’re introduced to “waking the dragon” as something Dany should fear. The imagery of her dreams is very clear; Dany is burned away, and in the ashes rises Daenerys Targaryen, Queen and Conqueror.

The most ominous and foreboding part of how Daenerys wakes the dragons, is of course the sacrifice she makes to hatch them. It’s pretty clear in the text, but confirmed by GRRM in interviews, that Daenerys is able to walk into the fire unscathed and hatch her dragons because of blood magic. She has already lost Drogo and Rhaego permanently at this point, so I don’t take issue with using their deaths towards saving herself, but the sacrifice of Mirri is entirely different. I want to establish that Daenerys knows what she is doing when she chooses to burn Mirri:

“I remember what you told me. Only death can pay for life.”

I’ve seen many people who argue that Daenerys would eventually turn dark use this quote as one of the first signs:

“You will not hear me scream,” Mirri responded as the oil dripped from her hair and soaked her clothing.

“I will,” Dany said

But to me, the end of that sentence is much more frightening:

“but it is not your screams I want, only your life.”

Daenerys understands that Mirri’s death is paying for her dragons, and that’s why she does it. I would understand, I would be less worried for Dany, if her killing Mirri was a rash decision made out of grief, exhaustion, pure rage; but it’s not. It’s a cold, rational, calm decision; she thinks about it, understands it, and then burns Mirri alive.

Remember when I said Mirri had a valuable lesson to teach Daenerys, and Daenerys learned all the wrong things? This is what she learned, that only death can pay for life. Instead of hearing Mirri’s critique on what Dany was complicit in, Daenerys takes it to heart that death should not be meaningless; not in the way that life is precious and therefore should be preserved, but in the way that she should get something out of it – in this case dragons.

I also want to call attention to what Mirri is to Daenerys. A lot of Daenerys’ more adamant defenders will call back to the same argument every time: Daenerys kills slavers. Killing bad men, even if in brutal fashion, cannot just suddenly change into killing the innocent and oppressed. But remember, Mirri is where it all started; yes Daenerys was in some way involved in the brutality that befell the Lhazareen people, but it is clear she didn’t have a full understanding of what she was asking when she said she wanted to take the Iron Throne, and turned back on her decision to try and help the girls. Burning Mirri Maz Duur is the first death that is the direct result of Daenerys’ choice (Viserys’ death was the result of his choices). And who was Mirri to Daenerys?

Her slave.

This decision also highlights a certain capacity for cruelty. I previously mentioned that Daenerys slaps Eroeh, the girl she saw gang raped only days prior, and again she shows something similar with Mirri:

“I am tired of the maegi’s braying,” Dany told Jhogo. He took his whip to her, and after that the godswife kept silent.

I understand that Mirri has taken Rhaego from Daenerys, but it shows a certain tunnel vision Daenerys has that she cannot understanding that much more was taken from Mirri before the maegi resorted in blood magic.

This kind of tunnel vision Daenerys is something she has through all the books, Daznak’s Pit being the clearest example, and A Game of Thrones is no different. The simultaneous horror and beauty of Daenerys’ blaze is breathtaking. Something horrific is taking place; the horse murdered for Drogo is burning, Mirri Maz Duur is screaming, Jorah and the Dothraki are shouting and crying. Yet the language is beautiful:

Huge orange gouts of fire unfurled their banners in that hellish wind, the logs hissing and cracking, glowing cinders rising on the smoke to float away into the dark like so many newborn fireflies

The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils

The flames were so beautiful, the loveliest things she had ever seen, each on a sorcerer robed in yellow and orange and scarlet, swirling long smoky cloaks. She saw crimson firelions and great yellow serpents and unicorns made of pale blue flame

You can almost forget the horror of Mirri burning, because the flames are just so beautiful to Daenerys. The flames are described like dancers, floating and swirling and captivating her; everything else doesn’t matter anymore, only the flames. Yet GRRM doesn’t let us fully forget:

The pyre roared in the deepening dusk like some great beast, drowning out the fainter sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s screaming

She heard the screams of frightened horses, and the voices of the Dothraki raised in shouts of fear and terror, and Ser Jorah calling her name and cursing. No, she wanted to shout to him, no, my good knight, do not fear for me. The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don’t you see? Don’t you SEE?

I’m not trying to say that Daenerys is a bad person now. She still has so many redeeming qualities; she still cares deeply for people, fights against slavery, wants to help her people. In lesser fiction, character arcs on a graph are a straight line headed up or down, but GRRM is writing a masterpiece. He has no interest in clean arcs because real people are not one note; if you plotted a real person’s choices out on a graph, it would be a series of small ups and downs while still trending one direction, there could even be massive rises or falls because real people slip and regress as they fall into old habits. Daenerys is on a path leading to a dark turn, but she still has many highs left to go. The speech she gives to the Dothraki before she lights Drogo’s pyre is evidence of this; she looks out and sees her people, those rejected by the khalasar that left her. The old, the children, the women, the sick or crippled; and she embraces them. Daenerys is fiercely loyal to this group of people who still stood by her after everyone else left her. And she sets them free; Daenerys’ new khalasar will not be built on the backs of slaves.

But the dragons call to her, and she can’t say no to them. She is the blood of the dragon, and the fire is in her. Daenerys wants many things, like peace and home and trees, but all of those things fall away when she sees the glory and bane of her house. When she stands in the pyre, everything else falls away; the roaring and cracking of the fire and her dragons hatching drowns out the screams and shrieks and cries. The fire dances in her eyes and pulls her forward. Her dragons are beautiful and terrible, awe inspiring and fear inducing. They will always be both, just as Daenerys herself has always had both callings inside her, and it is very fitting that her A Game of Thrones arc should end here

For the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons.

#asoiaf #daenerys targaryen #anti daenerys #game of thrones #asoiaf meta

[tacitwhisky]

Sansa Stone, pt 1

Jon x Sansa - AU where Sansa is born the bastard of Littlefinger and raised in Kingslanding. When she travels to Winterfell with king Robert’s procession she meets the Stark bastard: long faced and grey eyed Jon Snow who she finds herself strangely drawn to / AO3 Link

Photo Credit: Sophie Starke

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The white wolf gnaws at the chicken beneath the table, coat a shock of snow against the grey of the stone of Winterfell’s great hall, eyes gleaming like red coals in the dark beneath wood benches bowing under the weight of the dozens of squires and youths too low born to be seated closer to the high table of lords Baratheon, Stark, and Lannister.

Sansa Stone, bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish, kneels before the bench, lifting the hem of her skirt to avoid a puddle of spilled wine and ignoring the booming laughter and clang of cups filling the smoky hall. She’s heard of the Stark wolves of course. All of the king procession had on the road north to Winterfell. Half wild as the Starks themselves, Betta the homely baker’s daughter had whispered to Sansa in a scandalized tone, and they say they follow the children everywhere. But despite the four Stark children sitting at the high table this is the first of the pups Sansa has seen since the feast began.

She holds out a hand to the white wolf. Its red eyes study her warily, but slowly, it rises and pads over to sniff her outstretched fingers. Carefully, Sansa scratches its jaw, the wolf accepting her touch silently. “And whose are you?” She sing-songs. “What’s your name?”

“Ghost.”

Sansa glances up to see a long faced youth she hadn’t noticed sitting on the bench eyeing her curiously. He’s comely in a dark and slender kind of way, eyes grey and intent as he nudges his chin at the wolf. “For his coat.”

Sansa’s only friend as a child had been an old brown hound who’d ambled after her as she tottered around the grey and dreary keep she’d been raised in on the Fingers, stood still and patient as she brushed his coat and played with his ears and chattered of tourneys with knights gallant and ladies fair. Sansa smiles faintly as she runs her fingers through Ghosts’ ruff. “It fits him.”

Ghost blinks slowly, as though he can understand her. He noses Sansa’s palm, wet and cold, before turning and padding back to his half gnawed chicken.

“He doesn’t usually take to being touched.” The boy’s eyes watch Sansa careful as those of his wolf. “Not by most.”

“He’s beautiful,” Sansa says truthfully. The boy flushes, clearly pleased, and a part of Sansa notes and tucks the knowledge away. We men are but weak creatures, sweetling, she hears Petyr whisper just as he has half a hundred times, breath tickling the shell of her ear. Each of us holds a special need. Learn it and with but a smile you can capture the heart of any lord.

Sansa knows who the boy is of course: the Stark bastard, the one stain on noble Lord Eddard Stark’s honor, the one who’d inherited his father’s long face and the Stark coloring that all three of his half brothers at the high table lack. The lady Stark must mislike that, Sansa muses as she stands and smoothes her skirts, fingers still tingling. Is he bitter at having to sit so far from his brothers?

“And your name, ser?” She asks.

“Jon,” he answers, and Sansa doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick to the high table and his trueborn siblings . “I’m no knight though.”

“I’d heard there were less here in the north.” Sansa gathers her skirts and perches on the edge of the bench. Never forget your courtesies, sweetling, she hears her father whisper again. Men will always think you base because of your birth; your courtesies are your only armor against them. “Though northmen are said to be no less honorable.”

The boy shrugs, trying to hide it, but clearly pleased again. He tilts his head to the side. “I’ve given you my name.”

“And your wolf’s." Sansa offers him a smile and half courtesy. "I’m Sansa. My father is Petyr Baelish, the king’s master of coin.”

Jon’s lips purse as though around a sour taste. “Sansa?”

Sansa cannot help the laugh that escapes her, high and bright. “You should always compliment a lady on her name,” she teases, “even if you think it ugly.”

“I don’t think it’s ugly.” Jon says sheepishly. “It’s very pretty.”

A hundred men have told Sansa so before, but there’s an earnestness to Jon that makes her believe him somehow. Fool, fool girl. They never say what they mean.

Jon ducks his head and swallows from his cup. He eyes her, silently serious again. “We’re not often visited with ladies here beneath the salt. Much less a daughter of the master of coin.”

Sansa smiles faintly. “Bastard daughter,” she corrects, soft and precise.

Jon’s eyes flit to her face, studying it as though only now truly seeing her. “I’m bastard too.”

“Jon and Snow,” Sansa muses aloud. “Lord Stark’s bastard is called that, isn’t he?”

“My lord father.” Jon casts another glance at the high table. “The lady Stark didn’t think it right to sully the king’s table with a bastard.”

Petyr has no lady wife, but still Sansa knows the sting: of being cast out, of being pushed to the fringe of all she’s ever wanted. Her chest twinges. “A good thing,” she announces, and answers Jon’s sharp frown with a tilt of her head to the side and faint smile. “Else how would we have met?”

Jon flushes again. Sansa finds herself oddly pleased by it, though she doesn’t know why. It’s no great victory: from the heat of Jon’s cheeks she can see he’s deeper in his cups than he’s used to. She'd only had a half cup herself. It had not taken her long once her father brought her to Kingslanding to learn to take care in how much she drank at feasts, learn how men act in their cups: the way their hands roam, the liberties they think only natural to take with a bastard girl, how swiftly they grow wroth when that same bastard girl was less than willing to indulge those liberties.

Even without looking Sansa feels the eyes of the squires and youths seated around her skittering like roaches across her skin, across the flare of her hips, the slim of her waist, the modest cut of her bodice that nonetheless always seems to fit too snug around her chest no matter how many times she lets it out. Careless and unashamed gazes, for who is ashamed of staring at a bastard girl?

“Why, they stare for how lovely you are,” Petyr had told Sansa when she first came to Kingslanding and hesitantly asked him why the men of court always seemed to be looking at her.

“But I thought,” she’d started, unsure of herself, “in songs knights and lords never-”

“Ah, but life is not a song, sweetling, is it? And we men are but base creatures.” Petyr had smiled and tilted her chin up to him. His touch had made Sansa shiver, strangely uncomfortable as so many things with her lord father did. “Do not fear though. With me you will always be safe. And soon enough I will convince Lord Arryn to name you my trueborn daughter.”

She had wanted to believe him. For weeks afterwards Sansa had curled in her bed each night and dreamed that she could still be the lady of songs, that once the bastard taint was washed from her name knights would come and beg her for her favor just like in the songs, promise to prove their love with feats of valor and crown her queen of love and beauty at tourneys. But weeks turned to months and months to years and the dreams faded as word from Lord Arryn never came. It had hurt, hurt to face the truth, hurt like pushing a needle through her thumb to face that she would never be the lady of a song, that she would always be just a bastard.

The smoke and heat of the hall have turned Sansa’s throat dry. She reaches for an abandoned pewter cup and takes a careful sip of the wine left at the bottom, the taste of it spiced and sweet and thick on her tongue. “Will you go south with your lord father?” She asks Jon.

Jon eyes her curiously. “Why would he go south?”

“Why, to be Hand of the King of course.” Sansa knows she shouldn’t, knows men mislike a maid who knows more than they, but the wine has made her bold. She leans forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Robert is not the kind of man to let someone he does not know serve as Hand. And why else would the king travel so far north?”

Jon glances at the high table where Robert is roaring with laughter, his wine cup nearly sloshing over. “He and my lord father did ward together.”

“Exactly. And who better to take the place of lord Arryn than his other ward?”

Jon nods slowly, as if to himself, and looks back at her, eyes thoughtful and grey. “You see a lot.”

Sansa’s skin tingles, and for a moment she feels caught in his gaze: the clang of plates and murmur of conversation swept away and distant, leaving only and her and this slender bastard boy with his grey eyes. With an effort she leans back. “We bastards have to see more than others, don’t we?” She takes another sip. The wine, it must be. “Will you go south with him? Your father?”

Jon doesn’t answer. He looks down and skewers a sausage on the point of his knife, offers it to Ghost below the table. “I mean to go north, not south,” he says abruptly, ruffling Ghost’s thick fur as the direwolf snaps up the sausage, “to the Wall and the Night’s Watch.”

A haven for rapers and stableboys and thieves, Sansa has heard her father sniff of the Night’s Watch before. But that would hardly be courteous to say. “A noble order,” she offers instead. “I’ve heard them called the black knights of the Wall.”

Jon shrugs as he scratches Ghost behind the ear without looking up. “It’s the most I can hope for,” he says in a sudden, fierce rush. “And there’s honor in serving as a man of the Night’s Watch. Even for a bastard.”

A fool boy with a fool notion, she can hear her father sneer, but the Night’s Watch is the kind of noble cause a knight in one of the songs Sansa once believed in, the ones she’d loved so dearly, would pledge himself to: forswear wife and lands and sons for the good of the realm. Would any of the countless squires in Kingslanding that loved to boast of the great tourneys and battles they would one day win be willing to do the same?

“You’ll make a gallant man of the Night’s Watch.” Sansa says, the words leaving her fiercer than she meant them to. She finds herself unable to regret it though as Jon looks up, a hesitant smile touching his lips. She leans forward to stroke Ghost’s head, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she does. “You won’t be… lonely, though?”

In the corner of her eye Jon shrugs. “We bastards have to grow up faster than others, don’t we?”

“And who are you growing up faster than?” Breaks in a new voice as a man straddles the bench on the other side of Jon. He has the same long Stark face as Jon, though older and weathered, and is dressed in the blacks of a man of the Night’s Watch. He snags a roasted onion from a trencher, eyes tracing and lingering on the exposed line of Sansa leaned forward. “I’d no idea you kept such fine company here, nephew.”

Sansa’s skin prickles, the warmth of the hall fled in an instant, and she straightens stiffly. She’d forgotten for a moment: forgotten her place, forgotten that she’s a bastard and base by nature, wanton and willing and worthless. You know better, you stupid girl, a voice in her hisses, a sharp and bitter twist in her breastbone. Your courtesies are your only armor. Forget them and you’re no better than some serving girl giggling on a lord’s lap.

Jon flushes red, but his voice when he answers his uncle is firm. “This is the lady Sansa, uncle.”

It must be the wine, but an absurd spark of gratitude catches light and flushes through Sansa, and she finds herself staring stupidly at Jon. She tears her gaze away, schools her face, and smiles up at the man: light and lovely and nothing like she feels. “Lord Benjen Stark, I presume?”

The man raises his eyebrows in an expression of mild surprise. “I am, though my brother is the Lord Stark. I hope my nephew hasn’t been boring you.”

“He’s been merry company.” Sansa smiles at Jon and is rewarded by a sheepish grin in return. “And it’s kind of him to let a simple southern girl like me sit beside him.”

Benjen bites into the onion with a crunch, and turns to Jon. “Don’t you usually eat at table with your brothers?”

Jon shrugs stiffly, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Lady Stark thought it might give insult to the royal family to seat a bastard among them.”

Benjen arches an eyebrow and glances over his shoulder at the high table. “I’d forgotten how things are away from the Wall.”

Jon bites his lip and glances at Sansa. “Take me with you when you go back,” he says in a sudden rush, turning back to his uncle. “If you ask, father will give me leave to go.”

Benjen frowns. “The Wall is a hard place for a boy, Jon.”

“I'll be sixteen on my next name day, nearly a man.” Jon draws himself up. “I’m old enough to take the oath.”

“To speak it maybe, but to understand it?” Benjen shakes his head. “It’s no small thing to take the black, Jon. We have no lands, no wives, no sons. Until you’ve known a woman you don’t understand what you would be giving up.”

“I don’t care about that,” Jon snaps hotly, oblivious to the way his voice is beginning to draw the gazes of the other youths at the table.

“You might if you knew what it meant.” Benjen’s eyes linger on Sansa. He puts a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Come back after you’ve fathered a few bastards of your own, Jon.”

Jon pushes away Benjen’s hand and surges to his feet. “I will never father a bastard,” he spits. “ Never.”

The word rings in the sudden silence around them, and all at once Jon seems to feel the eyes of the other youths around the table on him. He glances at Sansa, cheeks crimson, but before she can do anything he’s whirling away and bolting from the table. His legs tangle under him and he lurches into a serving girl, the flagon of wine she’s holding crashing to the floor to explode in a hundred shards. Sansa reaches out to steady him but laughter is booming through the hall and he tears his arm away without seeing her, flees for the door with Ghost at his heels.

Sansa glances at Benjen as the laughter fades and the rest of the table goes back to its food and wine and murmured conversation. “That was unkind,” she says quietly.

Benjen shrugs. “He needs to know the truth. Taking the black is not a decision to be made on a whim. Jon is still a child.”

“He isn’t.” Sansa isn’t sure what makes her say it. Courtesies are a lady’s armor, and there’s no reason to defend some bastard boy she’s only just met, but she raises her chin and smiles sickly-sweetly at Benjen. “We bastards grow faster than others.”

Benjen snags Jon’s abandoned cup and drains it of wine with a swallow. “Mayhaps.” He shrugs and stands. “You’ll excuse me, my lady.”

Sansa dips her head as he leaves the table. She stands too, but doesn’t move away, instead gazing at the door through which Jon fled. What she’d told him is true: when Robert rides south lord Stark will ride with him as Hand. And where Lord Jon Arryn had always rebuffed her father’s petitions to legitimize her, Lord Stark-

Charm him, sweetling, Petyr had told her before she left Kingslanding, a faint smile on his lips as he stroked her cheek. Make it so he smiles when he sees you. You look so like his lady wife it should be simple. You are just as lovely as she was as a maid before he took her from me. Blush here, curtesy there. Make him fond of you. Make it so that when I ask him to wash the bastard taint from your name he never thinks to ask why or who your mother is until it is already too late.

It’s a secret none know; the secret Petyr had told her on her tenth nameday when he came to visit and she asked him shyly if he’d brought her a gift. “A gift?” He’d mused with a smile. “I do, though it is a secret. Can you keep a secret, sweetling?”

“What kind of secret?”

“The sweet kind.” Petyr had taken her hand and drawn her to him, perched her on his lap. “The one of your birth. The one of your mother.”

Sansa had pursed her lips, trying not to squirm, and nodded. And so he’d told her: told her she was no ordinary bastard, but the natural daughter of Lysa Tully, daughter of the most highborn house of the Riverlands. “When you are older I will convince our fat king to legitimize you.” Petyr kissed her cheek. “And then we will reveal that your name is not Baelish, but Tully. Is that gift enough for your nameday, sweetling?”

It was like something out of a song, the peasant girl who was a princess all along, and for months after Sansa had smiled into her pillow each night. Even once her father brought her to Kingslanding she’d clung to the knowledge, a secret all her own that none could touch. That she could still be the lady of songs, that once the bastard taint was washed from her name knights would come and beg her for her favor just like in the songs, promise to prove their love with feats of valor and crown her queen of love and beauty at tourneys.

Make lord Stark fond of you, sweetling, and it can all still be yours.

At a glance Lord Stark was not a man that looked fond of anyone or anything: face long and stern in a way that made Sansa shiver and remember the old tales of the hard winter kings who when nights were coldest came south of the Neck to pillage and plunder. But even across the hall Sansa has seen the gentle expression that tugs at his lips when he looks at his children. And just as some part of her had tucked away Jon’s words, some part of her that never rests, some part of her that is her lord father’s more than hers, had tucked the knowledge away in the ugly place deep inside her she wishes she could forget. The dark ugly place that sees others simple as pieces on a board, the same place that an idea has been welling within since she first saw Jon.

Is lord Stark fond of Jon in the way he is his trueborn children? Is he more like to think kindly of a bastard girl, to legitimize her, if his own bastard wants her?

Because she could make Jon want her: of that, Sansa has no doubt. So many men already do. She could follow Jon out into the cold and offer him comfort: a shoulder to lay his head on, a warm smile, fingers to lace through his. Use his moment of weakness. And after that it would be easy. Easy to make him like her, think of her, want her. To laugh and touch his arm, to cast him glances from under long eyelashes, to let her fingers linger when she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. And from there it would be easy to convince him to go south; south with her instead of north to nothing.

You would be doing the boy a kindness, sweetling, she can hear her father whisper soft as though her were there beside her, breath tickling her ear. The Wall is a cold and frigid mistress, a home for rapers and murderers, and the Night’s Watch itself a fool’s errand.

It’s a noble cause, she protests silently, like a knight from a song.

Ah, but life is not a song, is it? And how long have we worked to wash the bastard taint from your name?

It's all Sansa's ever wanted. All she's dreamed of since she first came to Kingslanding and realized she was not the lady of the songs, since that first feast in the Red Keep when men had stared and leered at the pretty bastard girl, since that first night when she curled into a ball in the dark of this strange new city and tried to stifle her sobs as she wept for all the things she would never be.

A serving girl sweeps by Sansa, bringing her back to the here and now and clangor of the hall. She glances down, smooths her skirts to gather herself, and turns from the bench, turns her mind from thoughts of Jon and songs and foolish dreams.

But even as Sansa makes her way back to the center of the hall something of Jon lingers in her mind; the shy flash of his grin when he’d looked up at her, the flush of his cheeks, the way his grey eyes watched her silent and careful and piercing as those of his wolf.

#my fic #sansa stone #jon snow #sansa stark #jonsa #jonsafic #jonsa fic #jon x sansa #jon / sansa #jonsa au

[imagineclaireandjamie]

A shoutout to @notevenjokingfic for helping me wrap the last paragraph of this one up. She is a champ and she makes me a better writer.

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations|Part VII: Magnolias| Part VIII: Schoolmates | Part IX: A Queen’s Speech | Part X: Rare | Part XI: Watched | Part XII: A Day’s Anticipation | Part XIII: The Location | Part XV: Motorcycle

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.) Part XV: Cabin

Claire wondered if it was real.

How any of it could be real.

The weightless feeling pressing against her skull.

The leaden feeling in her bones, save the very tips of her fingers.

The bobbing feeling of her mind, floating above the rest of her like a balloon swollen with helium and fighting at the end of a slippery string.  

The percussive orchestra of rain against the roof and windows becoming a tight drum. The slapping of fat, cool drops coming in sheets and pinging metallic in the gutters.  The gurgling draining of water off of the eaves, dripping and soaking the brown earth until it became a saturated, life-sustaining black.  

The slurring Gaelic in her ear as she finally emerged from the haze that had cascaded over all five of her senses.

“I’ve no’ ever…” Fraser started before his voice trailed away. He swallowed (once, again, a third time) in an apparent (and unsuccessful) attempt to clear a lump in his throat.  “Bein’ wi’ ye, I couldna begin to imagine… the closeness…”

Absorbing the rise and fall of his chest beneath her fingertips, her thoughts meandered. She put random meanings to his Gaelic.  Words and phrases that she had never heard, that she could not begin to spell.

‘Live, here, in a moment,’ she thought to herself, trying to summon the mental image of an existence (however long) where all that dwelt was rain, the cabin, and the man pressed against her.  

She allowed her eyes to close (a fight that she could never have hoped to win), to just be with him.

A man.  

Fraser.  

Jamie.  

Hers.

The quiet reverence with which Fraser had touched her shoulder as she had risen to step into the bathroom after the stampede of their breathing had evened.  

The dumbfounded way she concentrated on her reflection in the mirror while performing a tender inspection of her swollen, smiling mouth behind the closed bathroom door.

The sound of him moving about the room, opening and closing a drawer, quietly coughing, hissing a curse over a toe stubbed by some dastardly piece of heavy furniture.

The finely carved, naked statue of him as she exited the bathroom, just far enough from the door that she knew he was not listening.

The holding thick robe, white gone grey from repeated washing with a too-long mismatched tie.  

The look in his eyes as he had studied her matched the warmth of the kiss he placed on her forehead.

The tenderness and care he took as he wrapped her in the robe and whispered, “there, ye’re no worse for wear now.”

The way she had fought to stop herself from whispering, “you’re wrong, you’ve destroyed me, brought me back to life.”

“I’m hungry,” she whispered instead, digits curling under the too-long cuffs of the robe. The fabric was scented with him in a way that she knew would never wash clean. His humid puff of breath at the tail end of a Scottish noise cemented the baby-fine hairs at her hairline against her temple.  

“Are ye?”  As if it required clarification or words needed to fill the moment, he added, “Hungry?”

Bowing her head, she rested her head against his chest and framing her front against his hips with her hands loose at his hips.  “I am.  I want to eat and hear all about this place, and then I want to fall back into bed with you.”

His dry palm skimmed along the curve of her throat, fingers lifting her chin and tilting her gaze up to his.  “A perfect plan, mo nighean donn.”

Eyes open, their lips met in only the briefest of touches.  “C’mon then,” she said lightly, smiling. “I would hate to starve to death before we have a chance to do that at least ten thousand more times.”

Brushing a curl from her forehead, he kissed her again. “I needta…”  His voice trailed and he gestured to the bathroom with a brief lift of his chin.

“Needta piss and clean up?” she asked, the broadness of her smile interrupted only by the quick sinking of her teeth into her lower lip.

Shaking his head, he pulled back.  The word “piss” coming from her mouth in that regulated, manicured accent somehow sounded incredibly vulgar and well mannered at the same time.  “Ye’ll no’ ever cease surprisin’ me will ye?”

Flaring her nostrils and pursing her lips as she turned away, Claire shrugged. “I hope not.”

When Fraser emerged from the bathroom clad in sleep pants and a sweater (heldover from university), he found the bedroom empty and followed the sound of clattering.

Leaning against the wall, he took in the sight of her in his kitchen for a moment.  She was entirely undone and moving about the space like she had maneuvered through it a thousand times (opened the cupboard to find a pan before, reached behind the cutlery tray for a can opener at some point in the recent past, lifted the lid on the countertop crockery not to be surprised at the sight of almost-melted room temperature butter).  The robe’s sleeves were shoved up to her elbows. She had re-tied the oversized garment so much of the length billowed over the top of the tie.  From the waist down, was all swishing terry cloth, calves and thighs, creases behind knees, finely-boned feet, and painted toenails.  

Unadorned by jewels or makeup, expensive clothing or stacked heels, she was raw in her beauty.  Almost too pretty, her curved shapes belted into his robe putting her at maximum advantage and her hair in a snarl where he’d knotted in his hand while inside of her. On the spectrum, she was closer to the woman who came stumbling into his stables (her stables) that one night than the one freshly divested of a tiara who had kissed him back with a stunning amount of alacrity.  In his kitchen, touching his things, she was his nameless horse caper, seeking some quietude.  

Claire hummed along to the crackling radio that she had kept low (Mr. Sandman bring me a dream make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen, a sway in her hips and tilt of her shoulders so brief he would have missed it had he not been so intent on her).   He realized that his mind could smell her when his nose could not.  (It was imprinted on his mind –– clean and musky with sex, with satisfaction.)  And yet, the desire to be near enough to catch her scent along the long peach fuzz parabola of her neck propelled him forward.

“What’re ye makin’, Sassenach?”

She paused, a wooden spoon in hand suspended over a pan.  “You do not have much in this cabin in the way of food.”  Her belly groaned in protest at the mere thought of a weekend of sex and little eating, and he quirked a smile.

“I thought of that verra thing as ye were clinging to me on the back of the bike, how ye may starve.”  He ran a hand through his hair before coming up behind her, drawing her back against him as she stirred something in the pot. “I can pop out and get some things tonight or in the morning.”

“Hmmm,” she sighed, leaning her head back and against his, her steady mixing of bubbling soup straight from the tin not missing a beat. “Tomorrow, and I will come along.”

Incredulity rumbled in his chest, a volcano signaling imminent eruption. “Are ye sure that’s the best idea? Small town folk are wont to talk, Claire.”

His hands strayed, one finding its way into the gaping opening in her robe.  He found what he was looking for –– naked skin. “If this splatters and I get burnt, I will be very cross with you, Fraser.”

Dipping his chin, he rested it as a crown atop the mop of curls that his lovemaking hands and her writhing against the mattress had destroyed.  For a moment, he felt a hardy, red-blooded male jolt of pride, as though he’d conquered her usually well-coiffed locks.

“A few things, Jamie.”  She tapped the edge of the spoon’s handle on the edge of the pan before turning off the flame.  

“Aye?” he urged, again taken by his name on her lips.

“One.  I can disguise myself to some extent. You would be surprised by how much the surprise of a situational inconsistency can throw people off.  No one expects the Queen of England to come wandering into a greengrocer or butcher shop in a small village on a sleepy Saturday morning.”  She lifted the lid on a second pan, revealing some sizzling sausages he had not realized dwelled in the depths of his freezer.  “And therefore, the Queen of England has a doppelganger at a greengrocer or a butcher shop.  People will say, ‘Oh, I saw a woman who looked like the Queen, but she had such a fat arse and a slightly more pleasant face.’”

Unconsciously, he glanced down to said body part, resisted the urge to comment on how much lovelier and fatter her arse actually was in person.  “I’ll have to take yer word for it, having never before bedded a star before,” he said, voice heady with a faux exaggeration that made her pinch his forearm and hiss. He merely chuckled. “What else?”

“Two,” she continued on, his good-humored comment taken on board for what it was. “You cannot possibly know how much I want to be…”

Pausing, she set the lid back over the sausages and turned in his arms.  He drew her back, lest the drape of his robe get too close to the open flame beneath the soup and sausages. “What is it?”

“I do not want you to think that I’m being crude somehow… like I am doing this…” Her voice faded as she searched his face, eyes like palms open, warm, and awaiting a blessing. He wanted her words. Her every thought.  “I do not want you to think that I am in love with you in some sort of fetishized way.  To get away from my life… from the formalities of it all––”

“––I would never––”

A single finger pressed into his lips as she cupped his jaw.  “I love you because I can be myself with you, but I would hate for you to think that I am using you as some sort of… outlet for a need to live a quiet life.  It is not that at all.”

He arched back from just enough to break her contact with his mouth.  “Ye’ll break my heart wi’ lovin’ ye, ye ken that, aye?”

Confusion molded her expression into one of incredulity.

“I would never think,” he began, hands tightening on her hips for emphasis, “that ye’re somehow taking advantage of me to live some dull, quiet, countryside life. Just as I ken that you would never think that I’m wi’ ye, lovin’ ye, and watchin’ ye fallin love wi’ me, just so I can bed yer... status.”

When she closed her eyes, he leaned forward and kissed the salty seam of each.  Then the tip of her nose.  One cheek, her forehead, and then the other. The contour beneath one cheekbone.  Her mouth.  Oh, her mouth.  He took it with his own.  He took her small body melting into his, let his hands find their way through the gap in her robe and to fill themselves with the soft curve of her bare buttocks, her thighs, the small of her back, and again the handfuls of her buttocks.  

“Take me again,” she mumbled against his kiss-moist lips as he broke for a breath.

Without another word, he spun them, lifting her to the counter and untying the robe. “I’ll never tire of this,” he said, though his words were lost in the incoherent moan she let loose as he took her breast in his hand, guided the peak between his lips. With his pajama pants pooled at his feet, his sweater knotted in her fingers, he entered her with the kind of blind passion that leads people to various indiscretions (to roger a woman outside of a pub in an alleyway, to allow fingers an exploration far further north beneath a wife’s skirt beneath a table draped in linen while discussing business with a colleague, or to fumble about for a space to land in a coat closet, joined among the foreign-scented winter things of strangers).  

She cried out against his throat (harder, please, oh Christ, harder), nails sinking into his shoulders as she tried to hold on.  He heard her head smack a cupboard with a hollow clack, slowed, registered her admonition to “do not stop, damn you,” and bowed his head in concentration.  

Take me again, she had implored him, eyes gilt and a gift to him.  

So he did.

Harder, she begged, her breath an invitation hastily written out so that he could have her completely.

So he obliged.

At the end of all things, her body was limp everywhere (except where it still quaked, attempting to pull him deeper and draw him closer like a siren in the form of a sparrow with a woman’s face, scaled feet and wings paired with arms).  Feeling her that way, he wondered if she would truly kill him with loving her.  As he slipped free of her body, mumbling a wasted apology about the mess he had made of her, she gathered her to him with her legs.  

“Let me listen to your breathing for a minute.”  It was the whimpered, undeniable plea of a lover.  An ask that he could not fathom disregarding. “Please.”  

He allowed her to trap him there, milky softness of her thighs on his waist. The rest of the world does not exist, the warmth of her said.  

Seek me out, his belly called back, hearing nothing more than the echo of unspoken words rattling in his head.  His softening, damp cock awkwardly pressed between them as he drew her to the edge of the counter where he could hitch her to him.  

“The sausages,” she mumbled as he lifted her, started to walk them to the living room. Her legs dangled at his waist, her forehead falling to rest against his.  She had no spare energy left with which to cling to him.  Instead, she let him carry her dead weight, kissing his jaw almost apologetically.

“Fuck the sausages,” he sighed, laying her down and covering her body on the sofa.

Some time later, after a meal of burnt sausages and too-salty tinned soup, she was studying him.  Featherlight fingers fought the heaviness of her hand to trace the outline of his chest through his sweater. “Tell me about this place.”

He did.

Quiet and watching the fire he’d built in the living room instead of looking at her.  

Even with his voice low, he had the way of a storyteller about him.  

Voices for an ensemble (mam, da, Willie, Jenny, his old grisled Uncle Murtagh).  Hands that warred between a thorough exploration of the buttes and basins of her body and to embellish the hills and valleys of his tale.  Eyes that glittered beneath thick lashes, widening and narrowing for emphasis.  

A cabin built by Brian Fraser for his new wife, Ellen, after World War I.  A place that absorb his screaming nightmares into exposed wooden rafters.  Where his family gathered for Christmas, dragging a tree down the sloping, snow-covered hills on Christmas Eve.  Decorating it with popcorn and cranberries, eating Jelly Babies until their teeth ached.  A home for weekends of hunting and fishing, where he came to drink himself into a stupor when his father passed away.

After a time, he fell silent and just held Claire, thanking God that she was there, that she did not ask questions he did not want to answer about the place where their bodies were molded into one. As the fire died, Claire hovered on the precipice of sleep, her toes just glancing over a placid pool of dreams.  He was surveying the parts of her that he had just recently discovered, staked a claim to.  Men had been along the plane of that throat before. Between her legs. And wrapped like vines around the parts of a brain that make people foolish when they believe that they’ve discovered love. Men who she thought she had loved and who she had convinced herself had loved her. Claire was certain that if she had anything whatsoever to do with it, Fraser would be her last, her only.

“Ye look as though ye could start snoring on me at any moment,” he said eventually, rolling a curl between his fingers over and over again.

“If I sleep today will be over,” she confessed, an undisguised note of longing in her voice. As much as she longed for another layer of intimacy with Fraser, she ached at the thought of loss over missing a single moment alone with him.   As if by fighting sleep, she could extend the hours in the day or suspend the passage of time.  

He hummed with appreciation at the sentiment, pressing his nose along the swoop of her neck, inhaling in a way that made her drowsy.

She had not slept with many men other than Frank, but she concluded that to actually sleep with someone did construct a sense of intimacy, as though her dreams had flowed out of her to mingle with his. It was an ultimate act of trust to sleep beside another person. The armor of clothing and status had been stripped away. She was bare, vulnerable.  The shield of a word or glance impossible behind closed eyes and a searching, dreaming mouth. It felt somehow more intimate than the joining of their bodies.

“I’m about to sleep myself, Sassenach.”

She needed to ask what that word meant, but she did not need to ask to know that he was hers now, and that she belonged to him.  She did not belong in the sense of a thing (his woman, a chattel under the law) or a concept (the royalty).  Rather, she belonged as someone having fallen completely and irrevocably.  She could not possibly dwell anywhere but inside the chambers of his heart or the memory of his skin on hers.

Closing her eyes, she closed out the nighttime ramblings of her lonely mind.  The worries about gossip in her home, the speculations of a citizenry or her own family.  By the name of the God on whose name Claire became Queen, she would have this man.

#;mod Kate #HRH #jamie x claire #Royal AU #Her Royal Highness AU

[eirianerisdar]

His Father’s Back

Summary: All his life, Soren only ever wanted one thing. Only his father could give it to him. And yet - Viren did not.

A quick fanfic since I finished season 2 of The Dragon Prince today! I’m glad to spend a couple minutes on this since Waiting in the Quiet, my other tdp fanfic, has longer chapters and will take a little longer to update in my hectic schedule.

The lower half of this references season 2 so that part is under a read more.

>His first memory was of his father’s back.

For the most part, the memory was a blurred, vague thing in the depths of Soren’s mind; the flash of gold-black tunics flapping behind his chubby knees and his new wood-carved sword in his hand, the raw-throated, echoing yell of his childhood battle-cry.

He must have been - what, four? Claudia had been walking properly for a while by then but just growing sure-footed enough to run in earnest, so that must have been about right.

Claudia.

Yes, that was right - Soren’s first memory was not only of his father’s back. It was of his father’s back and Claudia.

But no, no. That wasn’t good enough of an explanation.

It was -

-Soren remembered the grain of the small wooden hilt under his fingers and the praise of his first sword-master ringing in his ears, and he had run as fast as his little feet in their new training boots could, up to his parents’ tower to show his father what he had learnt.

It was a starburst of golden light, the sword - how every word from the sword-master seemed to flow down to Soren’s fingers, and the rough wooden blade clasped in his chubby fingers obeyed him.

But when he hurled his tiny body against the heavy wood door of his father’s study, hollering at the the top of his lungs for his father to come see - he saw instead his father’s sable-coated form sat on the low chair by the fire, back towards the door, with a small, black-skirted form in his lap - Claudia.

From where Soren skidded to a stop on the carpet, he could only see the edge of her smock and one of her stubby pigtails - but that was not what halted him in his tracks.

It was the glow of violet flame flickering from her fingers.

And Soren’s father, with the sharpness of his silver-lined coat cut in sharp silhouette by the violet-red flames of the hearth and his daughter’s magic, bent his head and laughed.

It was a low, delighted thing - one of fatherly pride.

And Soren couldn’t-

He couldn’t remember, in this memory of his young, four-year-old mind, when his father had ever laughed so for him.

But he remembered what he did next.

He had dropped his precious training sword onto the carpet - the carpet with the insignia of the uneven towers of Katolis - and stepped forward to share in the wonder and pride of his sister’s talent.

Soren had a brilliant little sister.

And when he picked up his sword again the uneven towers of Katolis had stared back at him, like he and Claudia standing side-by-side, her hand in his and wide smiles on their faces; but it was not until he was much older that he realised which tower he truly was.

>In a way, that memory was a beginning, and an ending.

Soren took to the way of the sword like a - what was that term, a fish to water? No, no, that sounded awfully plain. He took to the way of the sword like a banther to the prowl. Yes. That was better.

And so while he spent hour after hour, day after day, week after week and month after month until time bled into years on the training fields with a sword in his hand, Claudia took to their father’s study and the secrets there.

Soren didn’t resent it. He was good at the sword.

And Claudia was good at dark magic.

By the time Soren was eight years old, their roles had been so firmly established that he did not realise the implications until dinner one evening, when Soren pushed away his fourth helping of jelly-tarts and was struck by a rare moment of astute observation (he would be the first to admit he wasn’t much of an astute, or observation-y, person).

Claudia spoke with their father in speech Soren couldn’t understand, sometimes. Not a different language per se - but a way of connecting to the world and seeing it through purple-veiled eyes and whispered spells. Soren could speak with his father all he liked, but their conversations always held a somewhat similar quality - after all, there were only so many variations of What did you do today, Son? and Sword-training again, Dad. I did so-and-so formation perfectly.

Viren would nod, not unkindly, but without any true interest.

But if Soren were to ask What did you and Claudia do today, suddenly a light would spark in his father’s eyes, and he would start speaking of enchantments and experiments beyond Soren’s comprehension, and Claudia would chew too fast on her next mouthful just so she could join in their father’s words-

It was better, at least, when their mother was still there. Soren would turn to her and she would have another jelly-tart ready for him, and a smile.

She didn’t understand his love for the sword and for battle, either. But she listened.

Then came the time when Soren and Claudia had lain awake in their rooms too often in the past year listening to their parents’ arguments, and the day came when he was brought in after his morning training to find his family together in the main room of their quarters.

Soren remembers details about that meeting to this day - small things like the hard set of his father’s shoulders as he stared into the fire and the careful distance his mother put between them as she turned away from her husband and told Soren and Claudia that their world, as they knew it, was ending.

No, she hadn’t said that. Not exactly.

But she might as well have.

And then Viren had turned and looked down at his children, his back straight and the gleam of his sceptre at his side, and told them they would have to choose.

Claudia’s green eyes - so wide, so hungry for knowledge and so precious that Soren already knew by then that he would die ten times over to protect her - had started to grow damp.

And Soren, looking between his the harshness of Viren’s jaw and the grieving determination in his mother’s eyes and the catastrophic flood that was about to well up over the dam of his sister’s eyelids, chose.

He chose what he wanted most in he world.

His father’s love.

His mother had looked at his father, then - a look of understanding, more put-together and calm than any Soren had seen between his parents for a long while.

Claudia should stay with Soren and their father, his mother had said. Claudia needed her brother and he needed her.

Then their mother packed her bags, and was gone the next morning.

Soren had woken, gone to the kitchens, and eaten the largest breakfast he could; porridge and sweet tarts and eggs and bacon and sausages until his belly was tight under his leather training armour.

And then when he walked onto the training fields and turned his sword into woven lightning and his footwork to wind.

His swordmaster was all praise.

Soren looked up, chest heaving, sweat dripping off his chin, and saw a flash of black and purple in a tower window.

Once he might have raced up the stairs to that tower to show his father his new accomplishment.

He did not, now.

>Soren didn’t want to do it.

Callum might have been a clown with a blade and Ezran a few too many years younger for Soren to find many shared interests, but they were the princes and had been counted in Soren’s circle of friends for as long as anyone could remember.

Some part of him shivered as he recalled at the vows he had taken as one of the youngest members of the Crownguard: the vow to protect the crown of Katolis and its heirs to his dying breath.

So why-

Why would his father order him to kill the princes?

Soren knew that his father’s intellect was unparalleled across the five kingdoms. There was not a moment that he was not proud to say My father is Lord Viren; in fact, he looked forward to the day when he could be equally proud to say My sister is Lady Claudia.

It was his father.

His father must have a reason.

No matter the sick churning in Soren’s gut as Ezran’s laughter faded down the line or the heaviness in his chest, he would do it.

Maybe if he did, his father would finally look him in the eye and tell him he was proud of him.

I’m proud of you, Soren.

Oh, how he longed to-

The dragon.

The crack of the boulder meeting his neck was louder than anything Soren had ever heard.

He couldn’t breathe.

And then he discovered he could, but then he couldn’t- couldn’t move.

He screamed for Claudia.

He screamed, because he had seen this happen before, to soldiers thrown from horses and struck with a fated blow on the battlefield, and he knew that only magic would save him.

And later, laying on the hospital bed with his head in a brace and his limbs nerveless and not there, he found himself putting words together as he never had before. It was not often that he found himself staying still for a long enough period to truly think. And now that is all he could do.

So he did.

He was...glad. He was glad that he couldn’t move, even if it meant never feeling the sing of steel under his fingertips again.

Because he had done all he could for his dad’s mission, and now he couldn’t do any more.

The princes were safe.

He had fulfilled his vows as a Crownguard.

Heat rose in this throat, threatened to wring tears of his eyes, and Soren squeezed them shut and sought words.

How many syllables were there in a haiku?

Dragon smash boy

Say the good words now

They light the hearts of other people.

Hmm. Not bad. Perhaps...perhaps there was a career to be had in poetry.

All the same, it would probably be best to run it by Claudia first.

>Claudia didn’t like it.

Soren couldn’t turn his head to properly watch the doctors dragging her out through the smashed glass and mess she had made, but he could hear her well enough:

“He can’t be like this. He can’t even count syllables!” Door, slamming closed.

Then silence.

Ah well, baby steps.

Soren closed his eyes. How many syllables in a haiku? Five, wasn’t it, seven, then five again?

And then suddenly-

Welcome back, my son.

I’m so proud of what you’ve done.

I love you, Soren.

An impossibility.

Soren’s cheeks and temples grew wet below his closed eyes, but there was nobody there to dry them for him.

And he would never be able to do so himself again.

>But he had a sister.

A brilliant, brilliant sister.

When her magic lanced from her fingertips and pierced his chest, Soren recalled, in the midst of the screaming and the flame and the lightning, something important.

His father had forgotten his birthday once - Soren’s birthday was something oft-overlooked due to its proximity to King Harrow’s, and one year Viren had forgotten his son’s birthday entirely.

But when Soren had sat at dinner that night, morosely stuffing himself (Viren had been busy with an experiment and did not present himself for dinner) Claudia had come up to him and wrapped her arms around him.

And Soren had been comforted.

Then his eyes opened and the purple starburst of magic faded and he felt every single broken bone and bloody scratch all at once, and Soren knew, over his joy-filled blabbering and flailing, that he loved his sister so much and he needed to thank her-

He looked at her.

And stopped.

“Clauds? Are...you okay?”

She raised her head, black eyes bleeding into their normal green; but they were framed on one side by a strip of white in her hair that had not been there before.

Her breath came  like gusts in a storm. “You’re going to be better now. That’s all that matters.”

And Soren, looking at her, knew it meant she loved him as much as he loved her.

His baby sister.

>They took the steps down carefully, one at a time.

Soren had spent most of the time revelling in the return of movement to his limbs and not thinking about their father at all, but when Claudia showed him the dragon horn it sparked that goofy streak in him again.

Words came to him of their own volition.

“Failed missions, mad dad,” he mused.

“But dragon horn means magic.

Maybe dad not mad?”

Claudia laughed so hard in her delight that she knocked him over.

Soren smiled as she helped him up, and pushed the one other haiku he had thought up but never said out of his mind.

He loved his baby sister. That was enough.

End

Thanks for reading, everyone! I’ll cross-post this to FFN, and if anyone wants to read more dragon prince fanfic you can look at my masterlist! I’m not sure how tumblr treats links right now so I’ll put links to my masterlist and other tdp fic in a reply below.

I just love what the writers did with Soren and Claudia this season. We get to see a reflection of Viren and his faults, too, which just deepens the complexity of their family relationships.

For my Waiting in the Quiet followers, I’ll see about a snippet with Gren and Amaya on Gren’s birthday if I can find a break from studying sometime in the next couple of days.

#the dragon prince #tdp #tdp fanfic #tdp soren #tdp viren #tdp claudia #soren #claudia #viren #my post #fanfic

[tokyotwosome]

England: ”This Earth of Majesty”

7/26/19 - ENGLAND. The mother to the modern world’s business tongue. A country within the United Kingdom within Great Britain and none of us can make any sense of what the heck the difference is. This wondrous place is an island I’d always dreamed of visiting from the first time I picked up The Chronicles of Narnia. Or Pride and Prejudice. Or Harry Potter. The list goes on. From its rich history, its captivating architecture, and the many famous humans that have walked these streets, England is not a country to be missed.

We arrived in London on a Friday evening. The summer in the U.K. is much like Seattle; the sun is fickle and the rain needy. Seeing the countless parks throughout the city, not to mention the luscious greenery throughout the countryside, it’s no wonder it rains so much here. On Saturday morning, we met up with a friend to do a proper tour of the city. For the day, we purchased a “London Pass” which gets you into over 75 attractions as well as access to the Hop on Hop Off bus. We swiftly made our way to the top of the double decker, not caring that the open-roof was a bit damp and paying notice to the “mind your head” signs up the stairs. As we embarked through the city, a man with a microphone prompted us to grab headphones and listen to his countless facts about London. 

Did you know that there are actually two Londons? Greater London refers to the American definition of “London”. This is where the Queen hails and is generally what we think of when referring to London. There is also “The City of London”, a square mile within Greater London that can be easily identified by its dragon statues which guard its borders. The City of London is separately governed, collects separate taxes, enforces separate laws, has their own separate flag, and even elects their own Lord Mayor. Queen Elizabeth isn’t even allowed to enter the City of London without permission from the Lord Mayor. It’s all very scratch-head worthy. 

There’s a laundry list of sites to see in London. There’s Big Ben (currently under construction), Westminster Abbey (filled with famous and infamous corpses), Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, Tower Bridge (much cooler than London Bridge), the Churchill War Rooms, Shakespeare’s Globe, and loads more. One would need to devote an entire week to site seeing just to manage it all in. Needless to say, we didn’t get to see everything, but we managed to get some good ones under our belt. 

Our first stop was at the Tower of London, just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Tower Bridge on the north bank of the River Thames (pronounced “Tems”). The Tower of London is less of a tower and more of a series of towers that feel more like medieval grounds from something out of a storybook. Within each tower holds its own treasures and stories. There was original armor, crown jewels, the bloody tower (where two princes were believed to have been killed by their uncle so that he could have the crown for himself), prison cells (where names and images have been carved into walls)...and so much more. You could spend all day at this site alone, but we hurried on off to lunch after building up an appetite..must have been all the murder stories that did it. Speaking of murder - walking across the Tower Bridge, we found the street where many Jack the Ripper scenes were filmed. They even offer evening tours of all his murder spots (a big no thank you from me). 

The food in England is a journey in and of itself. If you ask for pie, don’t expect something sweet. A traditional English-style breakfast consists of toast (seemingly the most important food group), beans, mushrooms and/or tomatoes, an over-easy egg, a hash brown, bacon (which is actually more ham-like), and sausage (tastes more like fake meat to me). We can’t tell you how many times we ate the same English-style breakfast, but it really was quite hearty. Brunch will sometimes include all-you-can-drink. And let’s not forget Sunday roast! Tea was also a staple for most, if not all, of our breakfasts - I like mine with two sugars and milk. In terms of stereotype foods, we didn’t see a crumpet in sight.

While London is a must-see when in England, it’s certainly not the highlight of the country. We rented a car and made our way north, with our final destination being Scotland. We’d arranged to have overnight stays in aribnb’s along the way, taking recommendations from our very own Rick Steves. The street signs were comical, seeing ones like “mind the gap” and “queues likely”. Getting used to the different terminology is a journey of its own. First stop was Stow-on-the-Wold; a quaint little market town with sandy-colored buildings, friendly town folk, and shops around every corner. We still aren’t sure what a Stow or a Wold is, but while we passed through, it was clear why it was a place outsiders wanted to visit. After spending a few days in the city, it was refreshing to be in a small town. We managed to only go down the wrong side of the street towards oncoming traffic once, so that’s a bonus! 

Shortly following our pit-stop to Stow-on-the-Wold, we found our airbnb in a place known as Derbyshire, arriving promptly at 3:00 PM. A woman answered the door and greeted us by saying, “you’re positively punctual”. She sounded like Mary Poppins and I could’ve swore she was about to break out in song next and a bird would likely land delicately on her finger. That was when I really realized we weren’t in Kansas anymore. She took us upstairs to our room in her large, historical cottage. The backyard view reminded me of something out of a Jane Austen novel. I could imagine Mr. Darcy coming to our door by horseback. We had dinner at a local gastropub, just up the street. The server told us about a place to visit the following day, which we promptly agreed we’d do. 

The next morning on our way out of town, we stopped by the recommendation from our server; a nature walk toward an abandoned water mill. During our walk, Rob stopped and asked that I take a picture of him in the grass. At the time, I had no idea why. Turns out he was envisioning a scenic view out of Gladiator and just HAD to reenact it. Making our way down a long drive, we saw a flock of pheasants that we thought were chickens. When we finally did make it to the water mill, we took in the beautiful views and imagined what sorts of things must have taken place throughout history here; a common thought through such a historical place. When we thought there wasn’t a living soul in site, a couple of women on horseback road passed. Such a slow, easy going lifestyle here. 

Our next destination was what is known as the lake district; more specifically, a town called Keswick (pronounced Ke-sick). Keswick was by far our favorite stopping point. It had a German feel with British flavor. Lots of nature, lots of shops, and lots of kind people. This is a popular spot to visit in the summertime for Brits throughout the country. While rain was to be expected, we lucked out for the day we spent there and enjoyed a pleasant nature hike. 

The day following our trip to Keswick, the weather took a turn for the worse. We were so fortunate to have such a beautiful day for our one day spent there. After our time in the lake district, our next stop was Scotland. Truly, Scotland is deserving of its own blog, so stay tuned for that next! Instead, I’m going to fast forward to when we trained back to London. 

We’ve gone full circle and made it back to the city. Our train arrived at Kings Cross Station - so naturally we visited platform 9 3/4. After taking our obligatory Harry Potter photo, we decided to try to squeeze in any last minute sightseeing we may have missed. That’s how we ended up at the Churchill War Rooms. The underground tour is the original housing spot for Churchill and his men during WWII. They have kept the rooms in mostly the same condition with a full audio tour to really envision what it must have been like during the war. Trying to imagine being trapped down there while bombs continued to go off upstairs was a very humbling experience. For me, having been to the war museums in both Pearl Harbor and Okinawa, seeing the war through the British lens was a new perspective. On one of the original maps in the discussion room, you could even see a drawing of Hitler someone had done. A really remarkable site and I would highly recommend to anyone who visits London. Speaking of sights in London, did you know that all museums are free in the UK? That led us to the Natural History Museum! Among other things. 

On 8/3/19, our 5-year wedding anniversary, we decided to treat ourselves to high tea. We had reservations at a delightful little spot in the city. The theme was Peter Rabbit and ohhhh was it good! We had mini-sandwiches, biscuits, jams, and treats to the max. Everything you see was edible, including the flower pots. I don’t think I stopped smiling once. When we had finished, we were stuffed beyond belief. Then the server comes over with a HAPPY ANNIVERSARY dessert. We couldn’t NOT eat it...so we stuffed our little bunny bellies. Another successful wedding anniversary outside of the states - once an accident, now a tradition. <3

If you’re considering a trip to the UK, I’d say go Nike and just do it! Some of our expectations were met and others were shattered, but that’s the joy of travelling. A place is never how you think it’s going to be, but seeking the different is what is exciting. Stay tuned for the next blog where we’ll share our adventures in Scotland - my new crush. Thanks for sticking it out and reading along!  

#united kingdom #uk #travel #tea #explore #england