open post & overflow

[versigny]

texts ౨ৎ starters ౨ৎ prompts
[ open to random pms if you'd like to plot beforehand! otherwise, feel free to throw something up. (: ]

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౨ৎ condorone

[versigny]

Hey, where are you? I thought the meeting was supposed to be over after an hour.

[condorone]

Things ran a little long. I'll be back soon.

Everything okay?

౨ৎ farcry | tfln overflow

[versigny]

( cont from here )

Let's take turns driving. The jet will be too quick and I kind of like the idea of a few hours in a small space with you.

I get to control the music though. 🙂‍↔️

ty <3

[farcry]

Sure. Let's take a car. But hang on. Do you control the music even if it's my turn driving?

😘

[centers]

your majesty,
a tall bird informed me you took a nasty tumble this afternoon.
how unfortunate!
my well wishes for a speedy recovery but it would be in everyone's best interest if your steps were more careful in the future.

I'M SO EXCITED...

[versigny]

Mysterious well-wisher,

I had considered that I should take even less care with my steps after such an uncommonly exciting afternoon, but how kind of you to remind me otherwise.

Jest aside, I appreciate your concern and will do better to watch where my feet are going instead of scanning the horizon, particularly when in company. Now that I think about it, that's precisely how my grandfather died while hunting, although he was on his horse.

౨ৎ centers | fancypants meeting as promised

[versigny]

[ the lights are still dazzling long after Margaery's gotten used to their glow, so much brighter than the candles they'd depend on in Westeros, catching the occasional playful glimmer of understated gold or the trim of a silver brocade as people mingle together, their voices a low murmur against the whimsical notes of a live orchestra. a brave few dance, but most appear comfortable watching - whether they're watching the king or her or each other, there is no end to gazes cast about the ballroom, no small amount of judgments and assumptions being made.

but that's what makes these gatherings so much fun, she thinks as she graciously dips her head to acknowledge the greetings of a passing couple, hands delicately folded together in front of her dress to present a perfect picture of modesty. she's opted for a more stately appearance than the first few weeks of her arrival - no hoop skirt mars her steps, but the combined effect of a corset and petticoat make an even more striking effect with the dark navy color she's chosen, bringing out her eyes and highlighting the flush of excitement in her cheeks. her only piece of jewelry is her wedding ring, as white flowers have been chosen to weave in and out of her elaborate braids before they cascade as curls.

in direct contrast, the king is a vision in white and gold across the room. they'd arrived and danced together as expected, but with a social gathering so rife with ambition, Margaery couldn't resist requesting an opportunity to wander about the ball alone. Constantin had obliged, but it isn't until he's called out of the room entirely that the real poison begins to seep out from the absence of the antidote; without the king's presence, the chill of barely-reserved sentiment cuts across her skin like the sharpened edge of a blade.

understandable, as there are many women around her age present tonight, gazes turned up in intensity as if they hope to see why she was chosen and they were not. their mothers carry even more severe expressions and Margaery holds back a smile as she thinks about what her grandmother would have to say.

but tonight, homesickness has no place in her docket and she floats as if she doesn't notice the glares, offsetting the lack of offered conversation by continuously moving until she finds a place where she might be comfortable being an onlooker until the king returns. that is, if he manages to. she frowns ever so slightly as her eyes sweep around the room - where is Odette? ah. with the other ladies in her usual retinue, glancing at the door Constantin left through, no doubt waiting for his return and being obvious about it in true form.

she's just barely stopped watching that corner when a head of blonde curls interrupts her vision and she immediately offers a friendly smile, pleasantly surprised at the approach. ]

Good evening, monsieur. Are you enjoying yourself?

[centers]

( for their unpredictability, people can be so predictable.

nothing exemplifies this more clearly than a reception teeming with nobility and the affluent. it's a roomful of glistening jewels and daggers; a pit of snakes, slithering and fawning; false smiles and false airs.

from his chair near the front, monsieur de philippe's piercing blue eyes cut across the ballroom to the notable guests, observing the unpredictability and predictability. the man with the solemn expression is a caring father, cheerful and loving with his wife and five daughters — general gaboriault. the studious man whose posture has been permanently altered by countless nights hunched over books next to a single candle sits alone, watching — monsieur reubens. one would-be queen in silk the color of belladonna with the cheerlessness of a graveyard — the duchess of des hauters — and another would-be queen in lace the color of an early winter morning with a soft, forlorn expression — her daughter, lady odette. walking among them are the king and queen, visions in white, gold, and blue, bowing, curtseying, and murmuring words of appreciation to their guests.

it's a tingle down his spine, a change in the air, an unbalanced scale when the king exits the room with the duchess. he senses it before it happens. how predictable. the smiles turn to daggers, each tooth peeking out from behind their thin lips is white and sharp, and their glares are just as sharp. without the king to soothe their tempers, the guests are more open with their nature: blades, scales, and ice.

as smoothly as a rock across the surface of water, monsiuer de philippe stands from his chair and strides across the ballroom to the queen. his golden curls glow faintly in the light when he stands in front of her, his head tipped down in a bow. )

Shall we dance?

( without a preamble or an answer, he grasps her by the elbow, leading her to the dance floor. the orchestra that was previously soft and discreet like a breeze is now lively like a gust of wind with horns and strings as they play the coda to the king and i, a ballet about nacogdoches and wilhelmina. perhaps it's the suddenness of the change in music or the unexpectedness of monsieur de philippe making his presence so known, but the guests' eyes turn to the pair as he slides a chaste hand on her back. )

౨ৎ buio

[versigny]

Ever tried wine and painting? Like, together?

[buio]

Have you ever tried going to Bali to find yourself

౨ৎ eternalmagic

[versigny]

[ despite her initial misgivings, Margaery finds herself oddly at peace with the achingly long hours of a road trip. it's a swell of freedom that she's never experienced, with an endless supply of scenic views that may or may not touch her long-forgotten sentimental side - especially when those views team up with artists like Noah Kahan and Hozier crooning from the radio.

the company also helps.

talking to Mordred comes as easily as it always has, and the long stretches of silence between them are just as comfortable, with Margaery curling up against his side every night and promptly falling asleep from how safe she feels. it isn't like their drive to Julian, which was charged with unresolved sexual tension from the start; there's a more languid attraction between them now. no less intense, but more secure. more capable of biding its time. and she enjoys this, too.

even if sometimes, he seems entirely too calm for the situation they're in. ]

It's been a while since we've seen another car.

[ night has fallen, a thick veil of darkness that's only pierced by the headlights of her car. a forest surrounds them on both sides of the road, adding to the intimidating horror movie-esque atmosphere as she purposely slows her speed just in case there are any cannibal family members who are waiting for her to drive over their trap and ruin her tires. her eyes flicker to her phone when the music abruptly stops, grimacing at the loss of her data signal. and just like that - she remembers why she prefers first-class flights. ]

Aren't you even the slightest bit creeped out? Or am I showing just how much of a city girl I am?

[eternalmagic]

[Margaery's company never fails to invigorate him, even during the hours that pass with nothing but the music to disturb the quiet. He could drive the entire distance with her laughter in his ear, and takes plenty of the miles himself so that she has the chance to rest and enjoy the view. And when she falls asleep on his shoulder, the fragrance of her hair wraps itself around him like ribbons, carrying him even further along the road that unwinds ahead of them.

But of course, they're just friends.

By the time the woods close around them and the sun is swallowed up by a forested horizon, Mordred is feeling right at home, although Margaery's unease is palpable beside him. It isn't until the radio dies that he starts to really pay attention to the aura of the woods around them - aura that, until now, he'd simply taken for granted as the mystical nature of most woods in the world, when left well enough untouched by humans.]

No... that is a little odd.

[Then, suddenly, the car itself goes dark; the engine sputters, and the tires slowly roll to a halt.]

And so is that.

[Very unusual. Mordred has enough confidence in his own capabilities that he isn't worried, per se, but he's not exactly a mechanic. If Margaery's phone isn't working, that seriously limits their options. He unhooks his seatbelt and gets out of the car, prompting Margaery to pop the hood so that he can at least look for anything as obvious as a fire or a snake or some kind of gremlin.]

I can't say I know much about cars, but it looks fine to me. Are you getting any service at all?

౨ৎ starkmaiden

[versigny]

[ it is a relief, to be somewhere new. even if the North is as intimidatingly cold and the landscape as unwelcoming as she's heard, there is a simple elegance to their way of life that summer children like herself could never replicate. most cast her group with looks of suspicion as her carriage rolls past, and Margaery can't exactly blame them. even before the many conflicts of succession to the Iron Throne, northerners had their reasons to be wary, after all.

so she doesn't take it to heart when the Winterfell guards only treat her as a noteworthy guest on behalf of the Queen, and nothing more. a bare bones alliance has been established between their houses, but it may be many seasons before trust can be established by consistency and effort. on paper, she's here to further those negotiations as a representative of her house.

in truth, however -

the corners of her lips curl up ever so slightly, throwing an entirely new depth of joy to her polite smile reserved for courtly matters, as she is announced to Queen Sansa in an open room that still manages to be warm. were they alone, she would gladly rush forward and take those familiar hands in hers - but there are still guards, lords, even a maester in attendance.

so she follows the proper protocol and curtsies instead. ]

Your Grace. Thank you for permitting me a visit. I am honored to be here.

[starkmaiden]

[ She is only Queen Sansa now. She is the crown. She is the Red Wolf, the Crowned Wolf. She is the Stark in Winterfell.

The only Stark in Winterfell.

All she's ever wanted was to go home and be with her family. She's grateful that her remaining family lives, but they are all so far away from her. She and Bran write regularly, both as monarchs and siblings. Letters have to be sent by person to person to try and reach Arya and Jon. She doesn't even have her sworn shield Brienne. She'd left her behind in the Red Keep, for her brother needs her more in that pit of vipers than she does here in their ancestral home.

Spring is coming. The North rebuilds and soon, farming will become more feasible. She's made good trade agreements with neighboring kingdoms, and it's beginning to pay off now. Her home and her people prosper, but Sansa Stark languishes inside.

She hopes seeing Margaery again will bring her some comfort. It has been so long since they'd seen each other last. She rises from her throne to greet the Lady of Highgarden. She realizes that her old friend is alone in the world, just as she'd felt so long ago. ]

The North welcomes you, Lady Tyrell. Thank you for coming.

[ The introduction is grand and courteous as expected, but she requests a maid bring bread, salt and cheese along with some wine to her solar. She doesn't quite take Margaery's arm like she used to, but she escorts her herself. ]

How was your travels?

we can't end when its about to hit the good stuff (flowers and traveling)

[mayest]

( continuing from here. )

You flatter me but I speak only truth. Out west are sunflower fields that stretch as far as the eye can see. Even my eyes have difficulty seeing their end.
Perhaps in the summer you will see them.

constantin is such a qt pie LMAO he's like pls, no compliments, im being SRS RN!!!

[versigny]

That would be lovely. Will you ride out with me to see them then?

I would ask to make it a family trip with Arakhis, but I genuinely worry we may lose him amidst the flowers.

🔫 organized crime au: the sequel!

[accurize]

[ They fall asleep in the same bed, fitted together in the dark, with damp hair and clean sheets and his arm slung over her waist from behind. Not pulling her close, just— present. Levi doesn't say much of anything. But he breathes deeply and evenly the whole night, and sometime early in the morning he murmurs a gravelly Go back to sleep, Margaery, as he gets up, the mattress dipping as he leaves it.

It's a couple hours. Of making phone calls, both from the kitchen and outside the house, Levi still in grey joggers and a white tank, whatever he's saying muted behind thick glass doors. Nobody's stayed at Sea Cliff for a couple weeks, but there's enough to put together some semblance of breakfast: coffee, importantly, in a french press, and non-dairy creamer, and croissants from the freezer.

All of that, laid out on the counter. Levi has a handtowel draped over his shoulder as he washes his hands in the sink; glances upwards the minute he senses motion and gives her a small, warm smile. ]

Good morning.

[ There are other things on the counter, too. His phone, screen dark; a small, black journal; the pistol from last night. A laptop, black and bulky and military-grade, with its screen on sleep mode.

Two cups of coffee later, Levi puts down his mug, holding it by the curve rather than the handle. Both his palms warmed by it. He stays standing at the kitchen island, like some strange, distorted echo of the way they'd stood at her dining table just a couple nights ago. How quickly things never stay the same.

A beat. And then, carefully: ]

I think we should talk about what comes next.

tysm!!! 🥹

[versigny]

[ morning comes too soon. Margaery waves it away once when she's jolted awake by the dip in the mattress, fight-or-flight instincts immediately revving up - only to sputter out at the sound of Levi's voice; there's a pitiful groan to tell him how displeased she is before she's out again. the second time she wakes is quieter. a single deep breath and then nothing but a vaguely familiar room materializing itself over the last thing she'd dreamed. thankfully, she doesn't remember the latter.

when she emerges an hour later, her eyes are still swollen but the rest of her is as close to immaculate as she can get it to be, with blow-dried hair and an equally casual outfit that looks like every female influencers' dream in autumn: oversized flannel and leggings. ]

Good morning.

[ she returns, her smile slower to appear, matching with the pace of rest of her movements. whether by exhaustion or the splintering weight of grief as memories grow clearer as her mind starts waking up in earnest. or both. her phone - a backup she retrieved from the safe - is the only thing she contributes to the items on the countertop.

Loras hasn't checked in. but that isn't surprising. she would have been just as thorough.

the buttery flakes of her half-eaten croissant are still clinging to her fingertips when Levi speaks, and she realizes with a start that she's just been staring at her plate.

right. ]

I think we know what comes next. I'm backed into a corner, badly enough that everyone who wants to stay alive should desert me. [ she smiles again. it's just as genuine and wry. ] That includes you too, Levi.

[farcry]

(( overflowing us, and lmk if any of this assumed cr / history needs to change! ))

[ he doesn't text back right away, doesn't know how to quite tread the right line when he hasn't figured out how he feels. it’s raw—like going in without backup, instinct telling him something matters, but the evidence is still incomplete.

knowing her, she'll read how careful he's being loud and clear. he's not sure if he likes that, but he can also tell how she's trying. ]

Yeah. I get that. Like the second you let yourself be happy, the clock starts ticking. I don’t think I’ve ever figured out how to stop waiting for the fall. Just tried to make peace with the fact that it might come.

[ they're both used to losing so much. though they've never spoke about it explicitly, he's read plenty about her and can only assume she's done the same with him. he still hasn't managed to outrun is past. ]

You think it ever gets easier?

HAHA you're so cute 🥹 ty for moving us!!

[versigny]

[ she takes a moment to thoughtfully consider his question. ]

For other people, maybe. For people like you and me? Not necessarily. But that makes it more meaningful, because every time we do, we'll be making a conscious choice.

[ for once, she doesn't know how to phrase this question she wants to ask next. the speech bubble appears and disappears several times before she evidently just decides to go for it. ]

Are you asking me to make that choice with you now?

blending that mafia + publicist au

[tanktopspidey]

Ezio didn’t mean to almost set the break room on fire.

Okay—technically he hadn’t. It was just a very minor thermal reaction from one of the prototype battery cores he’d been hauling around in his work bag, which he maybe shouldn’t have left next to the microwave while heating up empanadas. The point was, nothing actually exploded.

But the lights did flicker. And someone screamed. And the break room coffee machine now smelled faintly like ozone and roasted peppers.

So when the elevator doors opened and Margaery Tyrell, dressed like she belonged in a fragrance ad and not, in fact, in this morally ambiguous tech conglomerate’s sixth-floor PR wing, stepped into the chaos with the elegance of a swan gliding into a car crash, Ezio did the only reasonable thing.

He slapped his body in front of the smoldering microwave and gave her a deeply unconvincing thumbs-up. “Hey. Uh. Lunch accident. Totally fine. All under control. You, uh… probably don’t want the coffee today.”

He cleared his throat, trying not to squint at how unreal her hair looked under the flickering fluorescents. “Unless you’re into espresso with a faint aftertaste of electrical fire and shame. In which case—five stars.”

ty!!!

[versigny]

Margaery Tyrell doesn't usually step foot into the break room. Necessary sustenance like coffee and food come in the form of set-up delivery, and are absentmindedly enjoyed while she works on brainstorming future campaigns or poring over possible obstacles to their current ones. Proper meals are for the occasional weekends when she can dig her heels into slow hours of her day, and breaks during the workday are nonexistent.

Today though, of all days, a generous coworker has been handing out home-baked pastries and while they're not on her usual menu, she's not so rude as to ignore such a thoughtful gift. Instead of a quick trip like she'd planned, however, she's left tilting her head in confusion as the acrid smell eventually works into the way her expression changes into a wince. No wonder everyone else in the break room left in a hurry.

She hasn't had a lot of reasons to talk to Ezio Navarro, but she knows about him; has to, given this is her family's company and people are the most unpredictable assets. Keeping a pulse on their loyalties is only a small part of the job most people don't know. And Margaery's always been good at rolling with unexpected opportunities sent her way.

"Thanks for the heads up." she says with a laugh and a shake of her head, trying to offer him a smile even though the smell is starting to give her a headache. "I'll call the maintenance guys and ask them to bring a fan to air out the smell. And if your lunch has been spoiled by the incident, I'm happy to get you something else? Are you a fan of Italian? Scarantino's down the street is really good."

౨ৎ adorne

[versigny]

[ when Margaery weds again, for the fourth and final time, it is not in the Great Sept of Baelor, but in the Water Gardens. and it is a significantly smaller affair, although not for the lack of distinguished guests. it is not the first time she's been married during a war, but Margaery no longer has the blind optimism of a flower unblemished by regret; narrowly escaping death just before she must continue to play in the game of thrones has done a great deal in altering her priorities.

her desire to be queen, for example, has been sacrificed to the great explosion that took her father and eventually, her brother. she doesn't miss it. in fact, it feels as though there's been a great weight lifted off of her shoulders even as she floats on the arm of her new husband through the gardens after the ceremony - night isn't quite settling in just yet, but the sunset coats everything in a pretty glow. ]

I know we haven't had a chance to speak very much, my prince. But I do hope to please you as any wife should, and that we might never keep secrets from each other.

[ he has many lovers, she knows, so while a marriage with a stranger from the Reach may be the last development Oberyn Martell cares for, she does not mean to make it any more difficult than it needs to be. by all accounts, he is respectful and honest and noble. everything else is unimportant. ]

[adorne]

[ What had brought them here had in no small way been his own doing. After killing Gregor Clegane and fulfilling his promise to himself and his sister, Oberyn abandoned the city before he could be invited to leave.

The words on everyone's tongue had been his open accusal of Tywin and doing that while defending his imp son in equal measure made a mockery of his majesty and softened his hold on the Iron Throne. Such offense would not be taken lightly, and while Oberyn was always willing to fight he was never willing to offer Dorne, or his people as collateral.

When he returns home it's to report his new circumstances to his brother, and the sand snakes. Ellaria hasn't spoken with him since the news of his betrothal which he expected but tensions within the city at this new turn of events have garnered him long looks the likes of which he's never experienced.

The ceremony was too much pageantry for his tastes but he participates in it well and wears the marriage coat with dignity on behalf of Dorne and his new wife. He's quiet, reflective as the sun casts an amber hue across the gardens and the pools of water in the courtyard illuminate the colors of orange and yellow back toward them. Colors of Dorne, highlighted in a brilliant cobalt underlining the golden hues in a flattering shadow that obscures their image to those lingering near. The vocal symphony around them is eager, invested, and interested despite the tension that remains between the two of them. Unaware of it, giddy with the prospect of the future and drunk on the dining of the evening and the Dreamwine. ]

My lady, I'm sure you are aware of my appetites. It is no secret in the Westerlands any more than it is here.

[ Despite the unceremonious words, his tone is kind and Oberyn places a warm and calloused palm over the same hand wrapped over his arm. They had very little time to get to know each other and Margaery a woman of this world has done much to keep her reputation enshrined in the stereotypical sense. She had no privilege of life in Dorne, and he allowed her this knowing all too well the way of the world and how it saw fit to treat its women.

That said, the sordid history between their houses had been rekindled by him. His incidental maiming of Willas while not purposeful had been presumed as much by all those uninvolved given the disrepute that followed him. Many of the Tyrells declined to attend their nuptials, positing difficulty in travels given Dorne's location but they both knew better than to accept it as such. ]

No secrets then. Do you mean to please me by consummating these vows because it is what you are meant to do? Who are you when you are not adhering to your obligations as a noblewoman?

@hurnyntus

[versigny]

( cont from here )

Perhaps it's not fear of your wildness, but misguided consideration and respect for your name and your sex?

In that case, you should show them, rather than play by the lines they've drawn for you.

so long, captcha! \o/

[hurnyntus]

Highly misguided, if that is indeed the case.

Find someone else to train me, you mean? I hear the Dornish style of swordplay is quite beautiful — perhaps I should send word south looking for a master of arms.

( A little tongue in cheek, perhaps, considering Dorne’s history with the Targaryens, but there’s also a very good chance that she’s genuinely considering it! )

౨ৎ swage

[versigny]

[ it isn't for another few days that Margaery's able to get away. there are letters to write, hearts to win over, and other, ever-present duties of a sister who's used to being the support system for the true heir. she thinks of Henry in flashes between those moments, especially when she needs the amusement to keep herself from buckling under the grief and pressure.

when she does see him again, they're not so lucky to have the cover of night and privacy. instead, it's midday, an open clearing, and a sparse group of men lounging around the edges, a safe watching distance away from the sparring exercise taking place. it's Henry and someone else - the instructor, she presumes, from how efficiently he's dismantling poor Henry's defense and taking advantage of clumsy footwork to knock him off his balance.

not many know her face well enough to recognize her, although the quality of her dress is enough to have them give her a respectable berth when she approaches the clearing, hands clasped in their usual fashion when she's observing something that fascinates her. ]

I was thinking of bringing my brother here. [ is her version of hello, do you remember me? when she finds Henry after his rounds are done, a cup of water in hand. ] He used to love sparring, so I wonder if it might help him heal faster to be in a similar environment.

[ she offers him the cup, her smile kind. ]

Do you think your captain would mind?

[swage]

[Being on the receiving end of a proper walloping is no new thing. Honestly, it's more or less how he keeps track of the hours these days. In the morning, he gets his arse kicked with a practice sword. In the afternoon, he either gets his arse kicked at wrestling or at the archery range. In the evening, he gets his arse kicked (metaphorically this time) by the Bailiff for looking like he's been run over by a horse before he came to start his evening guard duties. He might prefer structuring his life with a few fewer bruises, but no one's asked his opinion.

(Frankly, he wouldn't really know what to suggest as an alternative if they did.)

So: routine beatings it is.

Huffing and puffing, knuckles sore from where Captain Bernard had throughout rapped them, Henry has thrown himself into the shade of a tree where he may sweat miserably for a bit while other more competent swordsmen go about their business. A spotted dog with a big block head lies alongside his hip; the animal raises his head when Margaery approaches. His hackles rise, and a low sonorous growling rumbles in the beast's chest—]

What are you—oh, Jesus. [The odyssey Henry of Skaltiz' face goes on when he looks up and finds her standing over him would fill a heavy book. He ends on mortified. And sweaty. Sweatily mortified.] Bad dog. Quit that, you silly mutt.

[He pets the dogs reflexively behind a floppy ear. The spotted hound lowers his head to Henry's knee and squints up at her suspiciously, but stops his growling.]

I, uh. Certainly not. He wouldn't mind. I'm sure Captain Bernard would take your brother. He oversees Capon—er, Lord Capon's schooling too. [He takes the cup, red from exertion and embarrassment both. Christ, slay him. He's so sweaty.] Thank you, Lady Margaery.

౨ৎ swage

[versigny]

[ a month passes swiftly.

without him even aware of it, Henry's visit has become the catalyst of change for Margaery. if her handmaidens notice the subtle difference in how their lady goes about her day (as if she's been broken free from a reverie), they wisely keep it to themselves while diligently working on the dress she's decided to gift Lady Stephanie.

winning over Lord Hanush is the biggest obstacle, but she manages to barely clear the hurdle by pleading her case - while my brother and I are forever indebted to you for your kindness, I do not believe God has allowed me to survive to do nothing in the safety of your castle walls. surely, He means to use me for more than enjoying the comforts of your home - or perhaps he has also seen the dimming will to live in her eyes, and has no choice but to prefer the reason for her impassioned arguments.

(he does ask her why she's chosen Henry as her escort, and despite having an extensive, roundabout answer prepared, her response winds up being much simpler: I feel safe with him.

to which he gives her a look, but, well. errare humanum est.)

so to Talmberg they ride. it's not the turn of events she'd have expected when she fled Highgarden, but it's not unwelcome. having fun, for instance, continues to remain an alien concept in her grief until she finds herself already laughing at something Henry's said or done, like curtains being drawn back to let the sun in.

Margaery wonders how much he's regretting the suggestion of the longer route for an inn when they stable the horses and she's slyly seizing the opportunity to stick to his side like a bur. her hair is pulled back into a braid (which, in her opinion, is enough to make her unrecognizable) and she does her best to be conscientious of the mannerisms which might give her away, but it turns out her efforts are hardly necessary. ]

I suppose I should be grateful the inkeeper's wife only had eyes for you. [ she muses in their private room, aching from hours of riding and determined not to show it. ] You managed to hold both of their attentions and secure us a room in record time.

[swage]

[It's been an exceedingly strange month.

He'd been fit for that brown brigandine piece. Capon had retaliated by giving him a set of boots and spurs. He'd suffered enough arse kickings that he'd miraculously begun to win a sparring match every now and again. He'd done a great deal of riding to and fro and to and fro at the behest of people who seemingly against all odds find him useful. He'd stayed for a week in his lord's camp near Merhojed, and done a great deal of letter writing while he'd sat there. Radzig Kobyla clearly considers himself something of a scholar, and for some reason he thinks his newest man at arms should practice his writing at every given opportunity.

(He's also done a fair bit of jerking himself off, and Margaery Tyrell's bosoms and lovely long hair have not been entirely absent from the usual string of fantasies his hand conjured up. But that's not important, as he begs for forgiveness at confession on a semi-regular basis. If God can forget his sins, then it'd be a bit rude not to follow suit.)

And then, impossibly, the day comes. He and Margaery ride out of Rattay, sweeping their way first east and then north in a long steady curve that will eventually see them turn westward, slipping past the very edge of the Uzhitz and Talmberg woods, and finally see Margaery delivered to her new companion. The two women had better get along after all this effort, he thinks only a little sourly and very privately. Imagine if they didn't. Christ preserve him.

The let room is small and sits directly above the inn's taproom. The sound of laughter coming up through the floor is fairly loud, so he assumes their conversation is private enough to be indelicate about certain things like the fact that they're lying scoundrels. They've had a simple dinner and a few beers each in the way that ordinary people ought to, and Henry has bolted the door shut firmly behind them.

Presently, he's finding a place to lay his saddlebags (he'd stripped out his armor when they'd first arrived and been shown the room), and is rolling up his sweat smelling padded gambeson into an approximation of a pillow. If he's going to sleep on the floor, then he's going to make sure he at least has something soft to rest his head on.]

Amazing what you can get done with a fat stack of groschen.

[He's fairly certain the silver he'd produced from his purse had done most of the convincing. Ticking the gambeson's sleeves inside the bundle he's made of the garment, he chances a sidelong look in her direction. He's been looking at her regularly enough all day in the course of traveling and conversation, but for some reason it feels different to do so behind a bolted door in a small little room.]

Are you comfortable, m'lady?

౨ৎ sulk

[versigny]

( cont from here )

[ for once, Margaery's alone—and perhaps that explains the uncharacteristic terseness in her letters, the soft rebuke of a flower at the end of her patience; with no family present to counsel her, she's given Arthur more of a glimpse into her honesty than most.

but she's the picture of good cheer when she opens the door, her smile and posture nothing but proper as she curtsies. some things are too ingrained to resist. ]

Your Majesty. [ —with a tone of genial astonishment, of course. ] What a pleasant surprise. Is there something can I do for you?

[sulk]

( what was he expecting? his usual annoyance, the familiar friction? it's a lie, and he knows it. lately, arthur's resolve has soured into a pathetic habit: stealing glances when she isn't looking, admiring the clever wit that hides behind her smile and the sharp ambition in her blue eyes—so different from the simpering ladies of his father's court. he finds a strange comfort in her presence, even as he spends entire evenings pointedly ignoring her. now, caught in the act of staring, his lips parted in a silent betrayal, he has to consciously wrench his expression back into a scowl. )

Yes. Tell me exactly what you want—( he bites the words out )—in return for going back into your room and having dinner on your own. ( did he just layer the last three words with a pointed emphasis? yes. he is determined to keep her from his father's table. he knows exactly what the king will want to discuss: their impending marriage. )

xmas drabble 2025; (That Dive Bar) (nsfw)

[helldogs]

Duncan should've been embarrassed, that she felt his dick strain through his fly. She should've been conscious, of her nipple peaking in his hand through her satin slip, dress slipping down.

The booth was dim, not private. The bar quiet, not empty.

What he should've foreseen was: regret.

But he was too present. Lost in time, as if that wasn’t luxury exclusive to combat and retirement. Gear is expensive. Old age, moreso. But her thighs tightened and his mind blanked. The curl of her tongue against the wall of his mouth was treasure to bury forever in an empty heart.