what sounds better? revenge or popcorn?

[blacklisle]

Post your character. Post a prompt or leave it blank and let others post a prompt. Find your prompts here. Tag. Enjoy.

[ lfdsh ]

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[nuhysissa]

She looks at him for a long moment. There's nothing soft left in her expression, now; she can't afford to have the gentle heart she'd once been accused of. But there is hope, still. She can give up love for the sake of a throne. She'd always assumed she'd have to. And yet...

"Is that all I am to you?"

She rises to lean over him, her hands coming to rest on the chair arms on either side, pinning him in as her eyes search his for the thing she'd seen in them a hundred times before. She knew when a man wanted a woman. Could he deny himself and her, if challenged?

[northerndragon]

She is so close, and it makes his heart beat faster. The look of her, her scent, the hope in her eyes, everything he has missed and everything he hasn't. To escape from this now, he'd have to push her off -- a force he doesn't want to show to her.

His gaze drops down and to the side.

"No." It comes out soft and gruff.

Looking up at her again, he adds, "But what kind of -- ," then sighs in frustration and leans up to kiss her.

[nuhysissa]

She sees that hesitation and feels the walls around her heart start to rebuild themselves, cold and unbreakable as the one that had held the dead at bay until it hadn't. She's ready to tell him it doesn't matter, that she doesn't need love to be queen, that there are other ways to rule --

-- and then he's kissing her and whatever he was going to say can wait, as can the willful destruction of what's left of her own heart. At least for a while longer. She kisses him hungrily, in fierce defiance of whatever gods there are that would take even this from her after everything else.

[northerndragon]

There is little to do during a long journey by land: hours of riding with nothing much around you but the road. One tree is much like another, and no party is strong enough to clash with a whole army moving down the road, so no party tries. He had spent the ride, the weeks of it, trying not to think of her; he had thought of little else. He had dreamed of her at night, dreams that he had cursed himself for at dawn.

He has missed every inch of her, every breath. He has wanted nothing more than to hold her and be held by her. None of it is anything he can have. And what sort of man wants to be comforted when he learns that he is higher born than anyone could imagine? What sort of man goes to the woman whose hopes have been dashed by it, whether or not she is his blood?

What sort of man is he?

The hunger in her kiss is met with his own, and he pulls her into his lap. A few moons ago, this would have ended with him in her, her riding him sweetly, her hands in his hair and her tongue in his mouth. He had thought that, if they survived, that was something they could have -- each other. Children, gods willing.

Had he been a fool? Had he? He feels more himself than he has the whole way down from Winterfell. This should not feel right. It is not right. It cannot be. And beyond that, there is his fear of her and his fear for her. But this all feels the same as it had when he was another man, a happier man. Jon Snow could love Daenerys Targaryen. Aegon Targaryen should not, but he does. He cannot do anything else.

He doesn't wrench away from her as he had the last time they kissed, but when the kiss breaks, he lowers his forehead to her shoulder.

"Dany." He turns his face into her neck and holds her. This might be the last time: it can be just a little longer. "I don't know rest."