#power couple

[cescalovestowrite]

I seriously need people to understand that Penelope didn't wait for Odysseus for twenty years because social expectations dictated it, or because she was expected to be a faithful wife even untill she died.

Actually it was exactly the opposite: her father wanted her to remarry, some of the women wanted her to remarry, her son made her understand that if she took another husband and left home he wouldn't stop her. And at a certain point she recounts that before leaving for war Odysseus had told her that if he were to die, she could remarry whoever she liked (making sure first that Telemachus would take the throne without problems).

I need people to understand that Penelope's choice was entirely personal. She didn't remarry because her love for Odysseus had never abandoned her, because she knew that with no one else could she find that complete identity of thought and mind, that homophrosyne that she had with him.

It was not the choice of a woman who was modest and trapped by the expectations of her time. It was the choice of a woman who was freer and more independent than others, who preferred to remain without the protection of a man rather than resign herself to not having HER man.

[ariadnethedragon]

HOUSE OF GUINNESS (2025-)

S1E5

[miryum]

The Monster and His Wife (Coriolanus Snow x Reader)

Prompt sent in by a friend who got it from a c.ai bot by @myheartbelongs (apparently. That’s what I was told.)

Warnings: heavy emotional manipulation (on both sides), reader is feisty, reader is going through it, kinda arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, reader likes to goad coriolanus, mentions of old paintings to represent relationship, both don’t really know what they want and switch up every now and again, reader doesn’t give a damn about pissing corio off, reader might be going a bit crazy cause if you were married to corio who wouldnt go crazy?, probably already been done, corio nickname not coryo, reader wears dresses sometimes, allusions to sex

Word Count: 7.4k

*dividers made by @enchanthings

The first time Coriolanus met you, he knew you were perfect. You touched his hand and he felt… nothing. It would be a perfect marriage; never being able to be manipulated or vulnerable with you because he didn’t love you. And you knew this, plain as day. 

One night, Coriolanus sat up in bed, taking your hand in his. “Something on your mind?” The moonlight cast a dim ray onto his face, his blond hair becoming even lighter. 

You were staring off into space when he took your hand. You glanced down at where his strong hand pressed into your palm, fingers forcing their way between yours. “No,” you replied simply. And it was truthful: you were thinking of nothing in particular, the only emotion running through you was the contemplation of another day of being the First Lady.

He hummed in acknowledgment as he ran his thumb over your knuckles, pulling you closer to him. He looked at you intensely, his gaze calculating as if he was analysing you. “You’re sure you’re alright, dear?”

Any other woman would smile up at him, sure that he cared for her. But after being married for almost five months, you knew better. You saw the deeper analysis of his stare, you felt the facet of control he was exerting by holding your hand. So you nodded again, staying silent. Your gaze wandered off again before shaking your head and saying, “sorry, I suppose I’m not being very talkative right now. How was your day?”

Coriolanus let out a soft exhale. He didn't mind that you weren't talkative. He found you easier to manage when you were silent, rather than when you made it your mission to retort to every comment. And in any case, he had no interest in your conversations. Only your arguments. They kept him on his toes and were a good exercise for his wit.

He shifted his position on the bed, sitting with his back pressed against the headboard. “My day was fine,” he replied evenly. “The usual presidential obligations.”

You hummed noncommittally, waiting for him to ask you about your day. When he didn’t, you sucked in a breath and said, “well, then goodnight, I suppose.” Your tone was clipped, and of course Coriolanus knew it, but he didn’t comment as you got under the covers and clicked off the bedside light. He didn’t move to do the same – instead, he remained seated against the headboard, his silhouette rigid in the dim light.

“Goodnight,” he replied smoothly, his voice cool and detached. His hand lingered atop the covers, his fingers tapping idly against the fabric. Your husband made no move to touch you, to offer any semblance of warmth. After a pause, he added, almost as an afterthought, “try not to let your thoughts keep you awake.” The words were clinical, empty, and unnecessary. Not a comfort, just an observation. Then, he turned away slightly, reaching for the book on his nightstand. Another practiced distance between you.

Your brows furrowed together in confusion at his words, but you shook off the uneasiness and tried to go to sleep. It took longer than normal, as if he sadistically knew that planting that fitful seed in your mind would keep you up. Of course he knew. Coriolanus’ mind games never stopped, after all. After a good twenty minutes, you huffed and reached up to turn on the light. “You haven’t turned a page,” you stated, looking over at him.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he heard you. He knew you'd break eventually, and here you were, unable to resist the urge to say something. He let out an exasperated sigh, feigning annoyance at your interruption. Without looking up from the book, he replied dryly, “no, I haven't. Your keen observation skills are truly remarkable.”

You sat up next to him, hands in your lap. “And why haven’t you?”

He closed the book with a soft thud, turning to face you with a slightly bemused expression. It was infuriating. “Because, my dearest,” he began, a hint of condescension laced in his tone, “not everyone requires constant mental stimulation. Some of us appreciate the quiet, the absence of mindless chatter.”

“Then why open the book?” you asked, mimicking his condescending. You suddenly remembered that he wanted this. He wanted to rile you up for whatever twisted reason he had. You took a breath, trying to calm down.

Oh, how he relished this little game of power, the subtle jabs at one another. It was practically entertaining. “Because,” he replied calmly, placing the book in his lap. You could almost detect a hint of arrogance in his voice. “I like to pretend to read. It allows me to appear intelligent without actually having to exert mental effort. Something you wouldn't understand, I assume.”

Your brows curved up and you couldn’t help but snort. “That’s ridiculous! So what I’m hearing is that the President of our nation doesn’t know how to read?” Arrogance dripped into your tone as Coriolanus got exactly what he wanted from you.

His pale eyes gleamed with amusement, though not the warm kind. The kind that made you wonder if he was laughing with you or at you. “Oh, Y/n,” Coriolanus murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Careful now. You forget yourself.” His fingers tapped against the cover of the book. His smile was razor-thin, always giving the impression that he knew something you didn’t. “Are you implying that the Capitol elected an illiterate leader? That would reflect poorly on all of us, wouldn’t it?” How he hoped you pushed further.

“Well, the nation has never asked you to read in front of it before,” you replied coolly. “Perhaps I’ll get a television network to ask you to read stories for the youth and then they’ll see how idiotic you actually are.”

For a fleeting moment, the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a glimmer of amusement. “You are quite the comedian tonight, aren't you?” His voice was smooth as silk, but dripping with sarcasm. “I'm sure the nation would be thrilled to see their beloved President stumble over a children's book. Such high entertainment value.” His fingers kept drumming against the book, his eyes never leaving you.

Your gaze swept over the room, yet never landed on him. Your bedroom was ornate and perfect, though the two people who inhabited it were anything but. “Hmm,” you mused quietly. “Maybe I’m just frustrated with you is all. Though ‘beloved’ is a high title to place upon yourself.”

His fingers stilled against the book cover. “Beloved is a fact, not a title,” he countered smoothly, his voice laced with quiet authority. “And frustration? I wonder why that is. Could it be that you crave something I simply cannot give you?” His eyes flicked over your face, searching for any crack in your composure. He enjoyed your irritation, your defiance. It was far more interesting than when you were silently obedient.

You were still not looking at him, instead staring at the painting hung opposite your canopy bed. The painting, Venus and Mars, by an old Renaissance painter that somehow survived all those years, ironically expressed the message that love always conquered war. Coriolanus had gifted it to you for your wedding. “Not what you cannot give me,” you corrected him, “though that was a close guess. More of what you took away.”

His gaze followed yours to the painting: Venus and Mars laying languidly after having sex, a display of love and war fused into one. How poetic, he had thought when he gifted it. Not because it reflected anything between you two, but because it amused him – the illusion of devotion wrapped in mockery.

“Took away?” he repeated. “What, precisely, have I stolen from you, dear? Your freedom? Your joy?” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Or is this about something far more trivial?” Obviously, he knew the answer. He just wanted to hear you say it.

You finally turned and looked at your husband. You assumed the same position as him, propped against the headrest. “The ability for someone else to love me,” you told him, no sadness or remorse in your voice; only plain, strict fact. You had come to that conclusion early on the marriage and had come to accept it.

He took note of your cool, collected composure and felt a strange sort of amusement, or maybe almost respect. Most people would be weeping hysterically, begging him for reassurances and apologies. But you? No. That wouldn't be your style. “You miss being loved. You miss being wanted.” He let the words hang in the air between you, his gaze searching yours for any hint of vulnerability. Vulnerability was weakness, but he didn’t know if he wanted you to be weak or not. It would be easier to control you, obviously, but it would be much more fun to chip away at your confidence slowly but surely.

“Once again missing the point, Mr. President,” you smirked. “No, I miss my delusions of grandeur. I miss the thought that maybe someday, I would have been loved. What do you miss?” you asked him in a whisper.

For a moment, Coriolanus’ composure faltered by just a fraction, almost imperceptible. Delusions of grandeur… Was that how you saw your hopes for love? A product of delusions? He almost pitied you. “Miss,” he echoed, his mind working to find a response that didn't feel like an admittance of his own regrets. “I miss nothing,” he lied easily. “I have all I need.”

“Of course,” you whispered out mockingly, eyes turning back to the painting. “Why would the great President ever show any ounce of humanity?”

He knows your game. You're baiting him, trying to provoke a reaction. He wouldn't give in. “You mistake humanity for joy.” His voice was a cool, controlled murmur, now teaching you a lesson like you were beneath him. “Humanity is an exploitable trait. One I cannot afford to harbor. Something you clearly don't understand.” 

“An exploitable trait like me?” you replied swiftly, almost as if you had been waiting for him to say it. “One there just for convenience? But that won’t bring any liabilities?” You took in a breath and continued, “yes, my placidity to be First Lady comes and goes, but then I always remember who I actually am. And I find myself wondering why me… out of all the other obedient girls?”

There it is. The defiance he'd been anticipating. He could deal with your sarcasm, your subtle jabs. But this was treading on dangerous territory.

“You were chosen for many reasons, dear,” the President said finally, his tone deceptively calm. “Your obedience was one. Your compliance another. And your... shall we say, 'manageability.' Your family's prestige and your own background made it an easy arrangement.” His gaze locked with yours. “Don't confuse convenience with affection.” His tone was suddenly very harsh.

“Oh, I never did,” you assured him. “But let’s be truthful… am I really obedient? Am I compliant? If I was, wouldn’t I be turned over and asleep right now? No…” you mused. “You wanted someone with just a bit of wit to keep you on your toes. Someone to verbally spar with to keep things interesting.”

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his lips. You'd almost caught him. You were close enough to the truth to be interesting, yet far enough away to remain unharmed. “Is that what you think?” he asked, his fingers drumming lightly against the book again. “That I keep you around for entertainment? Y/n, Y/n... if I wanted verbal sparring, I'd hold another Cabinet meeting.” His gaze hardened just slightly. “No. You're here because you serve a purpose. Whether you're obedient or not is irrelevant, so long as you continue to serve.”

There was a pause. Then, softer, colder: “Do try not to overestimate your importance.”

His words hit closer to home than you would like to admit, but you didn’t let it show. “Isn’t obedience the same as serving?” you asked him lowly. “If I fail to be obedient, then I won’t be serving your purpose,” you rationalised.

“Obedience is blind,” he stated, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, if intimacy could ever be cold and calculated. “Serving is strategic. You don't have to be obedient to serve my purpose, Y/n. You just have to be... useful.”

His fingers stilled, resting against the book's cover. “And right now?” Coriolanus tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “You're very useful.”

The unspoken threat lingered beneath the words. Usefulness isn't permanent.

You blinked slowly, fingers twitching around the duvet once more. “And I suppose you’ll never tell me your… purpose for me?” you asked after a long moment, gears racing in your head as you tried to think of a way to come out on top. But you didn’t think you could. And you detested that feeling.

“No,” he replied simply, his tone almost casual. “I won't.” He leaned back, the cover of the book against his palm. “You don't need to know your purpose, Y/n. You just need to do your part.” The words were cold and unfeeling, serving as a stark reminder of your place in this arrangement.

“And how can I do my part if I don’t know my purpose?” you asked, voice lowering once more. “If I keep ‘disobeying’, then it’s futile. Wouldn’t you rather me know what you expect me to do?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose as a silent laugh, devoid of humor. “Do you truly believe I'd leave anything to chance?” His fingers tapped idly against the book's spine. “You'll play your role perfectly, Y/n. Because the alternative…” He let the threat hang, unspoken. The Capitol didn’t forgive disobedience. Neither did he. “Your purpose,” Coriolanus continued, “is whatever I decide it is. Today, tomorrow – it doesn't matter. You'll adapt.” His smile was slow and undeniably cruel. “You always do, dear.”

After a beat, you said, “you never truly answered my question… why not a more manageable girl from an equally prestigious family? One who wouldn’t even be having this conversation with you because she would roll over and do exactly what was asked? Or are you too afraid to admit that you actually like the way I challenge you?” 

His jaw clenched involuntarily. The worst part about you provoking him is that he enjoyed it. Or, at the very least, Coriolanus found your insolence somewhat amusing. He could practically admire the fire that burned inside you even after all he put you through. The moonlight cast long shadows across the room and he didn’t dare look away from you. “Don't mistake interest for affection.”

“Oh, so there is interest,” you muttered, eyes locked on the satin sheets. A very slow smirk pulled at your lips. “And that still doesn’t answer the question.” 

Coriolanus had no choice but to answer it now, otherwise risking looking like he hadn’t planned something perfectly. His fingers tightened around the book, just enough for you to notice. “You're right,” he admitted. “I could have chosen someone more pliable. But pliable is boring. And I have little patience for boredom.” He didn’t speak for a moment, a calculated risk that paid off. “Does that satisfy you?” His tone dripped with condescension. “Or shall we keep playing this tiresome game?”

“Hmm,” you whispered out, “and here I thought you liked my games.”

You turned over again and shut off the light. And for some reason, even though he had just been smug a couple moments before, there was now a loathing feeling in him as if you had won that round. Perhaps the war was his, but the battle was yours.

He turned sharply away from you, his back rigid as he faced the opposite wall. Silence stretched between you. But he didn’t retaliate, because you had won. And he would never forget it.

“Sleep well, Y/n.”

The words sounded more like a threat than a farewell.

The next morning you woke just a couple moments after your husband, just in time to see him getting up for the day. It was moments like those when you were able to forget the chasm between you two.

Coriolanus’ movements were stiff as he pulled himself upright, rubbing his temple as if trying to chase away the remnants of sleep, or, perhaps, last night's conversation. The morning light softened the sharp angles of his face, making him look younger. Coriolanus paused when he noticed you stirring, his icy blue eyes flickering in your direction. If you could believe it, there was a fraction of a moment where it seemed like he forgot his hatred towards you and he could imagine you were his wife that he loved.

Then it was gone.

His voice was cool as he stood. “You’re awake.” It was a statement, not a greeting.

You let out a scoff, stretching and turning farther into your pillow. “Astute observation,” you grumbled. From the moment you were awake, your brain had to formulate sharp responses to his own insults. It was utterly exhausting.

He sighed, his jaw tightening in annoyance. Of course. You could never wake without a witty comment, could you? His eyes flitted across your form which was still half-buried beneath the sheets. You looked practically vulnerable. Your eyes were closed as you burrowed underneath the covers again. There were pillow lines on your cheeks and you curled into a little ball to conserve your warmth. 

His breath caught…

It was involuntary and something primal and very stupid. He stared at you curled into the sheets, tangled in the sleep-warm fabric. The urge to reach out clawed at him, but of course, he didn't. Instead, he strode toward the bathroom, his voice biting as he said, “you’re impossible.” Coriolanus slammed the door harder than necessary. You could hear the sink running and the sharp rustle of fabric as he prepared for the day and you let out a breath. Finally, the door creaked open again. He stepped out, perfectly composed except for the faint tension in his jaw.

Your eyes raked over him and you commented offhandedly, “you look nice.” Indeed he did – he was dressed in a white button-up shirt and a deep red suit and pants.

Coriolanus adjusted his sleeves, pulling at them sharply. He huffed and turned away, ignoring the way your eyes ran over him like a physical touch. “Flattery doesn't suit you,” he sneered, ignoring the heat creeping up his neck and flicked at his collar.

“It wasn’t flattery, but if you must take it at that, so be it,” you chuckled, turning onto your other side towards where he moved to the door. “And must I remind you, you’re the one who sought after me. All this drama and ridiculousness is something you chose. I could happily be with another man right now who loves me for as is,” you said, something you always loved to remind him of.

His hands, already halfway into tying his tie, halted abruptly.

Another man. The rush of fury through him wasn’t because of possessiveness or jealousy. No, it was the idea that you believed you could escape him. That you could belong to anyone else.

The President forced his fingers to resume their precise movements. "Ah, yes," he muttered, his voice dripping with false amusement. “The man who loves you.” His eyes flicked to you, icy and sharp. “Tell me, Y/n, what kind of pathetic fool would that be? Because whoever he is... he certainly doesn’t exist.”

“He does in my mind,” you said, letting his words roll off you so early in the morning. But, as it often happened, you knew his cruel phrases would come back and haunt you late at night, adding to your own insecurities. Both of you knew that was exactly his intention.

After a short second, he muttered, “shut up.”

One of your eyes peeked open to look at him, unused to his playground taunts. “What?” you mocked. “My imaginary husband is making you jealous?” You chuckled and turned back around.

It was the way you laughed, practically carefree, that made him so pissed. “Your imaginary husband?” he echoed. “How charming, dear.” 

“He is, isn’t he?” you yawned, snuggling under the covers again. You even reached across to grab Coriolanus’ own pillow and tucked it next to you as something to hold.

His pillow– that was his pillow! It took every ounce of his willpower not to snap. He wanted to yank the damn thing out of your grasp and rip it in half. Watching you do such a thing, wrapped in his sheets, and smelling like him... it drove him insane. But instead of admitting that, Coriolanus remarked, “you're an idiot, you know that, right?” That was the thing he couldn’t stand about you sometimes: that you didn’t seem to care about his insults.

After a long enough pause, you asked, “I’m assuming we’re still having lunch and dinner together? Our assistants seem to have this idea of attempting to curate a perfect family in their eyes.”

Of course the Capitol needed its perfect First Couple. His image has always been more important than his reality. “Obviously,” he rolled his eyes, already moving toward the door. “Appearances must be maintained.” He didn’t turn back to look at you as he spoke to the empty air between you. “Be punctual.”

Just to spite him, you were fifteen minutes late. You entered wearing a pink dress and chatting with a female advisor. Coriolanus was already sitting at the long table, hands clasped on the table. His eyes were already on the door when you entered, jaw clenched. However, there were servants and guards present, so his voice remained perfectly composed as he interrupted your conversation. “Dearest.” 

The room fell silent, all eyes flicking between the two of you. The perfect First Couple.

He smiled and extended a hand toward your seat beside him. “You're late.” His whisper was only for you, venomous and quiet. “And that dress is simply appalling.”

You mirrored his charming smile, sitting down and tucking your dress in. “Shut up,” you scowled at him as you dismissed everyone else in the room.

“Did you intentionally aim to humiliate me?” he hissed, “are you deliberately being late and wearing that ridiculous pink abomination?”

“First off, you were the one who wanted me to wear more red, your ‘colour,’” you taunted. “And secondly, I was quite literally fulfilling my role as First Lady and trying to find more donors for my children's programs.”

“Don't lie to me,” he said. “Your little program isn't a priority. Certainly not enough to justify disrespecting my time.” His fingers tapped against the table. 

“I would like to think the future of Pamen is important to you since they will be the ones under your rule,” you countered.

His lips curled into a sneer. “Pamen? Is that truly your concern?” He leaned in slightly, voice lowering to a venomous whisper. His eyes flicked over your dress he supposedly hated. “Or is this just another performance? Another way to defy me?” Coriolanus’ fingers drummed faster on the table.

You took some of the food from the table and loaded it onto your plate while his fingers kept drumming. And drumming. “Well I’m sorry that the wife you chose has a personality she’s not willing to give up.”

“Your personality is childish and self-absorbed, Y/n. Stop acting like a petulant little girl.”

“Divorce is always an option,” you smirked, taking a bite of food. His fingers were still drumming on the table and you reached over and placed your hand on his rather forcefully.

The moment your hand touched his, his fingers stilled. How dare you make his thoughts race in a thousand different directions, all centered on you? Above all, he's fuming. You dare to place your hand on his? To touch him in a silent command? He supposed he should rip your hand away. Instead, he let it linger until you took it off.

You placed some food on his plate for him and motioned to it. “You’re hungry,” you stated.

“I'm not a damn child,” he grumbled. “I can feed myself.”

“And yet you wait until I’m here and throw a tantrum because you don’t like my dress.” You rolled your eyes. “Just eat.” 

He stabbed at the food. “I did not throw a tantrum,” he retorted, taking an unnecessarily aggressive bite to emphasize the point.

“Uh huh,” you said, clearly unconvinced. After some moments of silence, you asked, “what’ve you been up to today?”

The simple domesticity of the question caught Coriolanus off guard. “Meetings,” he answered stiffly. Then, begrudgingly: “you?”

It was an olive branch. Tiny and fragile, but an olive branch nevertheless. He already regretted it.

You sighed and a little crease appeared between your brows. “Yes, I’ve been trying to negotiate the fine details of some of my programs. It’s been hard to pick the select few I actually want to move forward with, but as of now, I really think the education and women empowerment projects will be beneficial. And of course, the program for impoverished children,” you added, giving him a side eye. You knew of his past, after all, and the dismal conditions he grew up in. Soon after news of your engagement broke to the public, you had received a letter from someone claiming to be Coriolanus’ cousin. The letter detailed everything about their upbringing but encouraged you not to reach out to them again. They did leave a way of contact, however, in direst need. 

“The children's program," he repeated after a moment. His lips were pressed slightly together. “That's... still your top priority?” It seemed as if each word was strained to come out. Coriolanus wanted to argue and to tell you to drop the program entirely, but something stopped him. Perhaps memories of cold winters with empty pantries was the thing that made him pause.

“...Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. He didn’t look at you as he spoke again, “just don’t embarrass me.”

“Oh, I'd never dream of it”

He clicked his tongue. “Don't sass me.”

You sighed, your knife pressing down into the plate as you cut up your food. “We just had this conversation last night, Coriolanus,” you said. “You were the one to wed me. You knew the wife you were getting.”

Of course you'd bring up the fact that he chose you, knowing full well the brat he was signing up for. He worked his jaw so he wouldn’t smile. “Trust me,” he snarked, eyes narrowing. “I'll never forget that mistake.”

“Divorce is always an option,” you repeated yourself from a moment ago.

How could you be so naïve? Divorce was out of the question, and Coriolanus knew that you were aware of this. He would never give the Capitol such satisfaction. 

But still, to have you make such a casual suggestion about leaving him… He gripped the edge of the table so hard, his knuckles went white. “If you say that again–”

“You need to learn how to control your temper,” you said. “Or am I the only one that upsets you?”

“Yes," he exclaimed before he could stop himself – before he could even think – because it was true. No one else dared provoke him. No one else could. “Happy now?”

And suddenly, your stare fell back down to your plate. In unusual and aching honesty, you whispered out, “no,” between cracked lips.

He blinked. He expected more bantering, more cruelty. Certainly not vulnerability. He tried to maintain his irritation, but his heart betrayed him. 

But then you sighed and took another bite, chewing at your food. “I don’t think I’ve been happy for a while now,” you told him, voice steady once more. “Thanks to you.”

His fingers tightened around the edge of the table again, but not in anger. There was something else coiled beneath his ribs, something tight and uncomfortable. He wanted to retaliate and snap back that you’re not the only one unhappy here, but he didn’t. Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose and turned his gaze back to his plate. “Then we’re even,” he muttered.

It was the closest to an admission you’ll ever get.

But you were on a roll. It seemed like you were just talking to yourself now as you said, “I think what hurts the most is what I spoke of earlier: that you took me away from a life of potential happiness. You’re depriving me of a husband who would actually love me. And for what? So we would both be miserable? I still have yet to understand your mind, Mr. Snow, and why you didn’t choose a prettier girl who would fall over backwards for you.”

His jaw locked but his hands stayed still this time. No drumming. No fists.

Just silence.

Because what could he say? That he chose you for reasons he didn’t fully understand himself? That every time he looked at you, something in him twists violently between want and rage? That the idea of you with another man — loved, happy, and free — made his chest burn with something he refused to name?

No.

Instead, he exhaled a breath, and said, low and final, “you will never understand.” Then, always one to get the last word, he stood abruptly, chair scraping against marble. “And you’ll never be free of me.”

Coriolanus walked out without another word.

Both of you skipped dinner. He spent his evening in his office with a glass and a bottle of gin, seething silently. You’re depriving me of a husband who would actually love me. His mind replayed different versions of your last conversations over and over again. What would be different if he said something else? The President cursed his brain for conjuring images of you with another man. Of you laughing. Of you smiling. The image of another man touching you… taking you…

Coriolanus gripped his glass tighter.

By the time he stepped into your bedroom, tipsy and red-faced, you’re already under the covers, turned away from him. He stood in the doorway, staring. The moonlight cast you in such an innocent nature. His fingernails dug into the palm of his hand, a strange urge to reach beneath the covers and to pull you closer wafting over him. What would it be like to bury his face in your neck, feel your heartbeat, and to know you loved him? He wanted to. He wanted to so badly.

It must be the alcohol talking.

Coriolanus Snow was not supposed to want. He chose you for that exact reason: he didn’t want you. You wouldn’t be a liability or a weakness. And yet, there you were, slowly becoming one without even knowing it. He detested it because it terrified him. So he got ready for bed as loudly as possible, rousing you from your peace. He climbed into the enormous bed designed so he wouldn’t have to touch or look at you. But even then, there was a certain warmth radiating from your body making his skin prickle with awareness. He shifted closer. Just an inch. Just enough to feel the heat of you.

Pathetic.

He knew you were still awake. He could tell by the shift in the sheets. Coriolanus should rip his heart out for it wanting you to turn over and talk to him. He should grind it to dust for being the one to turn over on his side and speaking first.

“Y/n.”

You let out a hum and his hand reached out towards your back, fingers pressing along the bedsheets. You could feel the dip but stayed still, your back still towards him. His lips parted and let out a breath at the small, secret relief that you were awake. He stayed quiet for a while, fingers digging into the sheets. The President’s eyes squeezed shut as the thought of pulling you to him, wrapping his arms around you, and burying his face in your hair crossed his mind. He felt like a little boy again, wanting the safety of a loving touch. He wanted– 

He swallowed thickly. “Are you still angry?”

You couldn’t help but let out a low little chuckle. You turned to face him, blankets rustling over you. “You’re still just a man, aren’t you, Coriolanus Snow?” you asked, reaching over to gently brush a lock of his hair away from his face.

He didn’t pull away. God, he should have. Then maybe he wouldn’t be in this mess of aching for you. Instead, his hand slowly rose to cover yours where it lingered against his hair. “Shut up,” he whispered.

When you had first touched him, he had felt nothing. It truly made you the perfect candidate for his wife. But now everything he knew was wrong and maddening.

“I think a small part of me will always be mad at you,” you answered softly.

His fingers gripped yours tighter, bringing your hand down to his lips. “Only a small part?” Coriolanus whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching up. He could live with only a small part.

“Unfortunately, yes. Only a small part.” After a beat, you repeated back at him, “are you still angry at me?” 

“I'm angrier with myself,” he admitted suddenly. “Not you.” You could feel the ghost of his breath on the back of your hand.

“Hmm, and why with yourself?” you asked, though both of you know you could see through him. A smug little smile lifted your lips. “Is it because you’re feeling something for me? This wasn’t part of your plan, was it? You weren’t supposed to love your wife.”

How did you always know, even when he refused to believe it himself?

Coriolanus pulled your hand to press his lips against it. He exhaled, surrendering, before he muttered, “no.” His other hand lifted, so slow and even trembling, to ghost along your jaw. He couldn’t remember the last time he trembled. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Ah, dear husband.” You rolled your eyes with affection. “Who could have ever seen this coming?” you couldn’t help but joke. You pulled away from him and turned back around, leaving him cold and empty.

He moved without thinking, reaching out towards you, but then he stopped. Close, so close that he could feel the warmth radiating from your body. It was like his body needed to touch you on its own accord. It craved– no, he craved you. “Turn back around,” Coriolanus demanded.

“No,” you replied quietly to his ragged request. Instead, you shifted back towards him so you were tucked into the crook of his body. 

You could hear the hitch of his breath in his throat as you settled against his chest. The tension in his muscles was obvious and it almost felt like your back was to a brick wall. But then, he melted. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you flush against him, silently thanking you over and over that you were letting him touch you. His lips pressed against the nape of your neck before he tried to compose himself.

“...Fine.”

A little laugh escaped you at his acquiescence. “That’s what I thought,” you teased gently.

His arms tightened around you as you laughed. His breath fanned warm against your neck, slow and steady, matching yours. And when sleep finally pulled him under, his hold didn't slacken.

Not even a little.

Four days later, when Coriolanus was in his study working on long lists of papers and orders and treaties, you opened the door without knocking. His head snapped up but the irritation in his eyes didn't reach his usual sharpness. Not when you were standing there, bathed in sunlight, looking entirely too pleased with yourself, no, he couldn’t be too mad.

He really should’ve reprimanded you for barging in unannounced. Instead, he set his pen down and leaned back in his chair. “Do you ever knock?”

“Not this time,” you said, walking over to his desk.

“You're insufferable,” he muttered. “What do you want?”

“Is it a crime to want to see my husband?”

He exhaled sharply, grumbling, “unbelievable.” He paused and glanced outside to the gardens that sprawled out below his window. “Fine.”

Coriolanus stood, chair scraping back, and rounded the desk, his papers long forgotten. “Come. We're going for a walk.” You looped your arm through his and he had to remind himself to keep walking. 

“Oh thank god.” You stepped out into the gardens and you couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. It had been a long day and it wasn’t even half over yet. The gardens were filled with rose bushes, something Coriolanus ordered the moment he stepped foot into the presidency.

His hand slowly ran down your arm until he was holding your hand, fingers curled around yours. It felt different from when he would first hold your hand earlier in the marriage. Back then, it felt cold and boring. Now he seemed to do it with intent.

You strolled along next to him for a while silently and he glanced over at you. “You’re wearing red,” he observed.

“And you’re wearing white.”

Coriolanus hummed.

After a little while more, you admitted, “I quite like your wit, did you know that? I need a partner who can keep me thinking. It’s nice.”

His brows rose up at the compliment. Coriolanus’ shoulders drew back, almost as if he was preening at your appreciation. His grip on your hand tightened as he asked slowly, “is that a compliment?” He shouldn’t care so much about your answer.

You paused and your brows furrowed a touch. “Unfortunately, I think it is,” you sighed out before chuckling. “I can’t think of a reason it wouldn’t be.”

He couldn’t stop himself from murmuring, “disgusting.” He doesn't let go of your hand for the rest of the walk.

Every so often he would ask you another question or you would make a comment on the roses in the garden. As you headed back towards the house, however, you asked him plainly, “I know you’ll never love me, but could you ever imagine us, say, forty years down the line, being friends?”

The President stopped dead in his tracks before turning to face you fully. His expression was unreadable but his voice was soft when he finally spoke, “...Friends?” He decided he now had a personal vendetta against the word. It just felt so small. So insignificant. His thumb pressed into your pulse point before he muttered, “no. Not friends.”

You didn’t dare to break eye contact even as your breaking heart beat pitifully. The blue in his eyes was so striking but you forced yourself to stay steady. “Good to know,” you said honestly. “Thank you.”

For a moment, neither of you breathed. His hand lifted, ghosting over your jaw and tilting your face up higher. “You’re welcome.”

Truthfully, he didn’t know what you would be in forty years and that terrified him. Coriolanus Snow was a planner who had his life down to a science. You were an unidentified element he hadn’t equated in.

“Coriolanus,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You’re being dramatic and we both know it. Where’s the stoic witty man I know and hate?” you asked jokingly. 

Is that what you truly wanted? Did you want him to go back to that evil man? Should he shape himself into what you were expecting if it led to more affection from you? You wanted the stoic, detached version of him — the version that didn’t feel — when all he could think about was the way your skin felt beneath his fingertips.

He hated that he couldn’t give you what you wanted. “You want that man? Fine.” He stepped back and straightened his jacket with deliberate precision. His stare was ice. “There. Happy?”

Underneath his composure, his fingers trembled because he wasn’t that man anymore.

Finally, you paused and looked back at him. “Well, are you that man?” you asked quietly. “Or did the great President of Panem change?”

“Does it matter?” he snapped without meaning to. “Isn't this what you want? For me to be the phlegmatic bastard, just as you always call me?” He scoffed, lips twisting into a cold smirk. “So be it.” Yet, behind his eyes a thousand different emotions burned. Anger, despair, rage, grief, loss, desire, and something else. Something terrifyingly human.

He began to stride back to the palace and you picked up your skirts to jog after him. “Coriolanus,” you huffed before realising he didn’t plan on turning around. “Coriolanus!” you exclaimed again. You followed after him, all the way until he reached his study. “Stop acting like a child and speak to me like a man!” you shouted.

His hands slammed down on his desk, papers scattering, and he whirled around, eyes burning with fury. “Speak like a man?" he repeated, voice shaking. “What would you have me say, Y/n? That I loathe this? That I hate feeling anything for you? That I hate how you look at me, how you touch me, and yet I still crave it?” His chest heaved before he snapped, “is that man enough for you?”

Suddenly, he was still. He should not have admitted that.

Now you knew.

His eyes slowly lifted to your face. Your eyes were wide and your chest rose and fell. Then, you took a step closer to him. Then another. And then you were hurrying to close the distance and you slammed into him, wrapping your arms around him in a hug.

Every movement, every muscle, every nerve went rigid as your body pressed against his. His hands lifted as if to push you back to protect himself, but they instead dug into the fabric of your dress, clutching at you like a lifeline. His throat tightened and his breath turned ragged against your hair.

God, he hated this. He hated you. He hated how much he needed you. But he didn’t pull away, not even when the first crack splintered through his chest and not even when his heart shattered in his ribcage. Because finally… he felt human. The great President of Panem, the monster in the dark, reduced to a man. A man desperately grasping for something more. How ironic that love was all that was needed to break him fully.

“Damn you,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Damn you, dear.” For the first time since he could remember, Coriolanus yielded. His body bowed and his forehead pressed against yours. “Damn you,” he whispered again. He sounded weak and broken, but he didn’t pull away. For all his hatred and rage… he loved you.

And he hated that too.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this, hmm?” you finally murmured, repeating yourself from four days ago. “I was supposed to just be here. Someone you didn’t care for so there wouldn’t be any vulnerability?”

The laugh that ripped from him sounded more like a strangled sob, his entire body sagging towards you and his head buried into the crook of your neck as he whispered, “yes.” This was never supposed to happen. You were never meant to mean something to him. Nothing should’ve been able to break down the walls he had so carefully built. “You weren't supposed to matter.”

“I know,” you said. “Neither were you.”

“You're an insufferable woman.”

“Says the man who wanted to manipulate me into a boring wife,” you chuckled, because even in your vulnerable moments, you couldn’t help but tease him. “You know I’ll never let that go, yes? I’ll lord it over you forever. Until our dying days.”

His voice had lost its edge, replaced instead with a strange warmth. “You're the worst, you know that?”

“That’s what everyone says,” you sighed, rolling your eyes jokingly. “I really am a terrible choice for First Lady, hmm?”

“Absolutely awful,” he agreed quietly. “Completely insufferable.” Even as the words left his lips, his hands were sliding against your waist, drawing you closer. Your mouth opened to retort something, so instead of dignifying your jokes with another response, he leaned down pressed his lips against yours in a kiss that said everything he couldn't put into words. His hands slid up, rough and desperate, one tangling in your hair, and the other clutching your waist. When he finally pulled back, breathless and aching, his voice was raw. “Happy now?”

“Very.” For after all, the line between love and hate was only obsession.

[pptythe3rd]

reprieve — maekar targaryen x wife!reader

warnings! this big idiot is so in love, flirting, swearing, lots of public affection, jealousy is his middle name, kissing, sort of public freaky stuff, baelor is a cockblock twice, inappropriate consumption of wine (aka medieval body shots???), fingering, fem!oral (partially), they be rawdogging (safe sex is cool guys, wrap it up already), breeding kink sort of, smut duh, a glimpse at aftercare cause what do you think i am, some sort of animal???, they really are just marriage goals tho im ngl

The feast was bearable enough for your husband when accompanied by his brother, at least; talking freely in their tall-backed mahogany chairs, chuckling at one another's words. The two of them, though different in near every way imaginable, were inseparable at the best of times.

It pleased you to no end, to see your prince contented, though with the frequent flurry of flattering words as your ladies-in-waiting swirled around you, and the general revelrous buzz that migrated from person to person in the hall, it took longer than you might have liked to notice his discomfort when Baelor was pulled away by some lord seeking counsel.

The air was thick and loud, musted with the scent of Dornish reds and sweating men, torches flooding the place with warm ripples of amber as you cast your gaze over to Maekar, frowning slightly to see his slouch, his dipped head, his fingers wringing his sleeves.

When the ladies surrounding you took note of your distraction, they hushed. Turning back to them, you offered each a polite smile. "Forgive me, I must accompany my husband..."

Waiting not for their reply, you stood from your chair, the legs of it dragging over the cold stone underfoot with a groan. Maekar's eyes shot up toward you, narrowing slightly as you approached.

"My wife," he grunted, nodding to the seat Baelor had occupied, his lips pulling up into the faintest smirk.

Huffing a quiet laugh, you followed his gaze to the seat, lowering yourself into it with a quiet hum. "Do not look so.. miserable, husband."

"I am not miserable," he scoffed, a large palm moving instinctively to rest on your thigh, heavy and warm as always.

You tilted your head then, musing, "No? You certainly appear it."

"I am bored," he gave a scowl with his reply, though his eyes were as soft as they had ever been when he pulled them over your features, his thumb now dragging over the silk of your gown in small, slow circles, "and you were gone much too long."

"Of course you are," you remarked lightly, leaning close to brush a faint kiss over the clean curved cut of his glistening silver beard. Holding the minimal distance between you, you offered softly, setting your hand atop his, "Perhaps.. a dance should cure your ills?"

At that, a mocking bark of a laugh falls from his lips as he shakes his head. "I would sooner sever my own cock.. much to your chagrin."

"Maekar!" you laughed with him, pulling your hand from his to slap at his arm.

"I will not dance."

"Suit yourself," you sneered, drawing back from him and rising from your seat. "I shall find another partner, then."

Maekar grunted, his eyes sharpening as he watched you stand, his hand dropping. "Any man who lays his hand on you will not keep it for long."

Giggling, you waved him off and sauntered across the high table, down the steps toward the rows of benches, your target already in sight. Glancing back over your shoulder at Maekar, you watched with a smirk as he loosely tried to veil his irritation.

"Excuse me," you cooed when you arrived at the dancing partner you sought. "Ser Duncan? Would you mind if I steal Egg away for a moment?"

"Your Grace," the lumbering man swiveled quickly, with all the poise that a man his size could muster, and he nodded swiftly. "Of- why, of course, Your Grace."

He seemed to be chewing still on a roll of crusted bread as he spoke, a few crumbs and smudges of blackberry jam at the corner of his lips.

"Thank you," you smiled softly, and extended your arm out toward the youngest of your husband's sons. "Come, Egg. I should like to dance with you."

"A dance?" he grinned, practically leaping out of his seat as he grasped your hand eagerly.

Laughing, you nodded. "Indeed, a dance. Thank the Gods you are not as bitter to it as your father."

For a while, the two of you whirled around the centre of the great hall, caring not for the onlooking lords and ladies, the instrumenteers in the corner matching their tunes to your moves. When the two of you finally settled on the flats of your feet again, the melody became slow and drawn-out.

Kneeling down to Egg, you uttered, "Thank you. Twas the best dance of my life."

A sort of pride filled the boy at that, his chest puffing out slightly as he grinned. "I thought it would be."

You laughed softly, lifting your hand to gentle ruffle the regrowings of his silver hair. "Go on, have some fun," you mused, nodding back to his usual conductor of such, the burly hedge knight to whom the boy seemed almost soulfully attached.

As you pulled yourself up to stand again, you glanced back at Maekar, a knowing smile on your lips as he watched you. His face was set as firm as ever, but his eyes glistening as he nodded to the vacated seat beside him.

"You were saying?" you mused, sidling up to the high table again, swaying your hips slightly just to watch his gaze dropped to the movement. "Something about dismembering your son, if I remember rightly?"

"Oh hush," he grumbled, a strong, firm forearm wrapping around your waist once you were close enough, pulling you down into the chair beside him. "I did not say I would dismember my son."

"Hm, true enough. Though you did say you would remove the hand of any man who lay it on me, did you not?"

"I did. And I shall stand by that sentiment until I take my last breath. Lucky for Aegon... he is not yet a man," his eyes seemed to study you as he rumbled out the words, a faint smirk on his lips at being able to weasel his way out of such a claim.

"Do you mean to suggest if Aegon were ten years older, he too would lose a hand for merely touching me?"

His proud smirk faded and he let out a sort of low growl, shaking his head. "Stop with the fucking semantics, dear. It is tiresome."

"Too tiresome to take your vengeance against Egg and dance with me yourself?" you mused playfully, eyes sparkling as you tilted your head.

Maekar only gazed at you for a moment, his expression caught, as if frozen in place, captured by your beauty. His lips raised in a slow smirk and he shook his head. "No dancing."

"Please?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"No."

"Maekar."

"My fire."

Your eyes are only inches apart now, your noses near touching and your breaths colliding. Then his gaze flicks away, jolting to the right of you, landing on something, someone you could not see, and his scowl was present once more.

Turning slowly, your eyes fall on Aerion, striding over to the two of you, eyes gleaming with some likely-malicious intent. You shifted, manouevring yourself to sit more formally in your chair, a polite smile on your lips as you looked up at him.

His stare, sharp as needles, flickered between your eyes as he remarked, his voice carrying some low turn of mockery, "If my father refuses, perhaps you would like a dance with m-"

"No," Maekar wasted not a second in interrupting his son with a firm shake of his head.

"Fathe-"

Grimacing at the wicked boy now, he ground out a second, "No. Now fuck off."

With a huff, Aerion glared at the both of you and spun on his heel — likely to find a servant to torment, you thought.

Letting out a soft breath, you turned back to Maekar, a smile on your lips as you watched him slouch back further, his legs spreading even wider as he whistled over a servant. "Wine. Now."

Two goblets into the smooth Dornish drink, sweet as a fresh strawberry and salty as the sands that were underfoot everywhere in the humid, vibrant kingdom, Maekar found himself rolling his eyes as you pleaded now for a dance.

"Spare me, my girl," he grumbled, rubbing his palm up and down the inside of your forearm. In the haze of the smoky room, your inhibitions dulled slightly, and his eyes glowing that deep purple you love so dearly, it is hard not to bid him everything he wishes.

"Fine," you pouted then, pulling your arm from his grasp and crossing it with the other over your chest, watching his eyes drop immediately to your cleavage — it had been plentiful already this night, with the low, rounded neckline of your silken gown, but your husband seemed to find himself greatly appreciating the impact of your forearms pushing your breasts upwards. "Maekar. Eyes."

His gaze shot back up to catch yours, a loose smile on his lips, his eyes glistening as they creased at the corners.

"I truly, sincerely cannot stand you."

"Tis a good thing you are sat, then," he chuckled, raising his now-refilled goblet up to his lips, clicking his tongue as he watched you over the rim of it before taking in a slow, long few mouthfuls of the liquid, setting it down again empty.

"Horrible man.." you grumbled bitterly, glaring at him as you slumped back in your seat.

When his arm lifted and hung itself around your shoulder, you stiffened for a moment, before letting your body slacken and tilt into his, leaning further into the strength in that arm.

Another two goblets in and Egg and the girls had said goodnight to you and their father before being led to their chambers by your handmaids.

On the other end of the high table, Baelor had somehow found himself sandwiched betwixt Lyonel Baratheon and Ser Duncan, his shoulders stiff and his fingers pulling on his rings.

Nodding to the scene, you leaned closer to Maekar, your voice hushed, "You ought to save your brother."

Pulling his eyes off you reluctantly, he glanced over to find Baelor's predicament — who caught his gaze with a fleeting look that could scarcely be described as anything but a cry for help — and chuckled, soon near roaring out a laugh as he threw his head back, patting your arm.

As always, his deep laugh set you off as well, a fit of giggles overcoming you as you squeezed his forearm. Baelor only grimaced at the sight of you both howling in the face of his misfortune.

The hall was quieter now, though still buzzing with the low chatter and laughter of the few lords and ladies that remained. Maekar's lips had loosened with each gulp of wine he'd swallowed back, and he was soon enough pawing at you, long fingers stretching out atop your thigh as he dragged his calloused palm up and down your skirt.

"Come here."

"I cannot come any closer," you laughed softly, though you did turn to face him from your chair, slowly placing your palm on his chest through his sash and doublet.

Shaking his head, he chuckled again, and spoke when the sound drifted into a low hum, "I disagree."

"No. Do not even think it."

"You do not know what I am thinking."

"I do."

"Silly woman," he scoffed, rolling his eyes and sliding his hand up to your waist, fingers digging in slightly when they found a spot to his liking. "Come here."

"I cannot-"

Grunting, he shifted his chair and yanked you out of yours, lifting you through the air as though you weighed little more than a feather. Planting you down in his lap, he hummed contentedly and caged his arms loosely around you, leaning forward to consume the scent of your hair.

"I missed you, wife..."

"I have been beside you the entire night, husband."

"Mm. Still..."

"Did you miss me enough to want to dance?"

"Gods help me.." he huffed, shoving his face against your the crook of your shoulder, his fingers flexing lightly against your waist as he pulled your back flush against his chest.

"Just one... please? Only one.."

"Nnngh."

As he grumbled, he lifted and turned you, settling you atop his thighs to face him.

"Please...?" you cooed, sliding your hands up from where they had claimed his forearms, dragging your digits over his large shoulders until they came to settle in the milky white hair at the base of his neck, curling your fingers there.

His eyes drifted shut as you did so, head tipping back slightly into your hands, "You... are a wretched little thing."

"I am yours," you countered swiftly. "And I want to dance."

"No. How many times do I have to say it? No."

"You are the most stubborn man in the Seven Kingdoms," you pouted, dropping your hands onto his shoulders and pushing him away slightly.

Scowling, he dragged his eyes up to yours, narrowed as if truly offended that you would take him from the comfortable place he had claimed. "And you too willful. Will you drop dead if you do not dance?"

"Perhaps," you puffed out, blindly reaching out behind you to grasp your goblet, bringing it to your lips and finishing its contents, keeping your eyes fixed on his, narrowed playfully.

His hands squeezed your hips as he scoffed quietly. "No, you will not."

"How do you know that for certain?"

"Because," he huffed, leaning forward, reaching past you to grab at the bowl of grapes that sat on the edge of the table, planting it in his lap before plucking one in the tips of his long white fingers, bringing it to his mouth, "it is a ridiculous fucking notion."

"So rude..." you mumbled, too reaching for a grape and popping it between your lips, biting down on it slowly as you looked at him, your left hand still clasping your empty goblet, thumb rolling over the cool silver lip of it.

Reaching for it, he clicked his tongue and shook his head, holding it out behind him in a silent gesture that a servant refill it.

"I cannot believe mine own husband does not love me, does not even care for me, enough to fulfill my only whim."

Planting the refilled goblet back on the table, he rolled his eyes and leaned in, nose brushing your jaw. "Do not speak such nonsense," it was near enough a growl, as his lips dragged over your pulse point, sending a hot stream of tingles down your spine, all the way to where he shifted his hands, flattening them against the small of your back.

"Maekar..."

"Mmmph," he pulled back ever so slightly, inhaling a slow breath, his mind clouded by the scent of you. "Mm... Gods..."

"Maekar..."

"Brother," the third voice, that of Baelor — having found a lucky escape from the Laughing Storm and his hedge knight — came from the other side of the large old table. It swiftly received a groan from his younger counterpart, whose hands tightened on you.

Maekar huffed a breath into your hair when the man's gaze, weighty and firm with all that honour he insisted upon, remained fixed on your forms, looking almost melted into one single mass of limbs by now.

Lifting his head, the younger shot him a glare over your shoulder, scoffing, "Oh, do leave us be."

"You ought to show a little... decorum," the other countered, lowly almost, clasping his hands together in front of himself, standing tall and steady, his mismatched eyes flickering over the two of you.

You shifted on Maekar's lap, squeezing his wrist gently and pulling his hand off your hip. "Your brother, my love, is correct. I ought to go check on the children anyhow."

His eyes roving over your features, a small effort at a frown pulled Maekar's lips downwards. When your eyes locked, he stilled for a moment before patting your hips. "Fine. Be quick."

By the time you finally returned to the great hall, gliding through the large doors, your eyes caught Maekar with ease, a soft laugh escaping you to see him caught amid a conversation with Lyonel and Ser Donnel, the poor Kingsguard having somehow been wrangled as well.

His head lifted first, and theirs followed, the three gazes clinging to you as you crossed the space. Maekar took his eyes away from yours to study the men at his sides, grumbling under his breath.

"Your wife truly is a treasure," Lyonel mused, tapping his bejewelled fingers against the table in front of him.

The prince grimaced, his jaw clenching slightly as he settled his gaze on Lyonel, an unspoken fury beneath the deep lilac of his eyes. "Yes," he grunted.

When Donnel huffed a quiet laugh out, the glare turned onto him, only for the man to be saved by Lyonel's next remark, spoken through a rough laugh, "I see why you keep her away from the courts."

By the will of the Seven, Maekar held in the best of his sudden murderous urges, quickly shoving his chair back with a scoff before stalking his way over to where you found yourself speaking with a few ladies of the Reach.

Caring not for the bounds of a polite distance, he planted himself only inches away from you, reaching out and grasping your waist with heavy palms, their firm undeniable weight making you smile softly as you turned your head and pulled your gaze up to him. "Husband..."

"I need to steal my wife," he uttered, voice low and steady as his fingers curled into your hip just so.

The ladies nodded and your body turned toward him, placing your palm gently on his forearm as he led you, presumably, back to the high table. Only to stop in the centre of the floor.

"A dance, dear?" he rumbled softly, eyes gleaming as he watched your entire face brighten, a grin stretching your lips upwards.

"I knew you would give in!"

"Oh, hush. I am not giving in," he insisted, pulling you into the correct stance, leading you to step and sway in a slow rhythm of his own design, "merely showing that fucking Baratheon what he will never have."

"Ah. What did he say, then?"

Clicking his tongue, he shook his head, muttered, "You are a treasure, apparently."

"Apparently?" you giggled, fingers curling into his red velvet sash atop his shoulder, before you released your fist and smoothed your fingers down the fabric. "Do you disagree?"

His look went sour, brows furrowing as he shot back swiftly, "Did I say that?"

"You said apparently."

"No. I do not disagree. The man is lucky I did not take his tongue, though."

Laughing softly at that, you shook your head, redirecting the conversation swiftly, "Daella had a nice evening. She enjoyed dancing with the Lannister boy."

Of course, seeing his expression only harden further, brows pulled taut and scowl deepening, you realised considering his daughter's potential partnerings may not be the best approach.

"She danced with the fucking Lannister boy?" he ground out.

Nodding, you smiled, "Yes, at the end of the feast."

"I do not recall her asking my permission to dance with a fucking Lannister."

"Maekar..."

"A Lannister? Gods, and I thought she had some sensibility about her. A Lannister..."

"Is there a.. particular reason you so despise that?"

"He is a fucking Lannister."

"My love..." you cooed, shifting your arm, bringing your hand up to cup the base of his neck. "Breathe."

"My heart," he uttered in response, eyes burning as they became caught deep within yours, the glint in his gaze alone making your stomach burn with a desperate need for him. "Every man in this hall thinks you ought to be his."

"Every man in this hall is a stupid cunt, then," you quipped softly, leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to the side of his mouth, lips brushing over his silver whiskers.

Chuckling at that, he tilted his head and insisted his lips upon yours, capturing them, hand sliding to the small of your back, flattening there. A low growl escaped him as your lips instinctively parted to make way for his tongue. He wasted no time in pushing the pink, wet muscle against your own, a hand lifting slowly, cupping your cheek, spanning almost the entirety of your skull.

You pushed forward slightly, and breathed a laugh into his mouth when your teeth bumped together, letting him move you as he wished.

Without parting from you, he led your bodies to a shadowed alcove in the corner, backing you gently against the wall, a hand still supporting your head so as to keep you safe from the stone behind you that dragged roughly over his knuckles, while the other drifted down to your arse.

"Maekar.." it was a soft breathy utterance, near moaned into his mouth.

Absorbing the sound with a low hum, he deepened the kiss, his tall, muscular frame just inches from yours as he kept himself bent in order to maintain access to your lips. Drawing back, he moved his hand to once more hold your jaw, the Valyrian words falling from his tongue in a rumble, "Should fuck you right here. Show that Baratheon bitch whose you are."

Throwing your head back, you laughed freely at that.

"I would have to advise against it, brother," came Baelor's low drawl from behind Maekar. Your body stilled in an instant and you dropped your head onto your husband's chest with a huff, cheeks flushing as you got a firm grip of Maekar's doublet.

Snarling, the younger whipped his head up to bite back, "I did not ask your advice."

"Take it anyway. Either... collect yourselves, or take this elsewhere."

"Happily," your husband returned to the common tongue as he grasped your wrist, swinging his free arm out to clamp his palm down on a pitcher of wine, leading you out of the hall with a firm tug.

Though you feigned an indignant look, the way he pulled you along behind him had something within you fluttering with excitement. Still, of course, you deemed it only right to tease Maekar some.

"Husband, must you truly be so intent on making it so your brother sees me so... whorishly?"

"Whorishly?" he laughed, tipping his head back and lifting the heavy flagon to his lips to guzzle down a mouthful of the contents within. "Is that even a word?"

Rolling your eyes playfully, you reached for the jug and took a sip of your own, "It matters not."

"Very well," he mused, giving your arse a pat to encourage you up the winding stairs as he followed close as a shadow. "Besides, your screams reach Flea Bottom, no doubt the entire court knows precisely how... whorish you can become."

Before long, the two of you had made it up to your chambers, the bickering regarding which of you was most whorish long since died down, fervent hands clamouring to strip one another of your clothes as you stumbled through the doorway, half entiwned together. His sash and doublet were cast aside already as you tugged his tunic up and over his head, your impatience earning a chuckle from him.

Standing only in his breeches, he looked down at you, clamping his hands down on your waist and walking you backwards until your legs hit the bed, pushing your skirts up.

"This fucking dress..." he growled, hovering over you, lips grazing your ear lobe as he spoke, "has been of great... torment to me all evening..."

You dropped your head back as he pushed one large hand under the neckline of said gown, squeezing and grabbing and pulling at the fat of your breast, rolling his thumb over the nipple until it hardened. When he pinched it, your eyes fluttered shut, a soft moan sliding off your tongue, the sound collapsing into a wanton effort of mumbled pleading when he kicked your thighs apart and rolled his hips against yours.

Even through his breeches and far, far too many layers of skirts, you could feel the prominent line of his cock — thick and heavy, demandingly hard.

Groaning, he pumped his hips as if he were already sheathed within your tight hole. "Pretty wife..." his voice was a low rumble as he shifted his hand where it was buried under your gown, getting a firm hold of it and giving it a sharp tug, the fabric tearing beneath his weighty palm.

"Maekar!" you gasped. "I like this one!"

"Too bad," he huffed out a soft laugh, his free hand hiking one of your thighs up over his shoulder, leaving the front of your gown open, the diaphonous chemise beneath now the only thing keeping your breasts from being wholly freed. Dragging his eyes up to your face though, he saw your prolonged pout, and cupped your cheek, pulling his thumb down your tender, flushed skin slowly, "Worry not, I shall buy you another."

Rolling your eyes, you mumbled in return, "Best do.."

Chuckling, Maekar shook his head, already-disheveled locks becoming even messier as his eyes drank up the sight of you. Flat on your back, with half of your gown torn and your hair cascading onto the furs beneath you, you truly were a sight to behold.

It took only a moment for him to drop to his knees, pulling your second leg up over his shoulder as well and diving into the ocean of skirts that guarded you.

His nose made contact first, bumping against your clitoris through your small clothes, jolting a little whimper out of you. He grinned, shuffling closer to the edge of the bed on his knees, strong hands gripping you tightly as he sucked in a thick breath of your heady arousal.

"Ohh.. that smell... my favourite..."

"No," you whined, hands shooting to his unkempt hair, fingers curling in the cotton-white strands as you tugged him up.

"Ow.." he huffed, brows furrowed as he looked up at you. "What?"

You rolled your eyes, giving another tug to his locks with a murmured, "Get up here."

"I am hungry, wife."

"I do not care."

He held your glare for a moment before a rough chuckle fell from his lips, interrupting the low rumbled laugh with an exaggerated groan as he pulled himself up from his knees and climbed atop you.

"Are so you desperate to take my cock?" he uttered lowly, chuckling again now as his lips brushed over your jaw.

"The maesters said I am ripe for it," you whined, palm flattening at his nape.

He grunted, "Fuck that; they do not hunger for your pretty flower's pollen as I do."

You breath hitched at that, shaking your head softly. "Please... please, Maekar..."

"Please what? I cannot read your mind. Speak plainly."

"I... please, I... need your cock," you murmured, cheeks flushing as they oft did when he became so insistent on profanity. Of course, you were no stranger to the words, employing your own curses not half as much as him — that would be a mountainous effort indeed — but here and now it felt so utterly debauched that your neck turned crimson as well.

He chuckled at that, sliding a rough palm over your collarbones and up your neck until he held your burning cheek. "Then you shall have it, my pretty wife... in due course."

"Due cour- no, no... Maekar, no... Do not be so cruel. Just... let me have it."

"Gods, you beg like a whore," he laughed a raucous sound, shaking his head, his long fingers dancing through your hair.

Scowling at that, you kicked at his ankle. "Do not.. laugh at me, you wicked... old... fool..."

"Wicked old fool?" he near choked on the howl of a laugh that escaped him then. "Careful, wife. I am not so old."

Reaching up to grasp at his bare shoulders, eyes sparkling, pleading with his own, you pulled him down toward you. "A wicked fool then! Please, Maekar..."

"Oh, hush," he murmured, letting you bring him down to yourself, leaning to press his face against the side of your throat, hot breaths fanning over your tingling flesh. Dragging his lips up to your jaw, he groaned softly, fingers finding your skirts.

Gasping, your own hands found themselves rooted in his silver hair, nails digging into his scalp just so as you cared not for the movements of his hands, until the loud tearing of satin and cotton met your ears.

"Maekar..."

He grunted into your neck, dragging his tongue over your pulse point now, hands sliding the layers of fabric away from you. "Hush, hush, pretty thing." With a groan, he reached out until the wine jug was again in his grasp, chuckling as he held it over you, slowly pouring the fruity red liquid along your abdomen, down and then up and then along, the alcohol dribbling between your lips and over your breasts, skimming over the plains of your smooth flesh. "No complaining now, wife," he laughed, tossing aside the now-empty pitcher, the metal clanging as it skipped over the cold stones of the floor.

Pouncing down onto you, he claimed your wrists in one large hand and held them hostage above your head, skimming his lips over the sticky substance that slickened your flesh, tongue darting out infrequently to lap up the alcohol. His free hand grasped your thigh, hiking it up further on the bed and kneading the thick flesh beneath his firm fingers.

Moaning softly at the heady mix of sensations, you threw your head back, whimpering as your hands fought against his constrictive palm. "Let... me... need to touch you..."

"You're fine," he grumbled, raising his head to give you a stern look before ducking it down again, burying his face between your breasts. "You can touch later."

"B- bastard," you gasped out as he skimmed his palm to the crease inside your thigh, nudged his fingers only your bare pussy lips, working your wetness over the fat pink folds of flesh as he grinned down at the sight. "Maek- Please! Gods..."

"The Gods are not here. I am."

"Maekar..."

"Better." Pulling himself up and away from your neck, his lips turned up in a smirk as he tilted his head, eyes gleaming with fervid intent. "You beg like a whore... shall I fuck you as one?"

"D- do it as you like... just fuck me..." you whimpered, rocking your hips up until finally his large digits were sunken into you, cooing out a breathy moan. "Mmm.. fuck me, Maekar..."

Chuckling, he shook his head, his hand abandoning your wrists in favour of shoving down his breeches and kicking them off while he dragged his thumb over your clit and pumped his fingers in and out of you. "Hands and knees, whore."

He pulled his fingers out of you and patted them against your cunt before pulling back, watching you display yourself how he wanted you. "My good girl.." he drawled, drapsing his body over yours and guiding his hard cock to your chubby folds.

"In.. in, in, please," you were nearly sobbing now, your forearms pressing into the featherbed beneath you as you desperately backed yourself against his hips. "Maekar, please, plea-ahh.."

Along with your begging, your mind, your entire body, in fact, seemed to dissolve, melting to nothing but sweat and cum and blood as he finally shoved his cock into your tight hole, grunting as he insisted it so far as to thrash against your cervix.

Your legs shaking behind you, your head fell forward, every part of you reduced to a quivering, drooling mess of a wife beneath her all too large husband. Maekar gripped you with such a vigour that there were sure to be marks left in the morning, swollen purple marks left by his fingers, little grazes left by the callouses on his hefty palms.

With a low growl, he leaned down and pushed his face into the back of your neck, a hand sliding up to grasp your hair and drag you back until you were upright against him, his breaths landing heavily on the side of your throat, tickling just under your ear.

"You... nngh... are my only reprieve..." his deep, heavy thrusts punctuated the words as the sting in your scalp settled and you whined in reply. "Aegon drags that hedge knight about like his own mule... nngh..." he went on, continuing to fuck you as if it to remould you to fit none but him, "Aerion grows sicker by the day... Daeron- fucking- agh, he is so far into the flagon he cannot see sense... but you..." he did not thrust so swiftly now, letting your head turn slightly to catch his eyes before he slammed his cock all the way in once again, "oh, you... my sweet wife, so small... you are everything, perfection... beauty... wisdom... everything, and all mine..."

Despite the tenderness of his words, you were too well-fucked to do anything but moan in reply, your head dropping forward as he continued to deliver his brutal pounds into your dripping cunt. Until his large palm found your cheek and he was wrenching your head up, turning it to face him. He chuckled at the dazed look in your glossy eyes, still hammering his way home as he closed the minor, yet still unbearable, distance and pushed his lips onto yours.

"My sweet wife.." he rumbled onto your tongue, gave a gentle bite to your bottom lip before pulling back and admiring your desperate, pinched expression. "Cum for me, my girl. Cum for your husband."

In only seconds, you were doing exactly as he demanded, held up now only by him as your knees buckled and your ankles trembled, drenching his cock with your release.

Lewd and soaked, the sounds of your cunt blended with the thick, hot breaths he dropped onto your cheek as he paused only briefly before drilling into you again. Straightening behind you, he refirmed his grip on your waist, pulling you back and forth and back and forth to meet his devastating pace, until it stuttered and he was cursing in Valyrian as he pushed in to the hilt and let his seed flood your womb.

For a short while, he remained bent atop your back, pawing at your breasts and mouthing at the back of the neck, quick little thrusts ensuring none of his spend was wasted. Finally pulling out, he turned you over and chuckled at the sight of you, drool rolling down your chin, eyes glazed and fingers twitching for him.

He swiftly settled himself at your side and drew the covers over you both, smirking as he heard your mumble, "Closer..."

"Come, then," he hummed, tapping at your hip gently.

"You.. please.." your little whine was all too sweet to deny as he shuffled so close that your hips and his hips kissed one another. "Closer..."

"Mmm.. alright," Maekar held you loosely as he pulled you up atop his chest, caging his arms around you as you began to babble the usual spew of nonsense that was your pillow talk — gossip, mostly, because though he could pretend, you knew that he truly adored hearing all about those self-righteous lords and ladies and their squabbles.

"Darling," he interjected in a hush, fingers brushing at your locks.

"Mmm..?"

"I love you."

"I love you, Maekar. And.. I promise you can eat my cunt tomorrow... if you are good."

Laughing at that, he nodded, leaning down to kiss your forehead ever so lightly. "Very well. Are you tired, princess?"

"Not terribly.. not yet... want you..."

"A bath?"

"No... just you..."

"I'm here, always..."

—

a/n: gulp... i can't believe this actually took 5 months to come out! anyway its here now and thats what matters right.. right??

jokes aside im so embarrassed cause most of this was already written, i changed a few things as i was reading through but havent yet read through it all (the stuff i just added) so technically not beta-read

anyway i actually sort of really like it idk so please be nice

[voidamis]

I know these fools are alive, I can’t prove it but it can’t be proven they’re "dead" either. If it’s not officially confirmed, and I don’t see bodies, then nobody died is how I see it.👌

Mr. Puzzles stated himself he wasn’t "sure what would happen", which means it’s not certain if they died or not. It sounds like I’m grasping at straws here but LOOK AT EM THO, they’re LITERALLY made of "tough stuff", being mostly metal and all. Nah trust they’re alive out there somewhere causing chaos, and more importantly TOGETHER. ✨

[silly-poet]

When the PJO community hears the term “power couple”, it’s always percabeth. Well they are a power couple… but frazel

the son of war and the daughter of the dead, holding hands and skipping over the battle field, laying absolute waste and decimating hundreds

[lollols21]

"Put your hand on your heart..."

She's in love, SHE'S IN LOVE WITH HIM

He's shaken to the very core

My baby Anya is a pure angel that deserves everything.

Chapter 120 was everything I wanted and more. It was just... perfect in every single way. I loved it so much.

I'm in cloud 9 people...