🦪... @𝒑𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒔𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒖 — single original muse blog. fandom-compatible alt verses. selective and multiverse + ship. only follows those i intend to write with. discord and tumblr with flux activity. beta editor. mature content warning. story centered. much love. / 𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒆𝒍, 21+, she/her, est.
he does not fault her for such a kind heart. rather, he commends her for having a heart at all. most of noble blood do not go to such great lengths to care for the people they govern. oft, commonfolk (especially those of the lowest of status) are forgotten. an afterthought. not so much cared for because their lives aren't valued enough. (if they were of value, why then do the gods strike them with such misfortune?)
he knows the people. knows what it's like to have no coin or pillow to lay one's head upon, knows the aches of hunger that keeps one up through the night. just as there is misfortune, there is greed. one who knows a life of having nothing, wants and wants and wants when given just a taste. it is why ser criston had warned her off sharing the fruit of the tree in celebration of her name day. 'greedy hands will take. they'll swarm and demand for more.' it had been a warning meant in good faith, but she had the final say. and it was his duty to do as she says, just as much as it was to protect her.
they find a moment of rest far from the crowded tree where the chaos that had erupted. (he'd witnessed one man begin to fight another for an orange they swore belonged to them. another stole from a mother who'd taken an extra apple for her hungry child.) what happened remains behind them now, there will be other knights to break up the crowd and call for order once more. what matters now is the safety of the princess who now looks to him, requesting he not say what's on his mind.
truthfully, he had nothing ill to speak of. she meant well. a kindhearted princess who only meant to share something meaningful on her special day. his train of thought turns to her well-being instead. ❝ are you hurt? ❞ he'd noticed a limp to her gait as he came to a slow. an arm is held out for her to claim, to lean on him if she so needs it. ❝ let's find a place for you to rest and i'll have a look at your ankle. ❞
Back home, her people regard her as a holy scriptural piece ⸺ and though this has it's shortcomings to be viewed far from the human body you contain, there is also cushion (and perhaps, shelter in the guardsmen that covertly lined her surroundings whenever she got the chance to roam). The people at King's Landing exude a hungry she's never quite seen in others. Still, she would not call them greedy. And if they are to be forced to bare that title, then she'd say they were made that way. Faultless.
She is not without her own lamentation. Wishing she had listened to him ... done this better, safer ... for her and all involved. And wishing, personally, it had gone smoothly as she intended. That her natal day ⸺ though far from home ⸺ could be good here.
Sometimes we emulate the known to subdue the things she cannot have. For every piece of home and ritual she reaches for, there's something she squeezes her eyes at. Realities that impossible become something she mislabels as homesick and she makes big strides to feel at home.
❛ Yes ... I think I am. You aren't easy to keep up with. ❜
From where she stands, he looks rather noble. They still have their places and roles but she'd liked to think they've built a little rapport in their time together. He could have gently reprimanded her and chose not to. Instead, he pivots to check her well being. She faintly smiles at this, her senses making an effort to move away from the trepation of a bad situation to one acknowledging that she's safe. In the back of her mind she knows his care is duty but it feels a kind dealt on her soul anyways. Her mind repackages it as gift. She takes his offered arm with two of hers.
🦪 ... [needy] sender teases receiver about how desperate they look ... feyd-rautha, @deficd
They play fox and hound. A mock-chase and play-battle ⸺ he snatches her by middle ... the nerve-riddled giggle earns its coda when he introduces her the ground ... they ruffle a bit until she's belly-pinned and he's draped along her back, his arm accidentally scratched open ...
(she's learned to stop apologizing from whenever she nails him, fairly certain he riles her up to inflict that response out of her as if he's both proud when she uses her hands to match the violent way she loves him and turned on by the mere, simple marrying of pain and pleasure).
His sounds persevere ... therion-like panting, untamed and unfiltered. He is a wealth of sensations. Of outer body, inner body, the magic of turning sound into feeling. From his tongue to her ear, he drips in and makes her all the worse.
With one of his arms has wiggled underneath her, holding her jaw and posing it in peak view for their position. The other rolls into her hair at the crown. Her ribs flare against his forearm like a caught rabbit and she produces her own little destress animal sound when their combined fabrics get folded out of way and their skins touch finally ⸺ her tolerance to wait for him has grown, but there is a natural passivity in her brathood and a steadfast need for her husband that wins over pride or hurt feelings or resistance to his needs. "Look how desperate you look." So imagine the gall to put her desperation for him to the forefront. Call it loud. Give it name. Give it life. She cannot deny it now. Look upon her face ... indeed, it's written there, suffused to this play to reveal a truer truth. That despite this being play, this is honest as well. They act out themselves.
The naked head of his cock probes her cunt to take him shallow in a way not too dissimilar to how he taunts opponents in the arena ... right before he swiftly plunges his blade. She knows it's coming. But she doesn't know exactly when that will be. She panic-flutters around him and despite how much her hips want to dig back and gather a little more of him, she's stunned to a still. Cheek flat to floor. Her fisted balled up somewhere above it all.
She feels her own name engraved in the middle of his palm as he fingers up to swipe under her eye. Tears are rolling down her cheeks as she lets out a lewd little cry. That's how much she needs him right now. Need reduction soldiering to meet where his two fingers meet. She meets him wet there. She meets him wetter where he's nestled insider her. She must yield.
❛ Feyddddd, please ... ! ❜, when is a stifled groan a beg? ... ah, when it sounds like that.
🦪 ... 8) sender remembered something receiver mentioned they liked and brings it or something related to it as a gift ... eric northman, @echolaliia
The peach lacks peach-tint in a way she's never seen before. Creamy pink evolves to a beat-ripened red hue where the sun reached for it the most. It leans floral in fragrant and overwhelms in sweet. It fits in the five-finger frame to gently bump into her palm as she examines it. She doesn't distrust it but takes the moment instead to envisioning him in a farmer's market or an orchard and thinking of her enough to procure it ... whether it was happenstance or intentional, it reaches her well.
She smiles something typically her ... it stretches half up her face in a sleepy, easy manner and is toothless.
❛ For me? ❜
She takes a bite. The skin breaks without retrain. The flesh yields pink and than a bruised shade where it touches pit. Little beads of juice run towards her inner elbow. It's sweet. It eptiones the idea that she always balms the moment. She cannot keep it for tomorrow, after-all ... and what is tomorrow anyways?
🦪 … Send “📚” and I will flip to a random page in a book and use the first line of dialogue I see as a starter ... @kingmaketh
Princess Hara's natal day is revered as a hollyday in Belarilia. It is She who brings the summer. Smallfolk and nobleborns shower her with gifts. The most frequented offering is fruit ⸺ it is the most accessible option and happens to be something everyone knows she loves. The overabundance could be easy waste and yet, it's been altered to tradition ... one she's only broken during mourning phases. Every child that needs ⸺ no, wants ⸺ to enjoy the yield may. In a stretch of field belonging to no one is a tree with crepe-skirts of pinked flowers ... it provides cover and allows the light in. But this is not her home-island, this is somewhere within ...
... paced narrow walkways where litter drifted and lichen yeasted.
⸺ cloud atlas, page 203.
Against Ser Criston Cole council, she came ill prepared. It started off sweet, contained. ⸺ no more than a dozen children (or perhaps, two) ⸺ before the inanition masses overtook it. What started off as a breathable alcove became very, very small.
This is the first break in their escape where they can stop. Her ankle throbs from the roll mid-sprint. And still, she doesn't regret it. Today would feel incomplete. She has a little wooden figure of a dragon a little boy gave her in her pocket. She ... she turns to face him, full on.
🦪 ... ❝ why did i ever allow myself to be talked into this farce? ❞ ... @zaldarias
❛ You believed their word to be in good faith. How could you have known it was untrue? ❜
The water winks in the afterlight.
The missteps of day refract a reach to a softer, forgivable night. A moments balter shall pass ⸺ from where Princess Hara stands, Rhaenyra's legitimacy extends far behind birthrights and names, but within character. If tomorrow's dance would change entirely, if rightful claims begone to be given to someone most rightful for the job ... Hara would still put her faith in Rhaenyra. She's never felt safer then by Nyra's side. Even now, as they walk in the cool opening of outside, just the two of them, she feels an unusual and rare ease.
Perhaps it is that bias that makes her think so. Or the whim-fantasy that Nyra's power could save her from her fate. In little time Hara's womb will be on a platter for some betrothed that her father will arrange. She's terrified.
❛ If we all stopped believing in words, where would we be? ❜
Civility begins and ends when words and general rules dissolve into nothingness ... on small and larger scale ⸺ even animals have codes, understands. Hara has not been without her bouts of faithloss. And that is beyond in the ways all woman do. So she can understand Nyra's frustration. To a degree. Power only attracted her in the idea that she could be safety in someone else's. She rather be loved.
a brow lifts just a fraction at her initial question ━━ the barest sign that she had struck true... but that ever cold yet good eye didn't abandon its station at her neck. ❛❛ if i were as impatient as you imagine me, i would have taken my leave of this bath and of your foolishness both, as to not scandalize you further. ❜❜ A BEAT TO LET THE EXCUSE OR FABRICATION SETTLE, a beat to allow the smallest of huffs to escape from his nose, before━ ❛❛ but i have not. ❜❜ because he is the fool. because it is he who believes so firm that his patience and self discipline is iron forged [ ... ] that he isn't holding tightly onto either like the reins of some terribly unruly beast; until his knuckles were whitened down to the bone and until his fingers ached with the effort.
was he meant to apologize for wanting what was put in front of him? such small sounds in his ear and soft thighs between his hand.
but her insinuation still lingered between them in the curling steam. he knew well enough what she meant, even if she had wrapped it in play ━━ that she had not feared him then... or had feared him and wanted him still. ( that she would have let him, ) HAD THEY NOT BEEN INTERRUPTED. she would have allowed him to fuck her against that man made wall altar... or let him drag her down the halls by that pretty wrist like a leashed dog toward his bedchambers without complaint. and his expression remained loyal in a way that was not quite revealing surprise nor regret [ ... ] it was something harder to name. a kind of wariness, perhaps, that sat beside want and made a far crueler companion. the cloth moved idly over her collarbone, the motion unhurried, deliberate ━━ where he watched the water gather and slide from her glistening skin as though he had every right to notice such things. PERHAPS, IN TIME, HE WOULD... perhaps he already did.
she is bold in the bath and evasive when accused [ ... ] a cat, it seems, after all. but one that lightly scratches before it purrs. because it is her question, then, that stills his hand completely ━━ where it hovered near her heart that hammered against the heel of his palm each time it swiftly passed... ( and what an impressive feat that was, ) to leave aemond one eye frozen amidst the battlefield beneath scented water and drops of oil that glimmered. DID YOU THINK OF ME LAST NIGHT ... IN BED? it was, finally, her turn to scandalize him.
and was he meant to apologize for this now, too? for taking pleasure into his own hand ( the very same that cleaned her now, ) in the privacy of his own rooms? or perhaps he ought apologize for not quickly denying the implication that she boldly purposed with that sweet tongue he wished to loathe ━━ but he's instead dreamt of it as well. THE THOUGHTS HAD PLAGUED HIM TOO FEVERISHLY LAST NIGHT TO IGNORE; a wandering hand that had gained the mere glimpse earlier that afternoon of what lied beneath skirts... wet only from shared kisses that were less than kind and the graze of his fingers. he'd imagined they were still slippery with her arousal while he did it [ ... ] he'd been riled that it was his palm stroking his cock rather than the cunt he knew had been pulsing for him in that alcove.
WAS HE MEANT TO APOLOGIZE FOR WANTING WHAT WAS PUT IN FRONT OF HIM?
she catches his hand to press it flush against her chest ━━ and even when she loosens the grip, it remains while he swallows. with that dripping cloth acting as barrier from flesh on flesh threatening to fall... HE LETS IT. lets it splash into the water like a thing forgotten as his fingers slowly glide down freely between breasts where he still feels the trapped wings of a bird. ( and while his hand slips, ) his eye lifts. only to be welcomed by the sight of cheeks too flushed to any longer blame the water [ ... ] his thumb, then, seemed to not be playing the same game as his mouth ━━ as it stretches out to brush against her nipple with decision.
She keeps meaning to close her eyes. It was be easier if she wasn't hitched to his gaze ... if she could calm down enough not to watch him so keenly. If she could let him bath her and resume her bathtime as she had moments before he came. Her own mother had never bathed her. It perplexes her that he would ⸺Even if its a mere means to a personal aim of his. It would make her sadder if she wasn't consumed by how they're physically connected.
Impatience can be excusable and even desirable when twinned to passion. It frustrates her he'd swap it for a defining that deems itself negatively. It's his self-inflicting word that has her perceiving the inevitable for the oracular. Where girlish and invasive envisions materializes into reality ⸺ a wandering mind a creature of its own ... him between her open legs and he splits her grotesquely like a fig on an earthly floor, like being pried open by a bearded dragon ... it is not a sweet fantasy she should think of thinking of being had. But she ruminated on it until she was lightheaded from lust, sick and asocial. And here he is now, wedged into the soft parting of her legs.
From where she lounges, her neck easy on the tilted tub's lip, she can see him for something created to torture her. She respires unevenly, long before the cloth-barrier drops. It grows ...
( between her teeth, said )
❛ Yes. ❜
... Until his testing of her nipple and everything that naturally falls in line with consequences of that has her exhale filling the cup of his hand. Her tongue a tightseal to the left eyetooth in her mouth, lets way for a melodic euphony when it slips ...
❛ It would have pleased me. ❜
She only realizes now in this small release that she had been holding her face and everything else attached to it tightly. His gaze is an eleventh finger. She feels it everywhere it goes. Her body doesn't know what to do with this but to hold it. Like a woman possessed, willing to risk more possession and disregard the fear of taking him inside her body ⸺ to allow him to have any of her at all (if her allowance in this political exchange had any true merit at all) ⸺ for the need to know what it feels like to have him inside her body.
For a moment, she feels as if she could faint ... acknowledging all the ways they overlap.
The cloth floats like a medusae, first above her stomach and then towards her upper thigh when she moves water. Her heel catching along where ribs start reaching towards spine, silently nudging him there. Her hand has drifted from hovering the top of his, to two fingers gently hooked on his wrist.
It wasn't apologies that she wanted from him. It was the honesty in his eye, his hands. Her two questions were essential two in the same. Both chasing after an answer not dissimilar to each other.
⊱ ░ ℌARA ₍ ? ₎ i'm glad he was the one they chose for me.
aegon is quiet for a long moment... not because he has nothing to say ━━ gods, he has too much to say regarding the matter, in fact. THE WORDS SHOULD HAVE EARNED A LAUGH. a jest. the sound lingered somewhere at the back of his wine coated throat; some careless remark about @petitsdieu having been cursed with the one eyed beast and his dreadful temper for the rest of her days. it would be easier that way [ ... ] easier to pretend aemond was only the frightening, humorless brother everyone else saw. ( instead, the elder brother only regards her with a lifted brow. ) most looked at aemond and saw the things he had become : the sword, the bitterness, the patch. THE PRINCE WHO CARRIED HIMSELF LIKE HE HAD SOMETHING TO PROVE TO THE ENTIRE REALM... they saw the blade and forgot there had once been a boy holding it. aegon had never had that luxury.
because he had known his brother before. remembers fragile bits of the day he was born... ( the maesters had noted that the prince was small. ) too small ━━ concerningly small. only half the size of aegon when he'd came screaming into the realm a few years prior. he remembers the little boy who followed after him; THE SHOVES AND THE LAUGHS IN THE TRAINING YARD. he remembers being the older brother who should have known better than to let the world make him feel as small as he'd been as an infant : the little boy who looked at dragons and legends and kings with such longing and thought perhaps, ( if he tried hard enough, ) he could become one himself.
and now here stood a woman telling him she was glad she had been given that boy grown into a man.
❛❛ are you? ❜❜ he asks at last, though there is no mockery behind it. only a clear but strange sort of disbelief... because for all the laughter he has thrown at his brother, for every cruel word drunkenly spoken and every time he allowed others to reduce aemond ━━ HE KNOWS THE TRUTH. he knows that beneath the leather and steel and the coldness there is still the boy who used to trail after him [ ... ] ( anyone tied to the one eyed prince should be pitied, ) and yet... hara, so frail, had not once begged to return home; to marry another. i'm glad. a strange woman indeed.
❛❛ he will not make it easy for you, ❜❜ he says, the corners of his mouth faintly twitching with finally a hint of jest, as he lifts his nearly empty cup. ❛❛ my brother has never done anything in his life the easy way. ❜❜
And what would Aegon have Hara do with this warning? She is in no position to wiggle out of someone else's agreement. Her body is loaned to her as she awaits the passing of it from one man's hand to another. She has to accept it ⸺ she already has. If Aemond had given her any reason to talk badly upon him (he hasn't) then she would not say it now. Instead, she's making her alliance clear. That is to her husband. It is the smartest thing she can do and the truest.
Her brothers are worse than any paltry instigations she's endured here ... which have been few, and farther yet in-between. It is not just the inspace of her that anticipates their danger. It's enmeshed in her ever move and un-move. So it it not reduction to be settling into this new role? Soon, when her brothers depart back home, she won't have to worry of Luras' terror, Emerton's allowance of it, and Ilex and Apollox's participation. Her stream of undereating since her arrival could be mistaken for mild protest. But whatever winged bird that is on her plate never touches her lips just has any living thing hasn't since she was nine ⸺ when Luras purposed she'd eat a baby mouse and her brothers held her down until the pinky went down her throat.
In that loaned body it regards Aemond as the sudden freshet after a long storm, a velvet hand in an iron glove, a lintel figure ⸺ it regards him as refuge. Maybe it is her exalting to cope. The type of appeasement that animals do when transitioning from wild-things to pets. She does have all the anxiousness of a sleeve-dog the way she occasionally looks to the door for his return. And she has none of the experience of being a wife, or his, to even begin to understand what her life will be.
She imagines she's more of a challenge to him than he is to her. She imagines herself scared either way. Because past all the funny relief of never going back home ⸺ and even the mourning she's yet to complete of that (like never petting the visiting jaguarundi she affectionately called Cubbie ever again, swimming in her favorite spots, the fruits that will go forever untasted again) ⸺ Aegon's warning does frighten her as does Aemond does by the way he's handled her so far, and the way she's unliked it and especially in all the ways she's loved it. They have something that only happens once every few lifetimes. Passion.
❛ How kind. ❜
She finishes off her glass. The soft-way she views the room proves she a lightweight. Which lends favor to how open her mouth is in a moment she would otherwise stay silent. She sighs something sleepy, dreamy and half extended on the wine still licking its way down her throat.
❛ I don't expect you to understand. I barely do myself. But we have a connection. ❜
