for nearamir.
Traditionally, the Lannisters may hail from Britain, attend the British wizarding school, and buy out the British wizarding government, but they tend to prefer living somewhere warm, reasonably sunny, and french. Cersei herself does not think she is built for the Scottish winter, or autumn, or spring. She is built to do precisely what her cat, Tybolt, does right now: curl up in her warm four-poster bed.
Instead, she is headed towards the library.
On a Saturday morning.
Yes, a morning. Before noon.
It's wholly Faramir's fault, by the way - no one told him to be so handsome, with dreamy, storm-grey eyes, and long, soft hair. It's a problem that has lead her to make several bewildering choices - like picking Care of Magical Creatures as a elective, and now this. But she is a witch on a mission, and she shan't be derailed by simpler pleasures. If she doesn't get what she wants today, she might have to start hexing her rivals to feel better.
Thankfully, he is extremely reliable, and she can already see him at his usual spot by the window, behind which an uncomfortable (for Cersei) amount of snow is falling. She ignores the librarian ("I have seen you more often in the library this year than in all the previous terms combined, Miss Lannister") and pretends to look at some of the books in a nearby shelf, before 'noticing' him.
"Oh, good morning. You are up early."
Instead, she is headed towards the library.
On a Saturday morning.
Yes, a morning. Before noon.
It's wholly Faramir's fault, by the way - no one told him to be so handsome, with dreamy, storm-grey eyes, and long, soft hair. It's a problem that has lead her to make several bewildering choices - like picking Care of Magical Creatures as a elective, and now this. But she is a witch on a mission, and she shan't be derailed by simpler pleasures. If she doesn't get what she wants today, she might have to start hexing her rivals to feel better.
Thankfully, he is extremely reliable, and she can already see him at his usual spot by the window, behind which an uncomfortable (for Cersei) amount of snow is falling. She ignores the librarian ("I have seen you more often in the library this year than in all the previous terms combined, Miss Lannister") and pretends to look at some of the books in a nearby shelf, before 'noticing' him.
"Oh, good morning. You are up early."
for nearamir.
That Faramir does not much like her loft is obvious. Under normal circumstances, this would mean that he is wrong, and that he needs to suck it up or take a hike, the two obvious options. Instead, it means that she, more often than not when they plan on spending the night together, drives herself to his place.
And because sometimes, leaving after just one night seems sort of unnecessary, she usually packs up Tybolt as well. He likes to venture out onto the patio, to sit in the sun for a few glorious minutes, or to sniff on some plant or other, before returning back inside to see if he can earn himself a piece of chicken or two. He has a cat bed for travelling that, frankly, simply stays at Faramir's place at this point.
There are more signs of such a routine - some spare pieces of clothing that reside somewhere in his drawer, even though she has a tendency to borrow whatever she might need from him instead. A ring light that she needed for work, and then simply 'forgot' to take home again. Her favourite hairbrush. Lotion for Tywin, and some of her more expensive face creams.
So they are dating, to her father's disgruntlement, because there are men who would submit their companies to him for the privilege, and he is not one of them. And dating is fine, because frankly, it doesn't mean all that much. Dating is a temporary state, and even ever-encroaching habits cannot change this.
Dating is fine.
Except he went out to get some groceries while she slept in, and came back just as she had settled into the kitchen with the cat, and he tells her he brought some strawberries because she liked them so much on the stupid hike she sort of went on voluntarily for his sake. She laughs, because it's such an obviously kind gesture, and she looks at him, she wears one of his t-shirts, probably still the one she slept in, and somehow ends up not saying thanks or as you should or you are ridiculous. She looks up at him and says, "I love you."
It just came out like that.
It means you're ridiculous.
"Like you." There, day saved. Problem solved. Don't mention it.
And because sometimes, leaving after just one night seems sort of unnecessary, she usually packs up Tybolt as well. He likes to venture out onto the patio, to sit in the sun for a few glorious minutes, or to sniff on some plant or other, before returning back inside to see if he can earn himself a piece of chicken or two. He has a cat bed for travelling that, frankly, simply stays at Faramir's place at this point.
There are more signs of such a routine - some spare pieces of clothing that reside somewhere in his drawer, even though she has a tendency to borrow whatever she might need from him instead. A ring light that she needed for work, and then simply 'forgot' to take home again. Her favourite hairbrush. Lotion for Tywin, and some of her more expensive face creams.
So they are dating, to her father's disgruntlement, because there are men who would submit their companies to him for the privilege, and he is not one of them. And dating is fine, because frankly, it doesn't mean all that much. Dating is a temporary state, and even ever-encroaching habits cannot change this.
Dating is fine.
Except he went out to get some groceries while she slept in, and came back just as she had settled into the kitchen with the cat, and he tells her he brought some strawberries because she liked them so much on the stupid hike she sort of went on voluntarily for his sake. She laughs, because it's such an obviously kind gesture, and she looks at him, she wears one of his t-shirts, probably still the one she slept in, and somehow ends up not saying thanks or as you should or you are ridiculous. She looks up at him and says, "I love you."
It just came out like that.
It means you're ridiculous.
"Like you." There, day saved. Problem solved. Don't mention it.
for borntoreign | 'til death
Vasilion had been entirely unknown while she was alive: a small, insignificant kingdom, barely worthy of that name, on a continent too far away to be readily roamed. Imagine her surprise, and, if she were honest with herself or her newfound companion, her awe to discover how much has changed in the past hundred-odd years. She will not grant him that satisfaction, of course. The knife between her ribs might not have killed her, but it had not been too pleasant, either, even if her hunger upon awakening had been so maddening the cold, cruel blade had only registered when it forced her to the ground.
Water under the bridge now, isn't it? Most gallantly, the Emperor has since invited her to join him at one of his palaces, and provided ample distraction from her goal to learn what has changed in the past century, and if anything – anything, really is still the same. Still, this means no more half-rotted rags for her: she is once again dressed in gowns of vivid colours, made of finest silk, her hair brushed and clean, she has been given jewels, though she is, of yet, sorely missing the tiara she has been so graciously buried alive with. She need not guess who took it: Casimir Zarek seems utterly uninterested in giving even the appearance of sharing his throne.
Pity, that. He is handsome and vicious, and she has been dead for so long. Is she not deserving of a resurgence?
She need not guess why he has ceased his stabbing ways toward her, and rather ensured that she has not felt a twinge of thirst since their unfortunate first encounter. Once upon a time, it has been Cersei herself who had been vying for the honour he seeks, and who would grant such a gift to one visibly ungrateful? Her kingdom may be gone, and so is her husband, and her son, her brother, and all the legacy of House Lannister with them, but she is still a queen, and in lieu of little contest, why name herself queen consort again? A queen consort would make a polite offer, for peace's sake. A queen regent sits tall in her seat across from him, and waits for him to ask for what he so clearly desires.
The supper set before them looks delicious, and there is a plate set out before her as well, numerous pieces of beautiful cutlery, which she has not touched, for they could be silver at a glance, and he need not know a singular weakness. She reaches for the cup, however: he may have seen her feed before, and she doubts the uncivilised nature with which she usually drinks did anything but perhaps harden his cock, but for the servants' sake, she takes a sip with the same dignity as she did in life. It doesn't taste like the spiced honey wine once produced in Lannisport.
"A prisoner?" She watches him over the rim of her gilded cup, unblinking. Much like she often forgets to feign her breathing, it is occasionally a conscious effort to blink, or to react much to the cold or the heat. She feels them, naturally, yet they are no longer a threat. Most all times now, unless she has freshly fed, she is cold to the touch herself, and paler the longer she had to go without. No doubt she looked somewhat haggard when he had first stumbled upon her, but her more recent, steady diet has returned her beauty to her in full.
She doubts it is his goal, though, to maintain his good looks.
Water under the bridge now, isn't it? Most gallantly, the Emperor has since invited her to join him at one of his palaces, and provided ample distraction from her goal to learn what has changed in the past century, and if anything – anything, really is still the same. Still, this means no more half-rotted rags for her: she is once again dressed in gowns of vivid colours, made of finest silk, her hair brushed and clean, she has been given jewels, though she is, of yet, sorely missing the tiara she has been so graciously buried alive with. She need not guess who took it: Casimir Zarek seems utterly uninterested in giving even the appearance of sharing his throne.
Pity, that. He is handsome and vicious, and she has been dead for so long. Is she not deserving of a resurgence?
She need not guess why he has ceased his stabbing ways toward her, and rather ensured that she has not felt a twinge of thirst since their unfortunate first encounter. Once upon a time, it has been Cersei herself who had been vying for the honour he seeks, and who would grant such a gift to one visibly ungrateful? Her kingdom may be gone, and so is her husband, and her son, her brother, and all the legacy of House Lannister with them, but she is still a queen, and in lieu of little contest, why name herself queen consort again? A queen consort would make a polite offer, for peace's sake. A queen regent sits tall in her seat across from him, and waits for him to ask for what he so clearly desires.
The supper set before them looks delicious, and there is a plate set out before her as well, numerous pieces of beautiful cutlery, which she has not touched, for they could be silver at a glance, and he need not know a singular weakness. She reaches for the cup, however: he may have seen her feed before, and she doubts the uncivilised nature with which she usually drinks did anything but perhaps harden his cock, but for the servants' sake, she takes a sip with the same dignity as she did in life. It doesn't taste like the spiced honey wine once produced in Lannisport.
"A prisoner?" She watches him over the rim of her gilded cup, unblinking. Much like she often forgets to feign her breathing, it is occasionally a conscious effort to blink, or to react much to the cold or the heat. She feels them, naturally, yet they are no longer a threat. Most all times now, unless she has freshly fed, she is cold to the touch herself, and paler the longer she had to go without. No doubt she looked somewhat haggard when he had first stumbled upon her, but her more recent, steady diet has returned her beauty to her in full.
She doubts it is his goal, though, to maintain his good looks.
for insufficientjewel.
A man's footfalls, light for his size, and coming closer. Were she not dazed with hunger, this would be her sign to flee, to become once more one with the night, gone half a mile before he has so much as a chance at rounding this corner. This hunger is a frightening one, though, it cuts deep and for the first time since she herself was turned, Celeste fears what might come after. If she does not feed, what madness might befall her? If she is so close to losing her senses in the presence of her victim now, what will happen if she flees, if she means to last through another day, to hunt another night? Few are out past curfew these days, and fewer are inclined to invite strangers into their homes past sundown. The woman before her is her safest wager.
And not only because she has already fallen under her spell, having forgotten those pleas for aid and mercy she'd uttered at the first sight of her attacker's fangs. The woman is still now, stiff as a board, and though there is sentience yet flickering behind her eyes, she cannot fight a vampire's might. She almost pities her: it is not, she recalls, a pleasant feeling.
The steps come closer, though, and there is no time to search for humanity in her unbeating heart. Even in life, she would not have chosen it. This may no longer be a question of life and death, but she is seeing double, hearing echoes, and she cannot wait another night, cannot last another scalding day, if she does not do as her nature commands.
She leans forward, then, presses her victim bodily against the wall, buries her fangs in her neck and smells a man's scent so close as though –
She is grabbed, drawn back, and though her strength by far outdoes that of her opponent, her dazed state is enough to stop her. "This does not concern you," she murmurs, eyes half shut as she means to keep her victim under her control. The woman slides to the ground, rattled by the pain of the bite, and it is more difficult to keep her hypnotised when facing away from her. "Leave this place, good sir, or find yourself in trouble beyond your reckoning."
And not only because she has already fallen under her spell, having forgotten those pleas for aid and mercy she'd uttered at the first sight of her attacker's fangs. The woman is still now, stiff as a board, and though there is sentience yet flickering behind her eyes, she cannot fight a vampire's might. She almost pities her: it is not, she recalls, a pleasant feeling.
The steps come closer, though, and there is no time to search for humanity in her unbeating heart. Even in life, she would not have chosen it. This may no longer be a question of life and death, but she is seeing double, hearing echoes, and she cannot wait another night, cannot last another scalding day, if she does not do as her nature commands.
She leans forward, then, presses her victim bodily against the wall, buries her fangs in her neck and smells a man's scent so close as though –
She is grabbed, drawn back, and though her strength by far outdoes that of her opponent, her dazed state is enough to stop her. "This does not concern you," she murmurs, eyes half shut as she means to keep her victim under her control. The woman slides to the ground, rattled by the pain of the bite, and it is more difficult to keep her hypnotised when facing away from her. "Leave this place, good sir, or find yourself in trouble beyond your reckoning."
𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔫.
"We need to talk about the conditions."
To talk is not the same as to put them into ink, but she does not want a contract, hasn't wanted one from the start. For every other thing – every sponsorship, every appearance, every minute detail, she wants a contract, but in this instance, it would make her feel cheap. Sold, even if she is the seller. Perhaps this would be a good moment for regret, but regret does not come easily to her, and this is no exception. Her father would rage, if he knew she did not mean to get anything in writing, but, and it bolsters her resolve, her father would rage as well. Casimir Zarek is closer to his age than her own.
This isn't, she reckons, all that unusual for people like them. Both the situation and the age gap, but mostly the situation – what was the name of that actor, the one from the cult? Rumour him and his ex-wife, or at least one of them, did it on some kind of contract, too. Hell, it's probably more common now, where anyone could get famous on social media and numbers were everything. It will be good for both of their brands: she has missed out on the health craze, she has never posted pictures of herself exercising or eating clean or sipping juice cleanses, though she has done it all, because her body is as much, if not more, an asset than her mind is on some days. It would give her a boost, as would that hint of a scandal, the talk and the drama. Those who come only to see more of him, too.
He will get a new slew of followers as well: men who believe he'll get them a girlfriend half his age, then a number of her own followers, more deals for his own brand. It'll be worth every second in gold.
So here she is, in his minimalist haven, sipping one of his teas and finding herself enjoying the taste and view alike. If it must be anyone, she thinks, it might as well be someone as attractive as Casimir Zarek.
To talk is not the same as to put them into ink, but she does not want a contract, hasn't wanted one from the start. For every other thing – every sponsorship, every appearance, every minute detail, she wants a contract, but in this instance, it would make her feel cheap. Sold, even if she is the seller. Perhaps this would be a good moment for regret, but regret does not come easily to her, and this is no exception. Her father would rage, if he knew she did not mean to get anything in writing, but, and it bolsters her resolve, her father would rage as well. Casimir Zarek is closer to his age than her own.
This isn't, she reckons, all that unusual for people like them. Both the situation and the age gap, but mostly the situation – what was the name of that actor, the one from the cult? Rumour him and his ex-wife, or at least one of them, did it on some kind of contract, too. Hell, it's probably more common now, where anyone could get famous on social media and numbers were everything. It will be good for both of their brands: she has missed out on the health craze, she has never posted pictures of herself exercising or eating clean or sipping juice cleanses, though she has done it all, because her body is as much, if not more, an asset than her mind is on some days. It would give her a boost, as would that hint of a scandal, the talk and the drama. Those who come only to see more of him, too.
He will get a new slew of followers as well: men who believe he'll get them a girlfriend half his age, then a number of her own followers, more deals for his own brand. It'll be worth every second in gold.
So here she is, in his minimalist haven, sipping one of his teas and finding herself enjoying the taste and view alike. If it must be anyone, she thinks, it might as well be someone as attractive as Casimir Zarek.
𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔫.
In spite of all her terrible fears, it really does seem as though it was naught but the common fever, which had struck her young son. Joffrey Zarek had never known a day's suffering, however, not a lack of rest nor a hint of true hunger, and though he is but few turns away from his third nameday, encroaching upon them in the second month of the year, the disease passed by him quickly. It is the fourth day now, and his appetite was ferocious when she had broken her fast with him on honeyed bread and fruit, he was eagerly chasing a cat he had spotted right thereafter, and only during their walk in the open air did any sort of fatigue catch him. Awake he remained for the waterfalls and his spotting of a large bird of prey, though he was solidly asleep in her arms soon enough on their way back. Before she set him down in his bed, she felt his forehead for the umpteenth time, but it is as the healer had assured her: he is well once more, even the cough is gone.
Relieved, she leaves the boy to his afternoon nap, and goes again to find her husband. Gone had he been in the earliest hours of morning, as was his usual way, though it is strange that he not even been present to ignore her request to join her and their son for their morning meal, nor has she seen hide nor hair of him since.
She finds him in his study, in the end, and it does not take more than a look for her to know what has befallen him. There is a glaze to his otherwise so sharp eyes, a pallor to his skin, dark rings beneath his eyes. The lips dry and cracked, his breath the lightest rasp. "My emperor." She inclines her head, though she is trying fast to suppress a hint of mirth. "If you would excuse me for another moment?"
Relieved, she leaves the boy to his afternoon nap, and goes again to find her husband. Gone had he been in the earliest hours of morning, as was his usual way, though it is strange that he not even been present to ignore her request to join her and their son for their morning meal, nor has she seen hide nor hair of him since.
She finds him in his study, in the end, and it does not take more than a look for her to know what has befallen him. There is a glaze to his otherwise so sharp eyes, a pallor to his skin, dark rings beneath his eyes. The lips dry and cracked, his breath the lightest rasp. "My emperor." She inclines her head, though she is trying fast to suppress a hint of mirth. "If you would excuse me for another moment?"
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