tuskslove

last time that i checked, i won. (nikolai to rhea, when they are younger)

❛⠀well, that's because you cheated—! ❜

or at least, she suspects so, when klaus had kept laughing with the boys of her docks as they've entangled her with their games of dices and cards. rhea has known the idea of gambling, of course. she was quite certain that there had been a relative or two who were constantly caught in debt to gambling houses, but she's never once been enthralled by the prospect. playing at cards and tossing out coins ? there are surely better things to do – like hawking, for once. or tending to her horse. or maybe even spending what time left with @tuskslove that would be anything but doing that, but klaus had asked of her company, and rhea couldn't have said no.

and, well, maybe she had been curious as well. she'd always wondered what exactly was truly captivating about games like these. until she lost.

to klaus now, she pouts, though she would rather eat a lamb's liver than to ever have such a thing pointed out to her; brown eyes looking upwards at klaus' new height, and he does keep getting taller. it could almost be seen as a mockery, this persistency of which time will never rest for them, and how strikingly their body grows to match. soon, she's sure, she will lose this time with him and misses it fervently. for now, rhea lets her childishness shows itself. with klaus, it is always easier to. he has never begrudged her for it; make fun, sure, but even in his lightness, it was never meant to mock.

he is a gentle friend. rhea is certain she shall never meet others like him.

❛⠀—and i do not negotiate with cheaters. ❜

currently accepting: you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love.

#forgaeven #forgaeven: rhea royce #— character | nikolai lantsov.#— nikolai lantsov | interactions.

❛ cheater? ❜ leaning back far more than necessary, nikolai rests a hand on his chest, fingers splayed wide like a primadonna at the opera house in ravka, eyes blown wide, his voice high and bright. ❛ you take that back! i won fair and square! ❜

now, in the strictest sense, he did not cheat. he did not alter the cards, or do anything that could be construed as sabotage during a friendly game. but he may have employed a few of the tricks he picked up this winter in ketterdam, the kind that would have gotten him thrown out of any respectable card room there.

and unlike her, he didn't really care whether he won or lost. but it was a good opportunity for him to stretch those muscles; not that he would have needed it, he knows rhea's face better than he knows his own, and could have played the entire game without looking away from her face.

❛ it is not my fault you are terrible at this game! ❜ he says, straightening back to his full-height, looking down at her with an amused twist of the lips. he knows he shouldn't have taken her to the docks for a game; if her lord-father learned about this, he might not receive an invitation next year, but in all his summers, as he mastered new arts, new techniques, he has never quite figured out how to say no to her.

❛ i won, you lost, you owe me. ❜

❛ on the contrary, i'm captivated. ❜

he does not join her — not yet. normally, in court, one does not sit unless welcomed to. the only acceptable way you may is if the event would naturally require you so, and even then, one tend to look at the surrounding occupants and give the courtesy of asking before one does. and so, rheowyck does not, but he does stand, and he does look to her and allows for his violet gaze, now he's sure a bruised plum under the darkness of the light with only torches being lit, to shamelessly devour in her sight.

there is no lust in his gaze, not truly, but something just as equal to the hunger that emboldens his unyielding eyes. like she herself is knowledge rheowyck has yet to uncover, but desperately wants to. or maybe this is simply it. the embodiment of father's last days, the last person father had loved, now wrapped in the body of a poor brown girl with her poor brown dragon. though, arguably, there is something else besides all of that, as well. the sharp tongue, maybe.

or this resolute stubbornness. rheowyck itches to unravel it.

what will be underneath ? will it be soft to touch ? to run his fingers against ? to put his mouth towards—

❛ i'd like to know who you are. where you're from. and i know i'd have a fairer chance claiming a dragon than i would at prying you of your past, but you ... ❜ here, rheowyck pauses. finds the words. all the while, their eyes remain locked. an accidental contest he is sure she detests. she does not like him, he knows. for his resemblance, he supposes, for all the white of father's hair and the eyes of the queen he nearly betrays her with. and perhaps even his own vale insistency. all things rheowyck could not change.

but he likes her. he shakes, sometimes, thinking of how much she's encapsulated his thoughts. ❛ you have beguiled me, nettles. inspire me. i believe i yearn for your company. ❜

#forgaeven #forgaeven: rheowick #— character | nettles.#— nettles | interactions.#tying the two threads together?? yes

for once, he has rendered her speechless.

she is growing used to his pretty speeches. in her mind, that had always been the province of the boring nobles she met at daemon's side, or of drunk bards, but unlike either group, he never seems to waste them. she cannot quite make sense of the feeling that follows, it nags at the edges of her, an observation she does not fully understand yet, and has no wish to investigate further.

nettles plays with a piece of chicken between her fingers, considering. she accused him once of wanting her in his bed and he spoke of the vastness of his offers; she'd laughed in his face, told him no until the word was ringing in the air and sent him down the mountain with nothing to show for it. and yet, somehow, she found herself here, eating from his generous keep, watching sheepstealer eat his full without stealing from anyone. from his smallfolk, she remembered.

she was being manipulated, that much she understands. his words keep coming back to her. she knew enough about being hungry to never wish it upon anyone else, lord of folk, but she didn't like the feeling that he had her where he wanted her. he wanted something from her, and just as she didn't believe him in the cave when he said he didn't want her to warm his bed, she doesn't believe in his beguilement now.

fucking beguilement, who even speaks like that?

❛ fucking nobles, ❜ she mutters, dropping her gaze back to the plate in front of her, thankful not to be craning her neck anymore. ❛ you always want something else, something more, you're never satisfied with what you have. ❜ they tore the country apart for a piece of metal, and for what? what was the point of all of it? why was he here and not his father?

with an annoyed huff, she motions for him to sit down. it is bad enough he is talking to her, she is not going to look up at him as well. ❛ stop looming like a creep. ❜

she doesn't correct him — doesn't insist on the professionalism of the honorific title her studies demand. it seems pedantic, and lottie recognizes that under current circumstances, she must pick her battles. not allowing herself to be assumed guilty until proven innocent is, under present circumstances, enough of a battle for one day.

❛ I am on the side of 'lottie doesn't get vilified by the entire station for something she didn't do.' which, seeing as I didn't do it — or, at least, didn't mean to do it and therefore cannot be held responsible for things beyond my power to prevent — is the truth. and if you're really on the side of truth, then you should be be approaching the whole case objectively, not starting with the assumption that I buried the metaphorical body! that's terrible sleuthing! sherlock holmes would never. ❜

#trueseeking #trueseeking: lottie rose #— julian bashir | interactions.#— character | julian bashir.

❛ that's not terrible sleuthing! you think you know sherlock holmes better than me? ❜ for her information, he's read all of the novels and played holmes on the holodeck several times with miles.

ugh, he wishes miles was watson, he wouldn't be so annoying.

❛ i am setting a standard here. and the standard is the objective truth, not the truth in the world according to lottie rose. ❜ if his work proves her right... well, fine. she'll owe him one. if not, he'll finally be rid of her. it is a win-win scenario, and sherlock holmes would be proud of how he used this situation to his advantage.

❛ you realize that in asking where I buried the body, you're implying I'm guilty, right? ❜ somehow she has gone from victim, to sidekick, to culprit. her eyes narrow sharply. ❛ whose side are you on? are you trying to prove me guilty and not innocent? is this all some ploy of sisko's? ❜ lottie willfully ignores the part of her that reminds her that julian bashir does not need to be acting under any impetus than his own to wish to prove her guilty and ruin her life. she pays no greater heed to the fact that benjamin sisko would be unlikely to resort to any such ploy in trying to assess a situation — though julian himself might.

regardless, she is not leaving the infirmary until she knows that she has an ally ( however begrudging, however temporary ) in him. ❛ I will not fall into your trap! ❜

#oh i hate him more than words can express #trueseeking: lottie rose #— julian bashir | interactions.#— character | julian bashir.

❛ drat, you saw right through my trap, ❜ julian says, snapping his fingers together. he didn't think that would work -- it just felt appropriately sherlockian -- but he also had not entirely not hoped it would. and speaking of things sherlock holmes would say: ❛ i am on the side of truth, miss rose. ❜

he felt, quite appropriately for once, that he has the upper hand. she can question him all she wants, he is her only ticket out of this infirmary. she is going to have to play nice, he thinks, smiling down at her gloatingly. ❛ may i ask: what side are you on? ❜

sanitatcm

@tuskslove said: i am surprised to find you squeamish. (from taggie)

" it's embarrassing, i know, " he replies, a self-deprecating chuckle on his lips. " i'm not sure my practice will ever recover.... "

he holds one of her hands in his, painfully aware of the warm prickle of her skin as he swabs at the cut on her palm. he's grateful to have something to focus on. clearly she had seen him go white at the sight of blood - but now, bent over his work, he can easily hide the flush on his cheeks. she's clever. observant. surely, if she could properly see his face, she'd realize it wasn't the blood that had made him blanche. it was that it was her blood. it was knowing she was hurt...

but after a few moments, the cut cleaned and bandaged, he glances up at her again. the smile he wears holds a hint of mischief and - he hopes - holds no trace of the sudden worry that had gripped him moments before... taggie o'hara has enough to deal with without his unrequited crush... and so, with one last adjustment of the bandage, he releases her hand.

" do you plan to spread the word? i suppose i can't ask you to keep my secret, " he teases lightly.

#sanitatcm #— taggie o'hara | interactions.#— character | taggie o'hara.#if the o'hara have no haters im dead!!!!#dwight going white with worry <3 i love him

❛ you can ask, ❜ she chimes, looking at him with a tremulous smile. ❛ but i make no promises what i'll say. ❜ it was boastful talk for a girl who would never dream of anything that could damage his reputation. everyone makes mistakes. goodness knows she keeps a little put by each month to smooth over her dad's debts, patrick's bookshop drafts, caitlin's lunch money, and her own culinary experiments, and all of them say it was a mishap. it is a part of life, and could have handled this on her own. he was fretting over nothing.

he must have skipped breakfast, she decides, not realizing the white in his cheeks and lips had nothing to do with hunger at all. it was worry, fear, two emotions she had never seen directed at her before.

❛ how is it looking? ❜ she asks, stress creeping into her tone.

❛ not hardly. although... I am afraid there may be a greater problem here than an absence of logic. ❜ for a moment as she lets the statement hang unexplained ( just long enough to raise the question, that she might not explain herself ), una considers reclaiming her hand in a pointed gesture. she determines it senseless; she cannot trouble herself to feign displeasure.

❛ after all, if there is in fact no secret, then arguably the absence of a secret has been the secret all along — and not only was the presence of a secret previously a lie, but now the absence of one is another. ❜ inadvertent and inherently contradictory though that reality might be. but though he might arguably be afforded some grace for at least one of the lies on the premise that, being contradictory it seems unfair to consider them both a negative, she remarks lightly ( far too lightly for her to set any weight in the observation ) instead, ❛ the lies here accumulate rather rapidly. ❜

#trueseeking #trueseeking: una evers #— character | christopher pike.#— christopher pike | interactions.

he follows her tortured logic -- or, more likely, her attempt of creating some sort of reasoning around his statements -- with furrowed, bemused brows. they somehow went from no secrets and lies, to being surrounded by them. this is why he doesn't lie, it is so needlessly complicated.

❛ wouldn't it only be a secret if you assumed, until this moment, that i was keeping something from you? ❜ it would make some strange amount of sense. what marriage isn't built on some secrets? in their class, the courtship dance is one big spectacle of lights and mirrors. did he not begin their acquaintance with a flimsy lie of his own?

promiseofspring

Elain has been staring at the blank piece of paper for what one might consider far too long for a lady to spend lost in her own thoughts. She has agreed to help Nesta with the correspondence today; though her older sister would normally have it well in hand, as she always does, the letters requiring replies had grown more than usual of late.

But when Nesta tells her the purpose of this particular letter and to whom (@storytelers) it must be written, Elain soon finds her mind drifting elsewhere.

How terribly sad, she thinks, fingers resting idle against the paper's edge. To lose one's wife. Elain remembers loss well, too well; she had wept until she couldn't speak for days when Mama passed.

How does one offer comfort for such a wound? What words could possibly suffice?

Elain dips her pen in the inkwell and begins to write:

Woodcote Park, Surrey March the Fourteenth, 1849 Sir John Thornton, I am writing to offer my sincerest condolences on the loss of your wife, my dear cousin Margaret. Though it has been some years since I last had the pleasure of her company, I remember her very fondly and was deeply grieved to learn of her passing. I hope you will not think it presumptuous that I should write… I cannot help but think how empty the rooms must feel when one who filled them with life is gone. I only wish, however little it may signify, to assure you that your grief is not unnoticed. Please do not hesitate to write if there is any small comfort I might offer during this difficult time. With my deepest sympathies, Miss Archeron

#flourblooms #flourblooms: elain archeron #— john thornton | interactions.#— character | john thornton.

Milton Mill Milton-Northern March the Eighteen, 1849 Miss Archeron, I appreciate your -

an ink blot forms next to the swoop of his 'y' as he stares at the page, unsure how to continue. it is far from the first letter he's penned about his wife's death. other mill-owners, suppliers, customers, and every single person margaret met sent him a thoughtful note. only to this last group he replied in his own hand, the rest, received letters from his secretary with his signature, thoughtful responses that he didn't have the vocabulary to put together.

it was a cruel thing. making a husband face his wife's death over and over again; isn't it enough that he has to wake up each morning in their empty bed? must he also suffer by stuffing a heart full of hurt into a few polite sentences?

he told himself he would do it. these people cared for margaret, and it is one more thing he can do for her, one last thing he can do for his margaret.

the ink has run down to the bottom of the page when he looks down again. crumpling the paper in his hand, he starts again.

Milton Mill Milton-Northern March the Eighteen, 1849 Miss Archeron, Your kindness is much appreciated. My wife spoke often of you and your sisters, she was very fond of the three of you, and would have been touched by your kindness in thinking of her. I would like to assure you it was a brief illness. She did not suffer. Please allow me to take up on your offer. I do not know if it was you, or her cousin Edith, who sent her the programs from the opera every month. Our daughter is very fond of music, and since her mother's passing, we haven't received any. Could you please send me the name and address of the Opera House in London? I would like to place a standing order. Yours sincerely, John Thornton

promiseofspring

Elain watches as Gwyn slowly makes her way down, only turning her attention back to the small creature in her arms once the priestess has touched solid ground. She lifts the kitten’s paw to a gentle wave toward Gwyn at her greeting, “ — say thank you to your rescuer, ” Elain laughs softly when the cat answers back with a bold meow, scratching beneath its chin until it leans into her touch.

“ Truthfully, I was more worried about her than you. I knew you could do it! ” She extends her free hand to help Gwyn fully to her feet. “ Come. We should get back to the River House. Just look at her, she’s so skinny. Let's get her something to eat. ”

#this is 100% now their kitten #they are proud mothers #flourblooms #flourblooms: elain archeron #— character | gwyneth berdara.#— gwyneth berdara | interactions.

❛⠀she would have gotten herself down eventually, i know it. look at those eyes, she's a clever little thing.⠀❜ gwyn had simply offered her a small boost, a push in the right direction, right into the loving and talented arms of miss archeron -- this was about to be the most well-fed cat in all of prynthian!

she dusts off her dress, plucks a twig from her hair, and follows elain back to the river house, slipping off her shoes at the door to avoid tracking mud in.

❛⠀ in sangravah, we used to feed egg yolks with syrup to kittens abandoned by their mothers.⠀ ❜

"I'm doing things, things with paper." ( or this, reina for taggie )

❛⠀ i see, ⠀❜ she says, reaching forward to gather up the trash piled across the table, empty tea mugs, crumpled pieces of paper, coke cans, candy wrappers, and more empty tea mugs still. the mess left behind by the venturer crew left reina only a sliver of space to work in, -- not that taggie believed she was working.

she seemed, well, bored. dreadfully bored. it was the same face she wore whenever they went out with the makepeaces to the bar in town.

❛⠀ i hear it is a very important part of the television business. ⠀❜

#revcre #revcre: reina #— taggie o'hara | answers.#— character | taggie o'hara.

tagohara

RIVALS - 2.02

You think you can tell her what's wrong? Daddy doesn't love me anymore.

#— character | taggie o'hara.#oh she is so baby girl #also i will be here tomorrow (threat)

vitoriastrada

northanger abbey sentence starters !!

these are all from the first thirteen chapters of northanger abbey. feel free to alter them to fit muses!

“I wish you could dance, my dear—I wish you could get a partner.”

“What shall we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look as if they wondered why we came here—we seem forcing ourselves into their party.”

“And are you altogether pleased with Bath?”

“Now I must give one smirk, and then we may be rational again.”

“I shall make but a poor figure in your journal tomorrow.”

“What are you thinking of so earnestly?”

“My dearest creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!”

“Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!”

“Signify! Oh, heavens! I make it a rule never to mind what they say. They are very often amazingly impertinent if you do not treat them with spirit, and make them keep their distance.”

“For heaven’s sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there.”

“Oh, no; I am much obliged to you, our two dances are over; and, besides, I am tired, and do not mean to dance any more.”

“ Then pray let us turn back; they will certainly meet with an accident if we go on. Do let us turn back.”

“ How do you like my gown? I think it does not look amiss; the sleeves were entirely my own thought.”

“Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself. You would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some nonsense of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception; my cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not have had you by for the world.”

“I do not think I should be tired, if I were to stay here six months.”

“Well, other people must judge for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I, who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can know nothing of there.”

“There are four umbrellas up already. How I hate the sight of an umbrella!”

“Me! I take offence!”

“Well, nobody would have thought you had no right who saw your face.”

“Oh! Nonsense! How can you say so?”

#— ask me about my secret plan to fight inflation | memes.

her audaciousness, it seems, knows no bound.

or would it be more accurate that it felt as though rheowyck was staring at the after-image of his own father in his youth ? after all, rumours of father's impudence and recklessness is well-renowned. for such a wrought marriage, mother certainly had never echoed the same opinion. aye, she did not often speak about him at all, and the few he did, she had kept it respectful. even father's vices, she'd limited it only to his absences. nothing beyond. but rheowyck grew smart, he grew clever. he collected his own tales and stories of father. he gathered himself what father was like.

and then he measured it with the evidence father had left. he watched, in the aching way a child could watch its parent bears a brave face, how often mother's dismissal on the topic of her barren marriage was out of courtly reservation as it was to avoid a gaping wound. he watched mother sidestepped arrogant lords who thought the husband she could not control somehow equated to the way she ruled her lands. he watched the late-nights with which mother poured nearly every inch of her dedication into, in ensuring runestone would be well-kept and well-fortified. all, without even a glimpse of support he knew later house targaryen had so-called promised.

and granted — the girl, woman, child of the wilderness, who is in front of him now may have the ground to react the way she does for the lack of education. for the lack of poise that noble-born were taught to possess. still, rheowyck's shackles rise from her brazenness. soon, a scoff bursts from his throat.

he smiles, and it is all teeth.

❛⠀hah ! do you think i am so lustful, filled with so little restraint, as my forefather that i would bed a young woman who probably hasn't yet completed her fifth year bleeding ? ❜ he stalks towards her, and here, sheepstealer makes a near-clicking sound of warning, but for once, rheowyck heeds it no attention. the dragon begins to shake his body like it is trying to pull his attention away, clawmarks digging into the dirt, but rheowyck ensures that his eyes meet hers directly. ❛⠀without consent and for food, no less ? food, the very thing your body needs to survive, as it does air and sleep ? was that what my father offered ? was that what he promised ? ❜

and here, rheowyck has purposely dug into her injury. he presses into the wound. his smile is menacing and challenging, as though daring her to correct him : that his father indeed was respectable. that he had held his hands completely to himself. that he never bathed her in sweet words, and tempted her in an intimacy she was never supposed to be privy to given the supposed sanctity he's meant to keep towards his queen wife.

when the simple matter of fact was this : even if it had taken the cloak of love, she was still no more than another woman he kept among his list of others.

here, sheepstealer does hinges his jaw and lets out a roar. the sound resonates. had rheowyck had less of a composure, he would jump by it. he would cover his ears. he does nothing but hides his face slightly from the force of it, the hot breath it threatens him with.

❛ lykiri, ( calm, ) ❜ he says now, violet eyes still remaining on her. though he does take a step back, pulling his control together once more. sheepstealer curls closer to its rider. ❛ i have no wish for you to grace my bed, but my offer is true, and it is a remiss if, only by father's oversight, you are branded a traitor. mayhaps you wouldn't stay long, fine, but collect your rewards. have your fill of food. then, be gone if you so wish. ❜

#forgaeven #forgaeven: rheowick #— character | nettles.#— nettles | interactions.

he stalks towards her, blocking out the sun with the breadth of his frame, white hair burning gold at the edges, and for an instant, one heartbeat, as the shadows carve deeper into his face, she sees daemon.

involuntarily, she takes a step forward, the fist at her side loosening, unclenching like something coming back to life. she almost reaches for him. then stops, craning her neck and going ashen at the sight of the imposter. anger boils inside her chest, at his words, at her own foolishness -- he is dead, he is gone, she'll never see him again, brown eyes burning up hotter than sheepstealer's fire.

❛⠀ i know men like you,⠀ ❜ she spits. ❛⠀ you hide behind your words. you go on, talk for an hour and say shit, and think us common folk are too stupid to know hot air when we hear it. ⠀ ❜ nettles shakes as she speaks, unable to contain the downpour coursing through her veins; she feels like a summer hurricane battering the shore, as though she could puff out one breath and send him flying, an eye of pure destruction.

the air around her ankles warms, and she feels sheepstealer's head nudging her back. a threat to the man in front of her. a reassurance to his rider. she leans back, chest heaving as she continues glaring at him.

❛⠀ your daddy didn't need to promise me anything to get me into his bed.⠀ ❜ if anything, she was the one to seduce him. he was handsome, strong and nothing like the men she'd known before; she didn't care he was married, she wanted him, and once she had him, she knew she would never want anything else. ❛⠀ that how it works for you, lordling? can't get a girl without filling her belly first? ⠀ ❜ she repeats, mockingly.

if food didn't get hungry women in the bed of ugly men, there would be food for everyone. ❛⠀ you came in acting like every other prick i've met and think you can get me to go back to your wars?⠀ ❜ nothing comes without strings, and she knows which one he'll pluck the second she has some wine in her. he'll speak of the war, of their battles, of jace and his vision, and twist everything to his vision.

a traitor with a debt.

that is what she'll become under his roof.

he wouldn't survive, would he ?

perhaps.

rheowyck supposes he does not have the grittiness that those born from the lower classes posses. he does not know what it is like to fight tooth and nail to afford another day's meal, another cot to sleep in, or even a safe refuge to rest if you're constantly chased or threatened. he's heard stories, of course, has tried his best in the few ways he could, to help the smallfolk of his land, but fact remains that his struggles operate differently. it comes in another shape. it pokes at his anger in different forms.

though he wonders, not for the first time, if she would be as resistant had this been father in his steps ? or would she play at it in the beginning, attempting to see how far father would go, and relent quite easily under his words and attention. almost all of his wives and lovers seem so enamoured by him.

once more, rheowyck feels an almost sickening shiver that runs down his spine to imagine so. he does not think he has any place within the confines of daemon targaryen's seduction, and yet, the curiosity boils unbridled. father, too, is as princely as they come. as a matter of fact, stories of father not being able to stand the country life in the vale had bene infamous in the stone hall, the few they would later inform rheowyck. he was not used to the slower pace, and he found the tendering of shepherds and humble fishermen tedious.

of course, then again, within the same breath, father had accumulated other experiences as well : battle of stepstones, a life in penthos, his refuge in dragonstone, then the year he must've had being rhaenyra's sword in her battle. rheowyck, in comparison, is only wealthy in governing; his stint in battle had been when he'd joined the vale to march south and reclaimed king's landing. the fight there was short, but it'd been enough for him to understand that glory there is temporary.

it turned out that he hadn't a taste of celebrating the people he must slew, only the thought of what must be done for the bodies after.

regardless—

she marches ahead, leaving him behind, and rheowyck ... follows.

several steps behind, but he does.

#forgaeven #forgaeven: rheowick #— character | nettles.#— nettles | interactions.

nettles watches his movements first from the corner of her eyes, sidelong and unwilling, her attention always snagging back on him. she tries to pretend -- as she always does when he is near -- that he is simply not there. she grabs another drink from a table, sipping from it instead of gulping down her throat like the last one, letting the rich, bitter taste wash the conversation off her tongue and loosen the tense knots along her spine.

there are, perhaps, some small benefits to parties hosted by old pricks.

they know their alcohol.

and their food. she grabs a plate from a table, and starts piling food onto her plate, careless of what exactly she is taking. food is food, and she is used to leaner rations than this, thin cuts of rabbit from the traps she sets near her cave, nothing like the fat sheep she finds for her dragon. juices trickle from the meats, soaking into potatoes so yellow they look like eggs, her stomach growling loudly by the time she reaches an empty table on the other side of the party and drops into a seat.

all the while, she feels his gaze on her. awareness creeps up her neck; no matter where she turned, what group she disturbed by walking through them, she knew he was there. when she sits, she finally lifts her gaze to meet his.

❛ are you fucking bored? ❜

an arc returns to her brow, masking her wry amusement that he had brought them back to here. ❛ oh, so we are discussing secrets you are keeping from me, then? and here I thought you had merely been commenting upon a seemingly inexplicable societal trend. ❜ oh, the intimation has been there from the start — on both their parts — half-spoken and frequently danced away from. what need had she to belabor the inevitable implication, to hone in on that secret which by the logic of his own claim must exist, if he will do it himself? play her cards well, and she will never need to actually voice the question, nor exert herself in digging for answers behind his back.

( there is something unsettling, almost distasteful about such digging. it is something belonging to other marriages, in which secrets pose a threat and are not merely a pawn on a broader game board — a board on which they're never truly on opposing sides. )