#Emerald Specter

[kira-anon-uwu]

TS! Who built the weird ghost machine?

"My father, and some dude that goes to my brother's university. They hunt ghosts; not well, but they hunt them."

Master Post

~-~-~

thank you for giving me a break from the big comic set I've been working on for this, drawing the funny emerald men was a nice change

this is not shipping art, also; don't be weird

[novaursa]

can you please write something with the reader being the queen of a far away kingdom that is kinda similar to the targaryen house but instead of dragons they have elike either magic or something. and reader ends up befriending rhaenyra which has the reader being a very powerful ally and the greens notice this , with alicent still wanting to steal the throne but otto is like “…nahhhh” , so rhaenyra becomes queen with the reader there and just standing all badass and stuff kinda comedic if you can please

The Witch Queen

- Summary: You arrive from faraway land to aid Rhaenyra before her rightful claim is stolen.

- Paring: female!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: This might be slightly darker than you asked for, but the spooky season vibes guided me with this one. I hope you still like it, dear anon. 🙂

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: long live the queen

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The wind carried a sharp, briny scent from the sea as your ship glided through the dark waters toward the docks of King's Landing, its shadow stretching ominously beneath the moonlit sky. The black sails of your fleet billowed against the midnight horizon, a ghostly procession that had gone unnoticed until now. No banners heralded your arrival, no horns sounded from the walls of the Red Keep. The city slept in ignorance of the storm you had brought.

At your side, your court stood with heads held high, their violet eyes gleaming in the moonlight, their pale, silver-gold hair swept back in intricate braids that mirrored your own. House Tyvarella was not accustomed to formalities that belonged to lesser kings or the pious men of Westeros. You were the Queen of a realm far older than this one, a survivor of Valyria’s doom, and there was no need for permission to make yourself known.

As you stepped onto the cobblestones, the whispers from the shadows began to ripple. The common folk had heard the tales—stories of your house, the blood mages of Tyvarella, feared even by those who once tamed dragons. To those of the Faith of the Seven, you were a creature from their darkest myths, a figure woven into the very fabric of their nightmares. And now, you were here, at the heart of their crumbling kingdom.

“The night brings ill omens,” Otto Hightower muttered, his hands wringing in that nervous, meticulous way of his. He stood by a flickering torchlight, watching as your procession marched through the streets toward the Red Keep. His face was pale, his eyes narrowed in a mixture of wariness and disgust. “They come as vultures, Alicent, like specters summoned by death itself. We need to leave, now.”

Alicent Hightower, now Dowager Queen, stood by his side, her delicate fingers gripping the edges of her gown as if holding herself together. Her emerald eyes, though wary, flickered with a strange curiosity as she gazed at your retinue. “They were not expected, not invited… What are they doing here?”

“Nothing good, I assure you,” Otto responded with grim certainty. “King Viserys is dead. They arrive just as his breath fades. They bring with them blood magic and ruin. If we stay—”

A distant sound cut through the air, carried on the wind—the solemn toll of bells echoing across the city. Viserys was gone. The king had breathed his last.

Alicent's breath hitched as the realization washed over her. Her husband, the father of her children, the king, was dead. And here you stood, arriving at this precise moment, as if heralding the change to come.

But her eyes strayed, flickering toward the upper windows of the Red Keep. Through the torch-lit chambers, she caught a glimpse of another figure—Rhaenyra. The Princess had been kept behind, confined within the castle after that last bitter feast Viserys had demanded, the one after Vaemond Velaryon met his end.

Rhaenyra stood by the window now, her gaze drawn irresistibly to you. Alicent noticed it in an instant, the way her rival, her stepdaughter, leaned closer to the glass, watching your every movement with a deep, unspoken longing. Rhaenyra’s eyes were fixed on you, even from this distance, her expression one of unmistakable hunger and fascination.

“Do you see that?” Alicent whispered, her voice tight. “She… she looks at her.”

Otto followed her gaze, his lips tightening. “Rhaenyra’s drawn to power,” he said dismissively, though a hint of concern tugged at his tone. “It’s in her blood. But this... this is different. Tyvarella’s magic is ancient, forbidden. If she aligns herself with them, it will be disastrous.”

Alicent felt a wave of unease roll through her, but before she could respond, the heavy gates of the Red Keep groaned open, and you stepped inside. The room fell into a hush, as if the very stones of the castle were holding their breath. You entered without ceremony, your violet eyes scanning the gathering of lords and courtiers, none of whom dared meet your gaze directly.

And then, you saw her.

Rhaenyra.

She descended the grand staircase, her silken black gown flowing behind her like the wings of a raven. Her silver hair glowed in the candlelight, and her lips were parted ever so slightly, as if tasting the air between you. The tension in the room coiled tight, palpable.

When your eyes met hers, the world seemed to fall away.

You had seen her before, of course. But this… this was different. Here, in this moment of death and turmoil, the connection between you felt like a thread of fire, burning through the distance between you both. Her breath hitched as she came to stand before you, her gaze never leaving yours.

“Y/N,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice soft yet carrying a weight that pulled at something deep inside of you. “You came.”

“I did,” you replied, your voice steady, though the sight of her stirred something untamed within you. “I came as soon as I sensed it. Viserys is gone, and now… the realm will fall to chaos.”

Her lips tightened into a thin line, pain flashing in her eyes at the mention of her father, but she didn’t look away. “They’ll come for me. For my children.”

“And they’ll have to go through me first.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes darkened at your words, the weight of your promise settling over her like a shield. Her hand, pale and trembling, reached out ever so slightly, as if testing the waters between you. And then, without another word, she placed it in yours.

A murmur spread through the room. Alicent stiffened where she stood, her face pale as the dawn.

Otto watched in silence, his mind already racing, already calculating. He knew what this meant. He knew that your presence here was more than a disruption. It was a declaration.

“We should have left when we had the chance,” he muttered, just loud enough for Alicent to hear. “Now it’s too late.”

Rhaenyra squeezed your hand, her fingers warm despite the cool air. “Will you stay?”

Your lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “For as long as you need me.”

[seattlesellie]

knight!ellie x princess!reader drabble. ♡🗡️🕯️

an: since i’m thinking of writing a full fic of knight ellie x princess reader i wanted to know what you guys think ! let me know if i should turn this into something way longer. just a lil peak of the themes of a longer fic 💗

cw: mature themes, reader is a little lonely, tension.

the moon is so bright, so big, so white, luminous, it reflects in her emerald eyes and renders them almost mystical, bordering on the verge of the unreal. one couldn't help but wonder if she herself was not entirely real, a specter of dreams made flesh. do you recall those distant days of childhood? just eight years old, insisting that your imaginary friend — aurora, was right by your side? you clung to her like a lifeline. you'd shed tears as your mother, the reigning queen, denied the request for an extra place setting, an empty plate reserved for aurora alone. how you fell asleep bawling, tasting salt on your tongue, bitter and sickening, feeling as if you were drowning in your sleep, the specter of aurora growing gaunt and wretched, as though starved for existence.

how you woke up plagued by guilt, tormented by a high fever and a stubborn eye infection, crying and screaming for your imaginary best friend. and how from that day on, the castle fell empty. you wandered around, through those regal halls like a specter, floating like a brittle ghost, nodding politely when a maid curtsied in reverence, offering a feeble smile to the steward as he addressed you as his cherished princess.

you filled your duties, all your royal obligations, attended to your classes, spoke only when spoken to by your parents, ignored when another royal called you a “loony” when catching you in the midst of a conversation with several alabaster rabbits.

you formed a connection with the world around you, a bond that ran far deeper than what met the eye, and now one knew.

you rub on your eyelids with the back of your hand, and blink in dismay — oh, you’ve been mistaken, she is real, and her abdomen rises and falls with each breath, the clang of her armor a testament to her existence, to your sanity. her eyelids flutter, and her throat subtly moves as she swallows. a strand of her auburn hair sways in the wind too, but sweet aurora’s hair also danced in the breeze, so who knows.

sometimes it all is simply too blurry.

for now, you choose to believe.

the grass tickles your bare toes, you don’t laugh.

“hate being a princess” you mutter with a sigh, tilting your head to the side — her side, to see if perhaps she vanished like the rest of them, yet finding her there.

her role as a knight is dictated with silence in your presence, a mere executor of commands from your father with a duty to bow in submission, so she doesn’t respond. all she has to do is be your protector, keep you safe and guarded, make sure you won’t try and run once more.

she’s also not supposed to help you with your clandestine escapades from the castle, she’s not supposed to lay in the tall royal gardens ridiculously green grass with the princess, to allow the opulent and delicate fabric of her dress to gently brush against the barest portion of her knee. yet — she allows it.

she’s not supposed to help you pick flowers and greet you good morning, she was supposed to be unyielding as stone, almost ephemeral yet ever-present.

and now your ankle shifted to rest gently against hers, and she didn’t even nudge you.

“i despise it” you repeat. you try and voice your frustration but it comes off as too soft. ellie typically abhorred anything soft. she’d rather sleep on a hard mattress than a plush one, favored stomping over floating.

and yet you seem to be an exception.

you seem to be an exception for lots of things.

and ellie doesn’t respond. she blinks at the full moon and it blinks back at her.

“do you like being a knight?”

you think you may have heard a breathy chuckle. you’re unsure, you sigh.

“ellie?”

and she never told you her name. you figured it out by yourself.

then she begins, pink tongue folding and moistening her lower lip. “i like being your knight”, she blinks thrice, in a hurry — like she said something wrong, as though she feared she might have offended anyone else whose knight she was not. she takes a deep breath, for some reason it's shaky.

“i like, i- need, to protect the kingdom. it’s my duty. for the sake of your father, the people, you — you know that, my princess”

and usually you’d cringe when addressed with that title. you voiced it already — that title isn’t you, you don’t want it, it felt like a burdensome label imposed or cursed upon your birth, but for some reason, when she says it ; “my princess” it feels like her “my”, is the one that holds the power to cloud your mind. and that’s why you don’t argue that it isn’t your name, because she calls you as hers, and oh how bad you want to be hers.

you overheard the conversations among the other young royals, who spoke in hushed tones about "crushes." you eves dropped and furrowed your brows intently when they talked about the charming sable boy, a dark haired prince from a faraway land, an adviser. they described the feeling of having a crush as if they were “falling”, “giddy”, “thrilled”, “like riding a horse, really really fast”

and it never really happened to you, albeit you really did try. you just accepted it, you’d be crush-less forever, forced to marry a crush-less prince, forced to live a crush-less life.

then you met knight ellie.

it happened when she removed her bascinet, when she casually tossed her tousled auburn locks from side to side, when she smiled that sly smirk then immediately wiped it off and glued her gaze to the stone wall. it was in the way her eyes met yours, her all but graceful bow, and the sound of her armored knee meeting the ground, when she chuckled after winning the battle of who would be the princesses knight. how cocky she looked as her arm was raised in triumph, only to transform into humble grace when officially declared the winner.

but it wasn't a feeling akin to falling; it was more like crashing down. you also didn’t feel giddy, you felt nauseous and tight everywhere, you weren’t thrilled you were petrified, and you didn’t ride a horse really fast — it was more like being thrown off the horse and crashing onto the ground, nose-first.

so it didn’t feel like crushing, it felt like something else. and you really had to go to the washroom.

“you don’t… owe anything to the kingdom, or to my father” you murmur.

she really doesn’t. it got her family starved, killed. “i do” she lies, swallowing thickly. “also, i really don’t need protection” then you lie, rolling your eyes with a huff.

she'd call you a brat if she wasn't your knight, and if she knew for certain that you wouldn't go running to your father after being offended.

“i should run away” you muse, idly toying with the hem of your dress. ellie sees the bare flesh of your thigh and she feels like maybe she shall run away as well. then her breath hitches down her throat, and she really hates it because this isn't the first time. perhaps she's sick, a throat infection. it's getting very hard to breathe.

t'must be the armor, the decides.

then she decided it's not.

it's simply the cold night air. definitely not your naked thigh, or your hunger to be free, or the way your dress flows with the wind, or the way your eyelashes flutter and your fingertips tap tap tap on your plushy lips.

“should i fetch the horse then, my princess? which one d'ya want, charlie... or buster, maybe. he's a strong one” ellie croons then swallows a chuckle.

she’s also not supposed to joke with you. or to stare at your thigh, or to let you place your head on her armored chest.

“yes” you reply like she’s serious.

then a cloud veils the once-bright moon, and your knight clears her throat.

“i should take you to your room, freedom warrior, s’getting late”

“you shall take me to the forest to pick some blackberries, knight”

ellie chuckles and argues back. “i shall not”

“disobeying a royal?” you say with a wink.

you might actually be the death of her.

[lavenderspence]

silly poker night reveals | A.H.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | Word Count: 1.8K

Content warning: basically just funny, or crack, alcohol mention, gambling addiction mention

Summary: A poker night with the silly crime men gets disrupted when a certain someone decides to prove he's not a psychic.

Characters: Aaron Hotchner, Spencer Reid, Patrick Jane, Richard Castle, Seeley Booth, Harvey Specter

A/N: One day, I just really wanted to write a fic with all my favorite silly crime men and have them be snarky to each other, and that’s what I did. This was literally written for the fun, for the vibes, for the hell of it, and then I just could not, not make it about my husband too. So, even if you’ve only watched one of the shows, give this a read, I think it's fun. enjoy🤭

and thank you to @reidsstargirl for beta reading this 🥺💕

masterlist

“You’re late.” You said after you pulled the door open. A rumpled blond was sitting in front of you - a white dress shirt, a black vest, and a gray suit jacket thrown over his shoulder. 

He flashed you a lazy smile, all teeth, “Yeah, well, when have you known me to be punctual?” He pushed past you, stepping into the apartment, with no care in the world.

His eyes ran around the room, finding it empty of any other presence, “You little minx, you lied to me.” He turned around, eyes running through your body. 

You smiled, eyes sparkling, “Yeah, well, I had to get creative if I wanted you to be on time, Jane. You have just enough time for a power nap, go enjoy the couch.” You threw his words back at him, and then waved a hand around, gusting to the emerald couch. 

You made your way to the kitchen, picking up a half-full glass of champagne. Walking around for a second, you looked at the man on the couch and waited for the 15 minutes until 7:30 to pass, so you could welcome your other guests too. 

You were waiting on Aaron and Spencer - they were coming straight from work, deciding to stay around an extra hour after you to finish up. Harvey was flying in from New York, Castle was driving down, and Jane was already snoring on your couch, and Booth was coming after closing a case. 

You arranged these poker games once every two months, depending on how all your schedules aligned. You’d worked with all of these silly assholes at one point in your life. Sometimes, they needed some time to just goof around and play some games, nothing serious. 

A few other of your colleagues joined occasionally - Rossi and Morgan loved the snark, and Emily was a fan of disturbing the testosterone with you from time to time. But all of them were busy, so it was just you and the usuals tonight. 

12 minutes later, you were welcoming everyone in, and Jane was rousing from his nap, looking even more rumpled than before. 

Spencer and Booth took their usual places in front of the TV, where you’d already queued a baseball game, and left them some snacks. The others each took a place at the table. 

You usually played just one game, so you took your place as the dealer and shuffled the cards. 

The conversation was sparse for a few minutes while you dealt the cards. 

“Why’s Clark Kent not playing?” Rick asked all of a sudden, gusting to Booth with his head. Booth usually joined the gathering every few games, still not entirely comfortable coming every time. His addiction wasn’t something that you’d brought up or were looking to bring up during a night like this. He usually stayed away from the table, engrossed in a game of baseball on tv, or bothering Reid for any useless facts and calling him a squint. 

“Let him be Rick, he needs the night out even if he isn’t playing.” Your answer was vague and it would stay that way as long as Booth wanted to be there and stay away from the game. 

“And the kid?” It was Jane’s voice, and he raised a hand and pointed at Spencer. He was usually sitting the games out too, since the last time you and Hotch had played with him he’d hustled you. 

“Go on, tell him.” You prompted Spencer, as he bookmarked the page he was reading. 

“I’m good at poker.” It wasn’t convincing and it wasn’t the truth. 

You shook your head with a laugh, “Nooo, Jane’s good at poker, Castle is good at poker. What are you good at?” You asked, your eyes meeting Aaron’s for a second. 

“I'm good at counting the cards, and banned from several casinos in Las Vegas, Laughlin, and Pahrump.” Aaron’s lips twitched, a barely there grin appearing for just a second before it disappeared again. 

“Can I borrow him for a poker night with my author buddies? Maybe even Kate? I really need a win.” Castle asked. 

“He’s not winning against Kate, Rick. She will sniff him out before he even sits at the table. Now, Ryan and Esposito, on the other hand, you can easily steal some money from.” You told him as you took a sip from your drink. 

Everyone else was having a drink - whiskey was the preferred drink at your table, Booth was having a beer and Spencer was sticking to water. 

“Anything to drink Jane?” You asked again. 

“Chamomile tea, two sugars please.” 

“You do realize this is a poker game, and not an afternoon tea with Her Majesty, right?” Harvey’s usual snark was making a comeback for the first time tonight. 

“But her Majesty’s sitting right there.” Jane's chin jutted towards Rick. It was no secret that out of every man currently in the room, Rick was probably the most pretentious one, closely followed by Harvey.

“Haha, very funny.”

“I didn't lie, did I? I highly doubt that the Ferrari parked downstairs can be bought on a government salary.” Quipped Jane.

“How do you know it's not Harvey's?”

“Because I'm not a pussy driving a bright red Ferrari around New York City, thank you very much.” Harvey threw a few chips in the center of the table. 

“Well, said Ferrari costs anywhere between 70K and 120K. A Special Agent’s salary is around 135K, and 170K a year for Supervisory Special Agents. So realistically, yeah, we can’t afford it.” Spencer shrugged, turning a page in his book, not even phased by the looks everyone was throwing at him.

“I like this kid, he’s such a squint.” Booth laughed and gave Reid’s shoulder a little pat. Spencer tensed for a second but quickly relaxed again. 

“Dammed it, I overpaid 30K for this one.” Castle scoffed, shaking his head. 

Harvey produced a business card from somewhere and slid it toward Rick. 

“In case you need it. Fair warning though, get on my nerves, and I’m giving you to Louis.”

“Aww he has a heart.” Rick pouted.

“Never repeat that, never.” The brunette warned.

“And a lot of snark.” You smiled, looking around. They all might have serious jobs during the day, but they were all extremely silly when they were off of work.

The game continued on for another 15 minutes, conversion flying by until Booth’s voice rang around you.

“Okay Jane, no offense, but I need to know. What’s your shtick? What made the FBI want to hire you as a consultant?” Seeley asked, turning a sobriety chip in his hand. 

“Ugh, offense.” 

“Oh come on,” Booth waved a hand around, “I’m one of the best sharpshooters out there,” you rolled your eyes and so did Rick, “Hotchner’s an ex-ADA, Y/N’s a weapons expert and a linguist. Reid over here is basically Einstein.” 

“Well, actually, Einstein’s IQ is believed to be somewhere between 160 and 180, and mine’s 187, so technically, I surpass Albert Einstein.” Seeley wasn’t happy being interrupted again, but he let it slide, used to being interrupted by his own team.

“So Jane, what makes you such a special asset to the FBI? You're not still pulling the psychic card, are you?” To anyone, it might seem judgmental, the way he asked, but you knew it was anything but. He was curious, but he also valued his job too much not to ask. 

Jane leaned back in his chair, laying his cards face down and his hands on top of them. He looked on over you, head to toe, and then his eyes focused on your left - to Aaron. 

You saw his eyes shine for a second, and shook your head at him, already knowing what was going to come out of his mouth. 

“There is no such thing as psychics. Just a very good eye for reading people. Like for example, all night Hotchner’s been a broody, quiet bastard, safe for any time Y/N talks. His eyes light up and he relaxes back into his chair.” You watched Aaron’s posture too tight and reached a hand under the table to lay over his leg.

You were glaring daggers in Jane's direction, but once he was on a roll, there was no stopping him. “Earlier, when she put his glass down, his fingers on the hand closest to her body, twitched. His cologne is expensive, freshly applied - he probably has a spear bottle in his office.  He's been checking his watch, waiting for the night to end, so we'd all go home. Not him though, he's staying over.”

He played with the edge of his cards as he watched all eyes turn in your direction. 

“Oh, and the murderous look he's been giving Harvey every time he catches him looking at Y/N a bit too closely. Also, the clenching of the jaw - seriously knock it off, you won't have teeth forever.” Jane warned before he leaned back into his chair, looking just a tad too proud of himself.

The silence was defeating for a few moments, no one dared to utter a word.

“I don't think they wanted that to be shared just yet.” Rick muttered

“No shit.” Aaron's fingers wrapped around your own as he gritted out.

“And I didn't want to be lied to, but alas…” Jane added, flashing you a grin.

“Oh, you petty asshole.” A grin was making its way onto your face and you didn't know why.

“Oh, I'm about to become even more of an asshole - full house.” He threw his card in the middle of the table, close to the chips.

“Awww, you really are an asshole.” Rick leaned back in his chair, defeated and pouting.

“Takes one to know one, Dicky.” He smirked.

“Are you okay with this?” You turned around and asked Aaron quietly, for a moment forgetting the room full of men you’d worked with over the years.

“I'm good, although being profiled wasn't my idea of fun for the night.” He admitted just as quietly, reaching to push your hair away.

“I'm sorry.” He went to close the space between you before you heard the scraping of chairs.

“Okay kiddos, mom and dad need us to empty the apartment. Go on, out the door.” Seeley announced. You rolled your eyes at his bullshit before you started giving goodbye hugs. 

“If Hotchner's the dad, who's the daddy?” Harvey asked jokingly as he pulled you into a hug.

“Ask Louis tomorrow.”

“I didn't need the mental picture, thank you.” He shuddered and walked towards the door with the rest.

“Don't ask dumb questions then.” You called out, before you turned towards the good Doctor, “Oh and Spence? Keep this on the down-low, would you?” You asked, still not exactly ready to share this with your team, even after having the whole thing come out this way.

He smiled sheepishly and scratched at the back of his neck, “Yeah…too late.” and just then both your and Aaron's phones went off. 

There was no question about it, there was a fun morning waiting for you tomorrow. 

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[witchofhimring]

Younger and more beautiful

This series is being edited. I feel Alys came off as one dimensionally evil and the reader as a pretty flat character. So this will be heavily edited.

Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear

Pairings:

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers

Part 2: Until there comes another

Part 4: To cast you down and take all you hold dear

Warnings: angst, cheating, mentions of stillbirth/miscarriages, death

Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear.

To this day the words that both enthralled and haunted the Queen hovered over her dark head like a specter. It echoed as a constant reminder. She had become Queen and Alys had never felt more victorious. But every time the elation came, the rest would come roaring back.

Younger and more beautiful

To cast you down and take all you hold dear

As she sat proudly on her throne the ladies danced bellow. Alys had made sure that every one of her handmaidens were either less attractive or older than herself. Helped if they were both. But she could not banish every woman who could capture her husbands eye. Every time her husbands eyes drifted over the crowd Alys wondered if they were searching for a woman. She tried to convince herself that she was young, beautiful, and the King loved her. One of the Tyrell girls, sporting a beautiful head of auburn curls and sparkling blue eyes, ascended the stairs. She was on the arm of her father. Alys's fingers curled into her palm. "Lady Redwine." Alicent Hightower walked towards the woman. Of course the meddling old hag invited the woman. If Alys had her way the Dowager Queen would be out by now. But Aemond loved his mother. Anxiety clawed at Alys as she knew Alicent was the only person left in her way. Y/n was locked away and Daenerys was Gods know where. "Son." Without even using titles, Alicent advanced up the steps and embraced her son. All Alys received was a cold look. Alys had thought that maybe the Dowager Queen would take her side. After all, it was well known that Alicent did not get along with Y/n. But it seemed her dislike of the thrones newest occupant outweighed the old. One day, Alys would deal with her.

Her face ached from her daily ritual. Alys scrutinized each inch of her skin. There where no spots blemishing her pale skin. No wrinkle in sight. Satisfied, she sat back in her chair. She was still as lovely as when Aemond first fell in love with her. Pale fingers traced over her slightly swollen belly. Soon Y/n would know that Alys had accomplished what she had not. Satisfaction dwelled within her as she thought of Y/n's less than flattering body. Alys had always been careful to watch what she ate. No morsel of food passed her lips without thorough inspection. She doubted Y/n had been as vigilant. Hence why Alys never felt any pity for the woman. Y/n had taken her position for granted and lost everything. That was her fault, not Alys's.

Aemond Targaryen entered, still dressed in his kingly finery. Alys felt desire in the pit of her belly. Elegantly she got to her feet, the emerald train following her. Aemond gave her a sultry smile, noticing immediately that she wanted him. "My love." She sighed and placed her arms around his neck. Kisses littered his cheeks as they made towards the bed. "Stay with me tonight?" Alys's hair flowed down her back out of its up do. She knew what his answer would be, he had never once denied her. Alys was laid out of the former Queen's bed and pulled her husband close.

The contractions started early in the morning. By midday Alys was doubling over in pain. They had given her a small draft of milk-of-the-poppy and herbs, but it did little do dull her agony. Once nightfall fell Alys could barely breath. "Just one more push Your Grace!" The midwife could see the head. With one last almighty push Alys's child made their way into the world. Alys collapsed onto the sheets, exhausted but feeling elated. She had done it. She had given the King his heir. Now they would accept her as Queen. Soon Y/n and her bastard daughter would get word of her victory. "Hand him to me." Alys had forced herself to sit up. The midwifes looked at eachother before the bravest among them spoke. "My Queen, it is a girl."

Aemond looked down at their newborn daughter, Princess Aelena. Alys could hardly look at the baby. Her daughter was small with silver hair. A true Targaryen, but not a boy. Aemond picked up the girl and cradled her against his chest. "She's beautiful." His voice was quiet. Alys could not tell what her husband thought. He showed no outward signs of displeasure, but that did not mean Aemond was happy. Sometimes he was so hard to read. "I am so sorry." Alys cast her eyes downwards, praying he would not be angry with her. Aemond placed the baby down in her crib. With a sigh he walked over to Alys and sat down next to her. "I am happy to have a daughter. And we conceived her quickly, sons will follow."

"Yes. sons will follow."

It had been a dark day, the sun remaining hidden. On that day Alys, in all her curiosity, snuck into the woods. She had heard legends of a wood witch in its depths. Alys was not frightened, had never been frightened. When she wanted something she got it. Deeper she went. As as she treated along the forest floor she noticed there was no noise. Not even the twittering of a bird. The air became denser and her head started to spin. Still, the stubborn young woman pushed on. Finally, in the midst of a great swamp was a hut. It sat right in the middle. Through the thin fog Alys realized that crossing would be no easy challenge. She paced around for a while and thought of what to do. Eventually she noticed there was a path of rocks barely visible above the murky water. Tentatively she placed a foot on one of them. It was stable enough. Steeling herself, Alys set out. Rock over rock she went. She practically flew the last few steps. There was no door. Just some cloth hung, as if that could do the witch any good. She brushed the fabric aside and looked in. There was a fire in the center. But that was all she could make out. "You have come." Alys swallowed back a gasp. From the corner emerged a cloaked figure. She was old, very old. 'Step in." Alys obeyed.

"Are you sure this is wise My Queen." Questioned a meek Lady. Alys sat on her chair, crown on head. She had brought baby Aelena with her today. So that Lady Floris might see that she had triumphed over her former mistress. Floris Baratheon had been living in a self imposed exile since Y/n had left. But the King had ordered her to return to court. Today, Alys would show her who was Queen. "Lady Floris." Floris was only a little younger than Y/n, but she looked younger than Alys had expected. Much to Alys's disgruntlement it seemed Y/n's death had not dulled her beauty. She had dark brown hair that flowed behind her like a veil. Brown eyes held a golden hue to them. Unblemished skin showed none of the wears of the past four years. What was even more insulting was the fact she wore black. As a mere lady, Y/n was entitled to no more than a few weeks of mourning from her close friends and family. But she noticed many in black. They protested that black was quite fashionable these days, but Alys knew better. "My Lady, we welcome you to court." Alys straightened herself. Floris held a look of cool disinterest. Her arrogance angered the Queen. Then an idea occured to the Queen. A smile curled her lip. "My Lady. The King and I have considered this, and believe that you are the best candidate to act as governess to Princess Aelena. As you did such a good job looking after his bastard daughter I think you should agree." Rage flashed through the lady's eyes. Of course Alys would never let Floris be alone with her precious girl. Others would keep an eye on her. It would give her great satisfaction to have the lady toil away in service to the rightful princess.

Floris watched the baby tottle towards one of the ladies. She was still so so tired from all the errands Alys had her do. It seemed Alys was determined to make her pay. Floris reckoned that Alys would try and break her down and take all she held dear. But little did the foolish Queen realize this was not a surrender. Floris had contacted supporters of the deceased Queen to put the rightful heirs on the throne. She just had to spy and get what information she could. When the King appeared all three curtsied. The baby giggled and grabbed towards her father. Floris felt a thrill of anger as he cuddled the baby. Not at Aelena, but Aemond Targaryen. Here he was pretending he only had one daughter when there was another whom he had banished. Hatred for Aemond and Alys stirred in her heart. After everything her dear friend had been forced to suffer made her want to weep with rage. She hoped that one day the two of them world be forced to suffer as much as the late Queen had.

That was when an idea occured to her.

"I shall be Queen!" Alys was overwhelmed with the possibility her future might bestow on her. Queen. Oh to be the greatest woman in the land! But the witch just shook her head. "I am not done." Alys froze. "I shall not be Queen?" "You shall." "Then what is the rest?" And the words that haunted Alys for the rest of her days were uttered. "Queen you shall be, until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear." As Alys stepped out of the hut she swore to herself she would never let that happen.

And with that, she sealed her destiny.

Six months later:

Planning a rebellion had been easier than expected. Likely they never expected the King's daughter to rebel against her. Daenery's had always been an obedient daughter. Her father was her lord and King. The made who took her on Vhagar, read her stories and night and danced with her when she was little. But she loved her mother more, who had fought for her till the end. At nineteen Daenerys was no longer a little girl. Aemond Targaryen was no longer her world. In the past four years she had gone from princess to rebel. "My Queen. A letter." Viserys Targaryen, her betrothed, handed her a letter. She saw the wax "F" stamped on the front. She smiled. "It is from Lady Floris. It's time, and I think you have a dragon to claim."

Note: Last part is up next!

Taglist:

@watercolorskyy

@bellstwd

[novankenn]

What If...

Pyrrha was also under the sway of Salem Cinder and Pyrrha love each other (Pompeii)

Scene : Beach of the EverAfter / Paper Pleasers Village

==> @soundkiller0017 What if Pyrrha destroys the paper pleaser village in a anger attack (beacuse she realise that she traded a really good live for a one in survice to a Queen that disent care of her and a manipulative lover) and after destroying the village she is met by a ROYALY PISS, ANGRY AND MERCILLES Jaune, Neo and Team RWBY who would give her a fate worse than death.1Hide replies

==> @watcher-servant The betrayer Spartan had stayed there... left in thought of what just happened. So with strain, she picked up her spear and walked on as much as she could. Coming upon a village, one so fragile so peaceful it only raged her all of this felt like a slap to her choices. So what did she do..she raged the peaceful village she came upon she destroyed...only when she stopped when she realized what she done, she would see a familiar umbrella appear before and it's holder looking very disappointed as a loud and very familiar yell is heard.

==> A/N - No redemption for the Spartan? You all REALLY seem set on me offing this Pyrrha! ==> A/N - In this version... Only Jaune and Pyrrha "fell", though I will do an OMAKE with Neo and RWBY also "falling" in a later post.

She had no idea how much time had past since she found herself near death upon this small stretch of sandy beach. Weeks? Months? Days just ran into each other, as she attempted to heal, and regain her original strength. She felt alone, yet she wasn't. She found herself at odd times seeing things, most notably the wraith of Cinder standing in the shadows of the forest edge. Gesturing for her to follow.

Then there was the more heart breaking ones. The image of her mother standing in the surf, a heart broken look upon her teary face. The exact look she wore when Cinder helped Pyrrha remove her as an obstacle to Pyrrha's relationship with Cinder. Had she made a mistake listening to Cinder's whispered words?

At odd times she also saw Jaune. Kneeling on the sands, just at the limit of her vision. Impaled through the chest with Milo, though these rare visions were accompanied with her seeing the rusted armor clade knight. His sheathed sword held in his hand, standing as if watching her.

Her nights were filled with whispers and nightmares. Words of condemnation, accompanied the angered and hurt looks of her former team and friends. Yet the whispers didn't alone happen during the darkest parts of the night. They also began to happen during her other visions, as well.

"Why?" was all that the figment of her mother would say. Over and over, in a maddening rhythmic cadence.

"Join me. Let us take this place." Cinder's seductive voice would float past her ears, even when her image was unseen. "They are weak... powerless. Show them your strength."

"Why linger here? Why allow the weak celebrate and flourish?" were Cinder's other enticing words. "Why remain here? Rotting away alone with nothing? Honor me. Prove to me the strength that drew me to you, still exists."

Yet, Pyrrha continued. Eking out an existence, as her strength grew, and the voices continued their relentless assault. Slowly of the was it days? Weeks? Months? Her resolve and intention to seek redemption was worn away. An anger smoldered in her heart. Embers of hate aimed at those who had what she had always craved. Acceptance, joy and love. Everything Jaune had taken from her.

Finally feeling strong enough to venture into the forest, she walked away from the specters of her mother and Jaune, to join the wraith of Cinder in the shadows. She felt the touch of Cinder's searing kisses upon her cheek and lips, and with her cold emerald eyes closed she revealed and celebrated the tainted embraces, before opening her eyes and taking the first step on her new jounrey.

The residents and inhabitants of this strange, nonsensical place seemed to reflexively avoid her. Hiding as she passed by. Her burning eyes, and wild unkept mane of flowing crimson a promise of what would happen if they crossed her path. The isolation gnawed upon her, as Cinder's seductive, wanton words eroded any thoughts that did not focus on her injustice punishment and isolated imprisonment. Pyrrha's mind twisted by the ghost of Cinder's venom raged at the loss of her happiness. Of a future with the woman she had given her heart.

Days blurred into one another, and time seem to crawl as she stalked through twisted land. A cruel smile crossed her lips when she found them. A village, of star shaped people. Foolish and cumbersome. The sound of their happy voices, and the sight of the idyllic scene, fanned the flames of rage.

"Punish them. Take what has been taken from you, my love." was the whisper of Cinder's poisonous, tainted words in her ear. "Take, and show them what your pain is..."

It was a slaughter. The razor edge of her spear cleaved the fragile people asunder. Her brute strength, bolstered with absolute burning hateful rage, allowing her to lay waste to all in her path. Her eyes shined at the carnage, her lips twisted with cruel joy as she unleashed her true self upon them. Cinder's venomous laughter following her every step as she unleashed desolation upon the people before her.

"I am Pyrrha Nikos!" she screamed in putrid victory, as she stood in the middle of the razed village. "Hear me, and lament! This world is mine!"

The creak of armor, from her right caused her to turn. Her sick smile becoming cruel, her eyes shining in delight. There he was, one of her tormentors. The liar who promised absolution. He who left her to wallow in misery and suffering.

"Look upon what I am!" Pyrrha cackled. "I am death! I am destruction! Bow knee to me and serve!"

"Disgusting." was his hollow response. "You were given the chance to become more than this disease, hateful creature you are now."

"This is who I am! Why should I deny myself from that which was taken from me? Happiness, love, acceptance! I was robbed of all this!"

"You could have found that all and more if you had followed a true path." the knight replied, while reaching up with his free hand to take hold of his helmet. "Your sins are many in this life and the last. Look upon me... and know..."

"Know..." Pyrrha's words caught in her throat, as the knight's helm fell discarded upon the ground. After several long moments she was able to croak out, "Jaune?"

"Look upon the face or your accuser... your judge... your jury..." with perfect motion, he drew his sword from its sheath, tossing the empty vessel aside without a care. "and... executioner."

Pyrrha was given no chance to respond, as Jaune was upon her in an instant. His blows were precise, and without equal as he unleash impassive, cold, judgement upon her. She railed against his onslaught, but if he was a monster the last time she faced him... now he was akin to demon.

She used all her skills, ever tactic, trick and tool at her disposal, yet she was found wanting in all regards. With a missed attack, Jaune gave Pyrrha an opening, that she desperately took. It was a feint, a purposeful misdirection. His response to her spear thrust, was simple and effective. Twisting to the side, he changed the direction of his longsword chopping in down upon the haft of her weapon.

Over balanced, Pyrrha was unable to recover before the keen edge of his blade split her open just below her breasts. She screamed in pain, her hand relinquishing it's hold upon her spear as she stumbled and fell backwards to the battle torn ground. Her eyes grew wide with fear as Jaune turned, and chambered his sword for a final strike.

"Cinder! Help me!" Pyrrha screamed out in a voice filled with utter desperation. A voice that was chocked off, as the vision of her love that had walked at her side for so long, gave her a cruel smile and faded away. "Cinder!"

Jaune's blade bit deep into her flesh, causing her to scream and screech in agony, as he drove in deeper and deeper. reaching down her twisted his hand in her matted mass of crimson hair, and pulled her to a seat position, eliciting a agonized cry. tears filled her eyes, as she finally understood what she truly had and was loosing.

She felt Jaune's warm skin touch her forehead. He teary eyes focusing on his now remorse filled blues.

"I prayed you would choose the correct path." he whispered. "That you would find and become the woman you had been at Beacon."

"Jau..." Pyrrha tried to speak, blood trickling over his lips.

"It seems that woman, was nothing but an facade to hide the cancer you truly are." Jaune continued to whisper. "Goodbye Pyrrha, may you finally find peace in death."

With those final words, Jaune pushed forward, driving his aged blade completely through her. Impaling the tainted heart of one he would have considered a friend. He watched, with tearless but remorseful eyes as Pyrrha's grew wide with the pain, and then dull as the light of life finally left her.

Withdrawing his weapon, he stood, and then went to work. As the sun began to sink past the horizon, Jaune finished his work. A small pile of stones places upon freshly turned soil. A spear, driven blade first at the head of the pile. he said no words, but just looked upon the fresh grave, before turning. retrieving his cast aside belongs, he sheathed his blade, and then seated his rusted helm upon his head, hiding his face in shadow.

"Goodbye." were the last words he spoke, before walking away, never to return to this place again.

[dollwritesarchive]

𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 & 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭 — 𝐡𝐚𝐥 𝐣𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐧

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ), fem!lantern!reader, rough sex, dubcon in the beginning, suggested age gap ( undefined but hal is significantly older ), sir kink, improper use of constructs, pet names ( little girl, baby girl, sweetheart ), hal is a condescending asshole, very light impact play ( face slapping ), brief knife kink mention, size kink, slight pain kink, all characters featured are 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ requested by my bestiest maguroni. do not repost or translate. please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

this should’ve been a dream come true.

your very first, official mission with Honor Guard, legend, and your personal role model— Hal fucking Jordan. after all, he was the reason you worked so hard to become a lantern yourself, and protect your very own sector of the universe. he was a living, breathing interuniversal hero, and that was unheard of for a human. you wanted to be just like him.

out of all the cadets freshly trained, you were hand picked to tag along. to follow his every order, and to learn from the best.

and you’d fucked it up in a major way.

you were only trying to help, and thought that you made the right call by abandoning your post to chase the culprit— until you realized it was a fluke. and the prisoner had slipped by your perimeter as easy as could be while you were chasing your wild goose.

needless to say, your Honor Guard supervisor had been pissed, and tore into you right there, civilians watching and all. he’d gripped your face when you’d attempted to stare at your feet and wrenched it back up towards him, hollowing your cheeks with how much pressure he’d applied as he leaned close to hiss in your face. “Don’t ever disobey my orders again, rookie. I say jump, you jump. I say sit pretty, you sit pretty. You got me?”

your eyes were wide— he didn’t yell like Kilowog who’d trained you, but growled, threatened with dilated pupils and furrowed brows. “Yes sir.” it was all you could muster: a pathetic and humiliated whisper. you could feel everyone staring, and you wanted desperately to disappear.

“Get in the cruiser.” he’d murmured, clenching his teeth. you glanced to the vessel waiting. it was sleek and only required one to man it. it had been designed specifically for this mission, for you and Hal and the prisoner. you nod, obedient, and expecting some form of punishment awaiting your arrival back on Oa. however, Hal adds, gruffly, as he gives you a subtle shove when he releases your face. “Your ass is mine.”

“What did I say, huh?” Hal barks, the emerald specters flowing from the ring on his finger, branching off into a multitude of massive hands, all grabbing at you, pinning you to the control panel of the oh-so-shiny, brand new intergalactic cruiser. “I told you that your punishment for insubordination would be severe, didn’t I?”

“Y—yes sir.” it was hard to think about anything other than how he’d managed to wrap you up in constructs, glowing green fists that cinch your wrists together above your head, coils of them that spread your legs, the glowing blade that’d sliced your suit to shreds, exposing most of your body to him. you couldn’t even concentrate to fight back, and knew better than to try, anyways. your head lolls back, eyes tracing along your bound wrists, nervously gripping at them.

“Look here, little girl.” Hal demands, and your attention snaps back to your superior before you. he’d finished his cock from his suit, and now pumped it to life, and you stare with widened, awe-filled eyes as it swells. he was big and strong, the tip swelling right beneath his thumb as he teases his own slit with a grunt of pleasure, one hand gripping himself at the base as he takes one step closer to you, and then another, until he stands in the gap provided by your split thighs.

there’s a faint bubbling in your belly, an urge nestling deep inside you, just as you take in the full visage of Hal; the thickness, the bulging vein that spiderwebs the underside of his shaft, and the broad head that you could imagine would force a cry from your lips if he speared into you. you can’t help how wet it made you. “S—sir…”

Hal tilts his head, jutting his hips to drape his length over your belly, to emphasize just how much bigger he was than you— how deep he would go. it made your head swim. by the looks of it, he would never fit. “Oh yeah, I’m definitely going to ruin your pretty, little pussy.” he smirks, as if replying to the disbelief in your mind and written all over your face.

“I’ll never disobey your orders again, sir.” you breathed out, chest heaving with anxiety ( or, was it anticipation ? ). “I’m sorry…”

but Hal quirked a brow, running one hand up the length of your body, he made sure to give your tender breast a hard squeeze before caressing your cheek, taunting you by running the pad of his thumb over your trembling bottom lip. “Oh, it’s much too late for that, little girl,” he croons, pushing his thumb between the threshold of your lips. he hooks it against the corner of your mouth to keep it anchored there. “You’re gonna take your punishment like a good girl, and then you’re going to know exactly what happens to insubordinate whores.”

the hand holding himself on your belly has, instead, directed his herculean cock to your exposed, slick sex. but, he didn't plunge right in. Hal takes his time, using the bulbous, pink tip to spread your netherlips, running it up and down, gathering your essence over it. “You’re fucking dripping.” he hums, but it’s guttural as he tries to muffle his primal snorting. you can still see it, though, in the way his massive chest rises and falls. “I think you like my punishments.” his eyes, which had been admiring just how he can split you open, and how each time he’s blessed with a flash of your hole clenching on air, just begging to be stretched. “Want me to stuff you?”

you wished you could hide your face, because your body was already agreeing— back arching whenever the head of his cock bumped your sensitive clit, squirming and soaking him with slick, you didn’t need it to be anymore obvious, but your face would give you away yet again. big eyes, lips trembling and forced open by his thumb, you slur against it, looking down at where your bodies were meant to join. “It… it’s too big… that won’t fit inside me.” you say, incredulous.

but you can tell Hal wants to chuckle, and maybe if he wasn’t so angry, he would’ve. the corner of his lip twitched, threatening to etch into a wickedly dashing smirk, but he stops it. he simply says two words.

”Let’s see.”

and forced his way inside.

you cry out with your head thrown back, for once straining against the constructs that held you down. your body wasn’t meant to stretch as much as it had to accommodate his size. your walls spasm around the girthy intruder, clamping down, and Hal releases a bestial groan. “Fuck,” he mutters, and pushes his thumb against the flesh of your cheek, “you’re right, I am too big for you, aren’t I?” you can’t even think straight enough to nod, but it didn’t matter. it didn’t stop Hal from falling into a hard, deep rhythm. with each, powerful snap of his hips against yours, he fills you to his hilt. “Doesn’t matter to me, sweetheart, I’ll stretch your little pussy out until I fit right. I don’t care if I gotta pound it out over and over again. You’re mine, anyways, until we reach Oa.” oh fuck, you’d forgotten exactly how long the trip back to HQ was. it felt like weeks, but it was hard to tell for sure. no day or night, just the inside of the ship.

a knot forms in the pit of your gut; would he really keep you twisted up and spread open like this, right here on the control panel? would you be so easily accessible that all he would have to do is reach over and he could fondle you? the whole trip back?

with the power behind his thrusts, and the way the head rammed deep, it was clear that you weren’t meant to be the one enjoying this. he’d gone beyond any of your sweet spots, and instead jabbed relentlessly at the edge of your cervix. he was fucking you the way that he wanted, even if he thought you wouldn’t like it. it even hurt, each time, taking so much more than you were designed for, but you couldn’t help but moan out loud. it still felt good, no matter how much you knew it wasn’t supposed to. his girth plowed through your canal, and you squeal for him to please be gentle, but you don’t mean it. not really. it feels too good to look up at this titan of a man, and watch him decimate you. watch him use you.

it made you so fucking wet that, when he dives in this time, you squelch in response, and Hal moans louder, grabbing a fistful of your hair with one hand, whilst the other grabs your face and forces your chin into your chest. you sounded sloppy, and he liked it. “Come on, baby girl, go ahead and watch me destroy that pussy. ‘S what you deserve, after all. A good, hard fucking to remind you who the fuck’s in charge here.” you mewl pathetically, staring down the length of your belly. your emerald suit was merely a chunk of threads against your ribs, your breasts spilling out the gash at the neckline and the entire crotch ripped out. you could see his shape and size, the imprint of it, bulging against your stomach with every thrust, and your hands ball into tight fists. but you stare, and whine, and come undone without so much as a warning from your body. it was almost as if you were so overloaded with sensation that you just snapped. your orgasm wasn’t big the first time, but you were now twice as sensitive. each thrust feels like it has double the power and malicious intent behind it, now. Hal seems to like it, too, because he smooths his palm over your heated cheek before planting a rough smack against it. “Takin’ orders just fine now, aren’t you, little girl?” the slap temporarily stuns you, or maybe it’s the orgasm that was wracking you, but Hal brings you back with another thwack against your cheek. “All I had to do was shove my dick in you and you’re ready to comply now? You wanna be your Honor Guard’s good, little fucksleeve?”

it stings, a lot. and your eyes widen again, flickering up to watch his face— offended, but incredibly turned on. he hit you. twice.

“The answer is ‘yes sir’.” he threatens between hot puffs of strangled air, his rhythm never even faltering. but he was glaring at you, palm rubbing the pain of the slaps into your cheek, as if reminding you that he can do it again if he wanted to.

“Yes s—sir!” you squeak.

another slap.

you whimper and flinch, and try to turn away from it, but his grip on your hair is too tight to escape. you had to take it, whether you liked it or not.

the worst part was: you fucking loved it. it twisted your guts into knots when he hit you, coupled with how ferociously he was rutting into your body, you were only moments from cumming. again.

“And you’re gonna do whatever the fuck I say from now on?”

“Y—yes sir!”

“Damn right,” Hal grinds his teeth, yanking on your hair harder, but his other hand travels down to knead your breast and pinch at your nipple. he can feel when you unravel for a second time, this time your climax has you spasming and babbling, fingernails digging into your own palm.

“C—cumming,” you whimper, helplessly thrashing, “I’m cumming aga— again!” it was a cry for mercy, mostly. in shock that your body could even function after the first one, but this one was strong and, seemed to be, never ending. wave after wave of torturous pleasure washes over you, and Hal refuses to ease up. he’d so much rather force you to ride it out, and before you knew it, your legs were trembling. your eyes could hardly stay open, and you couldn’t think. “P—please, sir,” you were gasping, punctuating each, violent thrust with a syllable, “p—please c—cum, I— I need… r— rest…”

you knew he must want to. he was throbbing inside you, moaning, breathing ragged, and his jaw was sewn tight. but he only scoffs. “You’re done when I say you’re done. This is your punishment, remember?” he spat, and the constructs melted away, freeing your arms and legs. the only problem was that you were now too spent to move, so you could do little but lie there and tremble. squinting, you peer up in time to see his power morph into a chain-like ring that clamps around his engorged base before a heavy, green lock snaps into place, swinging back and forth as he ruts. he snorts at the sensation of the ring tightening around his cock, squeezing. it would keep him from cumming, you realized, until he felt like you’d earned the break you so desperately wanted. you whine again, and he plows into you harder to accentuate his next statement, “It’s gonna be a long ride home, little girl.”

[ravenyenn19]

Six of Crows future head cannon:

Alby Rollins joins the Dregs.

Picture it: 1920’s-esque Ketterdam, 10 years post Sweet Reef/ Ice Court. Slick Rolls Royce cars line the cobbled streets, a city spiraling toward a new age. Rain drenches the obscure signs & hidden arrows pointing to the Speak-Easy halls. In a time of prohibition… down, down, down must one go in the Barrel to find the most notorious of them all. A slice of sin, six feet under. A crowd drunk off vice served in black tea cups.

The young man walks into Kaz Brekker’s office (after fighting his way there), sits himself in a chair opposite a great obsidian desk. Winded & lip still bleeding from his tousle with the men at the doors, Alby wheezes: “Teach me.”

In turn, A near 30 year old Kaz smirks. “I thought lions preferred their pride.”

Alby, barely pushing 17, gives a smile of a golden boy, nervous but strong enough to hold the gaze of a devil. (He’s practiced.) “I thought Crows scavengers. Here I am, a shine for the taking.”

“Still have that crow, little lion?” A feminine shadow whispers from the corner. Unnoticed by the young man previously, he clicks his teeth but still refuses to show fear. A serpent-like bead of sweat slides down his spine, a shiver chasing after. He holds firm, biting his cheek to hide the startle.

He knows this shadow, this phantom. She haunted him, once.

“I buried it with my father,” the Kaelish prince whispers, “or rather, in place of him. Never did find a body. Pity.” He shrugs.

Kaz’s eyes glint like a cat’s, his smile a loaded gun. A gloved hand stretches halfway across the table in offering. “All right, cub. What do you want?”

Alby reaches forward, feeling the cold black leather of Dirtyhands’ grip between his fingers. The moment is a stormy crossroads, a whip between his shoulders reminiscent of his father’s favorite belt. He smiles, for this is a pain Alby has been walking toward since the day he woke up clutching stuffed black feathers.

(His blood never did bleed emerald.)

More than one answer to Kaz’s stinging question come to mind, nettles along the path of his thoughts. Yet, only one pricks Alby into speaking, the rage in his voice real rather than bravado. “Revenge.”

The Wraith giggles roughly, slipping herself to the arm of Kaz’s chair on silent feet. Alby swallows.

“On me?” The leader of the Dregs rasps, a brow peaked with amusement. His wife smiles with closed lips, knives glinting along her body like hungry specters. For here, her teeth are shown. Alby knows she Captain’s a fleet of the deadliest ships in the True Sea. He drags his gaze from her quickly.

“No.” Alby stutters, but he does not lie. Kaz Brekker bested his abusive father, and he does not care about Pekka’s death. In fact, sitting with the suspected murderers, Alby finds he rather prefers their company.

Kaz reclines in his chair, a hand lazily splayed on Captain Ghafa’s knee. He regards Alby with black eyes, a sharpness that pierces through his strength but doesn’t shatter it. A blade meant to probe. A test of mettle. Alby has waited too long for this audience, he cannot lose it. A moment passes.

Dirtyhands looks to his wife, his Wraith. She quirks her head in the silent exchange. Six heart beats have passed, and Alby Rollins is certain he won’t leave this room. He waits for the snap of a cane to bank his vision, a warm blanket of red to cover him from the jugular down.

He waits for death, but does not invite it. It does not come.

Instead, a voice like choking smoke, “Then let us begin.”

Alby Rollins releases a breath. His knuckles loosen in parts. A tattooist is called in.

The Crow & Cup bleeds as it settles, accepting the fresh skin as it’s master’s tithe.

Alby sits taller, a prince of a different kind, a darker throne.

I don’t make the rules but this is now my personal agenda & important that u agree

Crap now I have to put it in a fic

Should I do it?

[hb-writes]

Dancing in the Kitchen Light

Summary: For Charlie, seeing her brother dressed up in a tuxedo always reminds her of one thing. 🥲

Characters: Harvey Specter & Charlie Specter (OC)

Suits (Lines to Live By) Masterlist

Comfy-cember 2024 Masterlist

—

Charlie paused her movie and pushed herself to sit up on the couch when she heard her brother's keys working in the front door. 

“Well, don’t you look dapper?” she mused when Harvey appeared in the hallway, a slight grin tugging at his lips as he walked toward her.

Harvey had gone straight to the gala from the office, leaving the only opportunity for Charlie to share her usual comments on how nice he looked in a tuxedo for the end of the evening even though by most standards, she shouldn’t have been waiting up. After waking that morning for school before 6 am, and knowing that she had to do it all again tomorrow, Charlie should have been asleep. 

Harvey had a reprimand on the tip of his tongue, the big brother in him urging a reply like, 'And don’t you look like someone who should be in bed?’ but something stopped him, some realization that the only reason Charlie had waited up until the early hours of the morning on a school night was because she wanted to see him. If need be, she could take the day off school tomorrow or go in late. Sleep in a bit.

“I do look pretty fly, don’t I?” he finally said, spinning once as he came to stand a few feet away from her. 

Charlie rolled her eyes, but the gesture was more affectionate than anything. Harvey did look nice. He always did, but Charlie had always enjoyed seeing him dressed up in a tux, something which happened with a certain regularity. He was always being invited to galas, frequently dressing up and heading out on a Tuesday night like he was heading to a wedding. Or at least, that’s what it always reminded Charlie of. 

“I mean, only half as fly as me.” Charlie stood up, twirling and displaying the blanket she had wrapped around her pajama-clad self hours ago. 

Harvey chuckled, a fond smile gracing his lips and lighting his eyes. 

“It’s a little like Cinderella before the fairy godmother showed up.” 

Charlie stopped short and scoffed. “Well, my fairy godmother was with you,” she offered. “Speaking of which, how did Donna look? What did she end up wearing? Pink or green?” 

Harvey took a breath, the question involuntarily bringing the image of Donna to the forefront in his mind’s eye. No pictures had been taken of them throughout the course of the evening, but Harvey wasn’t likely to forget the image of Donna in the emerald green strapless dress any time soon. 

“How do you think she looked?” Harvey asked, finally pulling himself from the memory. 

“Amazing,” she answered. “Better than you, probably.” 

Harvey rolled his eyes, but didn’t take the bait. “How was sch—?” 

“Fine. The usual,” she answered, cutting him off. “How was the music? The dancing?”

Harvey raised an eyebrow.

Charlie groaned as Harvey slid into the chair beside her. “You didn’t dance?” 

“It was a work event, Charlie.” 

“So what?” she asked. “Did Donna dance?” 

“It’s d—” 

“It’s actually not any different at all, Harvey.” Charlie could hear Harvey’s argument before he even had a chance to properly get it out. “Did Jessica dance?” 

Charlie withstood another eye roll from her brother. 

“You can’t dress up like that” —Charlie gestured to Harvey’s outfit— “and not dance. It’s against the law or something.” 

“I can assure you it’s not.” 

“Well, it should be,” she answered. “Especially if there’s a live band, which I assume there was, right?” 

Harvey reluctantly nodded. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t ask Donna or Jessica to dance,” she continued. “Or even some random floozy,” she continued, giving Harvey a knowing look at the term. 

“That’s a real nice way to talk to your brother.” 

“I can be meaner if you want.” Charlie smiled. “I could say that you’re an idiot for not taking the opportunity to dance to beautiful music with a beautiful girl like it’s a fancy fairytale ball or something. That’s what I would do, but I’m not an idiot like—” 

“Fine,” Harvey interrupted, standing and holding out a hand. “Do you want to dance?”  

Charlie stared at Harvey’s extended hand before meeting his gaze. “Are you serious?” 

“Would you like to dance?”

Charlie nodded, taking his hand and quickly pulling herself up from the couch with the blankets still wrapped around her. She dropped Harvey’s hand and glided on her slippered feet across the room to sift through her brother’s vinyl collection.

“Track number four,” she said as she handed her brother the selected record.

Charlie waited, restless and bouncing a bit, as Harvey started the music. A wide grin shone on Charlie’s face when Harvey turned to her and took her hand. He spun her once, Charlie’s giggles louder than the song’s introduction. 

“I love this song,” Charlie said as she settled back into Harvey’s hold. 

“It’s a good one,” he said as they started to move. 

From the moment she handed him the record, Harvey knew which track Charlie wanted. He knew it was a favorite of hers, a song they had been dancing to since she was small, standing on the tops of his feet or being lifted into his arms as they twirled around their father’s kitchen in Riverside. 

Charlie had never told him, but somewhere along the years she had decided that if she ever got married, this was the song they would dance to, she and Harvey. Marriage was a few years off at best—she hadn’t thought very much about most of the particulars, but Charlie had a clear image of this in her mind, an image that she didn’t imagine to be all that different from what she was experiencing just now. 

Even though they were dancing in the dim glow from the light above the stove, and even though Charlie was wrapped in a white blanket rather than a white dress, she imagined some things would be the same. 

Harvey would look the same—handsome as ever in his tuxedo, his shiny black shoes leading them around the floor with an expertise that made one think he did this all the time. 

The song so familiar and comforting, the beautiful notes wrapping them in nostalgia that onlookers wouldn’t share, but would recognize all the same just by hearing the lyrics, by watching as they danced.

And Charlie imagined she would feel the same as she felt now, too. She imagined that day, she would feel the same way she always felt when dancing in Harvey’s arms. She imagined she would feel the same way she felt having Harvey in her life—safe and happy and loved.

—

Suits (Lines to Live By) Masterlist

Comfy-cember 2024 Masterlist

[spectersgirl]

Harvey Specter forgets your anniversary 🙉

I considered taking this in a slightly angsty route but decided I felt like keeping it light so you get this hehe

also I have no idea what to title this so the title is now...

Anniversary

Harvey Specter x Reader

-------

The sun hung low over the New York skyline as Harvey paced the floor in his office, the weight of the day's workload pressing down on him. The day, however, was an important one that he couldn't afford to forget. It was the two-year anniversary of the day he started dating you, the love of his life, and he'd forgotten. In the whirlwind of cases and negotiations, the date had completely slipped his mind. He glanced at the clock, a sinking feeling knotting in his stomach as he realized his mistake.

"Fuck." He muttered, debating what he could possibly pull off at such a late hour.

He considered every possibility on his own before admitting his own defeat and calling in his last resort, his best secret weapon.

"Donna? Can you come in here for a minute?"

Donna appeared quickly in his doorway.

"What's up?" She asked, noting the look of stress on his features.

Harvey sighed, his frustration with himself evident. "Today is my anniversary with Y/N and I completely spaced. I need to do something special, and I need it to be perfect."

Donna smirked softly, having already had the inkling that he'd forgotten. She loved being right.

"Well then it's a good thing that I already made reservations at the restaurant you took her to on your first date and called Ray to have you picked up in about-" She checked the time. "Forty-five minutes to go sweep your girl off her feet. Don't worry, I already called her and told her you weren't out of your meeting in time to call yourself but you wanted to warn her to be ready when you arrived. Oh, and the necklace you told me to order her for Christmas arrived a week ago, so you can give her that too. Top desk drawer."

Relief flooded Harvey's system, never having been so thankful for his secretary in his life.

"Oh my god, you're a lifesaver. I don't know how to thank you"

"Just leave the credit card on my desk in the morning and I'll thank myself on your behalf." Donna said with a bright smile.

"Done. I owe you the whole damn store for pulling this off. Seriously, thank you."

"Of course, Harvey. Anything I can do to see my friends happy, I'm glad to do it."

An hour later, Harvey was knocking on the door to your apartment, a bouquet of the most beautiful flowers you'd ever seen in his hands.

You were dressed in a floor-length, emerald-colored silk gown that Harvey couldn't take his eyes off of when you'd first tried it on, and again now as he stood in front of you in the doorway.

"You look so beautiful, Y/N. Happy anniversary, my love." Harvey said after a brief moment of collecting himself from the sight of you.

You smiled shyly and thanked him, the heat rushing to your cheeks. You were never the greatest at accepting a compliment, something you had learned to work on since meeting Harvey.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind himself before placing a gentle hand on your hip and one on the side of your cheek, kissing you with a passion and care that you'd never experienced with any other man until Harvey.

He pulled away after a few moments, asking if you were ready to head out, and you nodded, grabbing your clutch and taking his hand as he led you out the door.

Soft music filled the air as he led you to a beautifully set table, adorned with more flowers and candlelight. Your eyes widened in surprise, a smile on your lips as Harvey pulled out your chair, his charm and charisma in full force.

The dinner was phenomenal, and you enjoyed your time talking and laughing with Harvey about any and everything. You hadn't seen much of him over the last few weeks, as he had a huge trial going on and from what you understood, it was one of the harder cases he'd ever had. You could tell he was enjoying the night off just as much as you enjoyed him being off.

"Oh! I almost forgot!" You exclaimed, pulling a small black box from your handbag with a bow on top and handing it to Harvey. Inside was a pair of cufflinks, his initials engraved in the gold. He smiled the biggest smile you'd seen from him as he thanked you. He pulled a box of his own from his jacket pocket, presenting it to you. Tears sprang from your eyes immediately when you saw the necklace, knowing full well how much Cartier cost.

"Harvey, I can't accept this! This was way too much."

"Y/N, every penny I spend on you is well worth it. You deserve to have every beautiful thing you can dream of because you're the most important person in my life."

Your heart swelled, and you couldn't help but reach across the table to kiss him.

"Thank you." You whispered, gratitude for him shining in your eyes.

Later that night, he took you back to his condo where you continued the night together, ending up sleepily snuggled by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in Harvey's hand and red wine in yours.

"Remind me to text Donna tomorrow morning and thank her." You said drowsily.

"For what?" Harvey asked, looking down at you.

"For planning our dinner."

Harvey's mouth sat open, shocked.

"Wh- how did you know?"

"I didn't for sure until just now," You said "But I got to thinking, any other time you've planned something you tease me for a week beforehand about how good of a boyfriend you are, you didn't this time and I know you've been working hard so really, it only made sense."

Harvey's heart dropped, knowing he was caught.

"Baby, I'm so sorry." He said, anxiety rising in his throat.

"I'm not upset, don't worry." You said, sitting up now. "I'm just happy you took the time to be with me tonight." You said, reaching out to caress his cheek.

"I'm really trying to work on prioritizing us over work, but this case really took over everything. I promise I won't forget next year and let Donna do all my planning. I'm sorry if I disappointed you."

"You didn't disappoint me Harvey. We could've spent the whole night here doing nothing and I still would've been happy, I just love spending time with you."

Harvey smirked before replying.

"I'll keep that in mind for next year"

[dollwrites]

Can you do a little drabble with Hal using the ring to hold reader down while he fucks her face?

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 ∣ smut ( minors dni ),fem!reader, suggested age gap, use of the word daddy, face fucking, deepthroat, improper use of a power ring, light bondage, degradation ( but in a cute way ) all characters featured are aged 18+

𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗻𝘁 ∣ HAAAALLLL my mf daddy 😤 I MISSYED HIM please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

“Ahh, there she goes!”

Hal’s head drops back as he slips the final few inches into your mouth. you’d been so timid, so unsure that you could take him all the way in, but your eyes widen, blurry vision catching the way your cheeks swell when he presses forward. he’s grasping himself at the base of his mighty cock, fingers hooked under his heavy balls as he bucked his powerful hips forward, trying to stuff them into your mouth, as well.

your back arches up off the bed, knees jabbing upwards towards the ceiling as you plant your feet there, pressing hard, trying to propel yourself upwards. the sensation of your throat bulging as his girth delves into it is maddening, and you forget, suddenly how to breathe through your nose. you start to gag, and writhe.

“Listen to those pretty sounds,” Hal grunts, and the emerald specter of his raw willpower flows from the ring on his finger, coiling around you in delicate, lace ribbons, that cinched your body back against the sweat-soaked sheets. they tie a final, large bow around your belly, and hold you in place, like you were a gift, wrapped ever so precariously for him, “those cute, filthy sounds ‘a yours. ‘S okay, daddy’s not gonna let you choke. Breathe through your nose like I taughtcha, yeah?”

your eyelids flutter, tears escaping your ducts and rolling down your cheeks. you try to nod, but when you do, his rough, heavily veined hands rub your already swollen lips raw, and you gargle.

“There ya go…” he swooned as you inhale deep, your chest rising and falling with ragged breathing through your nose. your body struggled against the energy bonds, jerking with your arms restrained tight at your sides. “There’s my best girl. Just breathe, and relax. Let daddy do all the work. Let me pound that tight, little throat ‘a yours, fuck, that feels good.”

he’s found a depth he likes, with your tiers smashing into his base, rubbed raw by the thick patch of mahogany hair, and he lets go of himself, opting, instead, to wrap his fingers around your throat to feel the shape of his own cock imprinting from the other side. he shudders, and moans, bracing his feet on the floor and hunkering down more, his hips pistoning at such a speed that dribbling your face against his groin made you dizzy. “Good.. girl, that’s right,” he sounded distant, and you weren’t sure if it was because his head was dropped back as he stroked the shape of the bulge, using your throat to get him off, or if it was because you were getting drunk on the heat of his body against your face, the smell of his arousal and sweat as it engulfs you, traps you there. “Just daddy’s good, little throat toy, arentcha? You like this like I like it? Does it make you wet when I use your throat to jack my cock off like this?”

you want to muster a reply for him, but all you can do is gurgle and whimper, globs of spit and precum dribbling out of your mouth, sticking to his crotch, smearing over your cheeks and rolling down towards your hairline.

but Hal chuckles, and it’s a raspy, lust-heavy chuckle, “That’s right, little girl. Make those nasty sounds just for me. Daddy’s gonna make a mess of ya.”

[wmarximoff]

𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐞𝐚 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: because only you can make Wanda feel at home.

warnings (18+): smut, strap-on sex (r receiving), name-calling, spanking, daddy kink, slight breeding kink, choking, weed consumption, mental health issues. MINORS DNI.

pairing: stoner!emo!Wanda x fem!reader

word count: 5k

masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

In the light of Wanda Maximoff's gaze the stars did not twinkle in flashes of silver that night – but neither they did during the night before that, or even the other night before that, one colder on the skin than the other, the light slowly fading into the dull, aged silver of the big city sky. There was no sparkle in those eyes that stared at the dark sky above her head.

The noise from the street below, the cars and passers-by and that sound of life, didn't reach up there on the seventh floor – everything blended into an amalgamation just down there, a distant and reserved experience. The sky vault was vast and absconding like a black hole that swallows everything that orbits it, and the apartment was closer to the sky than to the earth. The stars were there as they always were, but each twilight was duller than the previous one.

Not that Wanda wasn't used to a kind of internal calluses, but even the unlit night sky reflected the mood of those dead eyes in a somber emerald green, which didn't see the brightness of the world around her – eyes that didn't see anything else, as in a kind of trance, a willful blindness of blurred faces.

Even if the night had been serene and peaceful, a veil of moonlight draped over the metal of the rings spread across the lengths of her fingers, there would still be no glow that could pierce the shrouded bubble around Wanda's hunched silhouette, who smoked a long, white cigarette with a yellow filter, placidly seated in a chair with withered legs made of dark and solid plastic – the apartment's balcony was as modest as a boat that can only hold two or three people, and a group of four people would not fit there even squeezed against each other, with their elbows and shoulders touching as if inside a crowded elevator.

The Bronx apartment was small, the best a couple of college students with a part-time job could afford on the lowest paycheck. For a pair of twins like that, it was almost like sharing the visceral walls of the same uterus again.

Sokovian literature accompanied her open just above her pale thighs joined together, who was only wearing light denim shorts on that tragic New York summer night, warm and dry. This one, however, was a small book in a soft cream cover, scarcely more than a hundred bound pages—a crowded metric of Cyrillic letters in uniform stanzas; poems in a language reminiscent of her native tongue, her mother's favorites. Wanda hated poems and she hated her mother as well.

But sometimes, as if in a sardonic torture, it was necessary to conjure up that ghost of the past, foreboding and restless, struggling at its core, because the shroud of monotony was too much in the bosom of the newfound adult life in the big city, so far from home as Wanda was. She had gone to study, away from war and famine and her mother – but poverty has to be a constant specter in a young immigrant's life, like a hidden tumor, sucking little by little.

Sometimes homesickness visited her at night, when the world was too much to bear outside her comfort zone. And then came the urge, the chest pulsing hard, crackling under her skin, seeking refuge in the idea of that creature who primarily should offer her some kind of comfort, however Wanda did not actually taste that source of support as primigenous as Pietro Maximoff, her twin brother, had done, drinking it straight from the fountain.

Pietro was sweet, a good boy and a fine son, but their mother hated her as much as only a mother can love a daughter. And Wanda loved her as much as a daughter can hate a mother.

And so she read, traced with the tip of her peeling black-painted fingernail each line of that little set of Sokovian poems, looking for comfort where she thought she could find it in those withered lines. But it didn't do any good, not when Wanda hated poems, thought they were boring and pointless. And even the cigarettes didn't help her enjoy them with an active air of a condemned intellectual, despite the fact that she loved the sweet, harsh death that smoked down her throat, quieting her since the beginning of the immature nerves of adolescence.

But it wasn't the infuriating poems or the countless cigarette butts pressed against the hollow bottom of a metal ashtray one after the other like a handful of unlit candles stuffed into the top of a birthday cake, or the memory of a monotone childhood in the Sokovian province that would fill the void in her chest, and that Wanda had always known.

Poems were boring, cigarettes were rotting her insides, and from the bosom of youth she'd yearned to pack up her things and leave Sokovia behind for good, without a kiss or a goodbye. But the dream died still in the womb – there was, far from home, a certain depressing monotony, so different from the monotony of living a life in a place where you don't want to be, imbued in the action that was occasionally crossed by long sleepless nights, in the company of stress and intrusive thoughts.

She didn't feel at home in New York, but Sokovia had never been her home either. But finding a certain degree of depressed boredom within her dream seemed worse to Wanda than the monotony of living in a house where everything looked the same. There was something wistful for her to discover that everything she'd ever wanted could be just as depressing.

There was just something wrong, something wrong with her spirits, like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that didn't quite fit together. Maybe the world didn't spin for her the way it did for others. Maybe she just expected too much from a world that always offered so little.

“Are you smoking on the balcony again, Wanda?”

The voice came rumbling from within the walls of the small apartment, from the back of her head – a high, masculine tone and charged with that hard-talking rhythm of south-eastern European accent still limiting the pronunciation of the English words, sanding them harshly, as in a solid chant.

“I am,” was her reply, the dull tone of a corpse still harboring a soul that struggles to shed its shell, her accent sounding just as strong as his, “I kind of needed this right now.”

“Dude, you know you need to stop doing it.”

Towards Wanda then, from the profuse darkness of a living room with lights out and gushing dimness that swallowed the hand-me-down furniture placed there, the figure of a young boy halfway to finish performing the thrusting motion his elbow into the right hole of a dark blue denim jacket, new and clean, freshly pressed and still smelling of lavender fabric softener.

Wanda looked at him with emerald irises tired by poetry, from under her long lepidopterous lashes laden with smoke – Pietro, tall and strong, had tresses of his poorly bleached hair cut short, a mane of unruly hair soft to the touch, and a beard with wisps of unmade dark threads carpeting his square jaw and around his thin lips. There was something herculean about the boy; he had always been something of an athletic, if even dour, type, a hit with the young ladies their age, the twins. The Fast Jock and the Weird Girl.

“You smoke all the time too, don't be a hypocrite now, Piet. Isn’t fair.”

“It's not because of that,” snapped her twin brother in bad manner, creasing a patch of fur between his bushy brows, then adjusting the cut of the jacket to his broad shoulders as he grabbed her by the lapels in his big hands, pulling the garment forward.

Although not so close to her brother, separated by the distance of an outstretched arm, Wanda was quite capable of distinguishing the aroma of woody cologne and fresh and striking deodorant, like a walk through the men's cosmetics section in a corner pharmacy.

“The neighbors will complain about the smell again and you know we don't have the money to pay another fine. Miss Harkness will be the first to complain, you know she always does. I'm not going to pay anything now, I don't have a penny left in my pocket. You'll have to manage to pay that fine if she complains again. And you’re the one doing the talking this time, not me.”

“Miss Harkness hates me,” Jadish eyes rolled in their sockets, a twirl of scorn, “She will complain about me every chance she gets.”

“Just put this shit off, c’mon.”

“No.”

“Wanda.”

But Wanda yielded to the stern blue gaze of her older twin brother, and with a single flick of her right wrist, she pressed the burning end of her cigarette against the bottom of a red tin ashtray placed just above the small table next to her, imagining that that piece of metal blurred by ember ash and toasted smoke was the pointed face of the middle-aged landlady, owner of profuse brown locks and a big pearly smile, who was always carrying in her arm a white rabbit, old and fat, almost similar to a puffy domestic cat.

“Okay, are you happy now?”

“My pocket certainly is, yeah,” the boy with the unnaturally pale hair muttered under his breath, before turning on heels shoved in white sneakers and turning his back on his sister, sitting in the high chair on the balcony.

“And why is this house so dark, eh? Turn on some lights every now and then, Wanda. We’re not animals living in a cave. This looks like one of those vampire movies... you're in your vampire phase again, is that it?”

The single lamp on the ceiling of the room had been turned on by Pietro's indicator pushing the plastic switch up, a beam of pearly white light coming from inside the house, passing through the tall sliding glass doors and bothering Wanda's irises, acclimated to the darkness of a dull night, in a corrosive ardor that incited her to squint her eyelids and crease her brow like a nocturnal animal exposed to the artificial light of a car lantern on the road, hiding her face behind a curtain of thick long, dark hair in a back-necked motion.

Then Wanda, her pale face exposed to the plastic light of the ceiling lamp, suddenly became aware of her brother's state – the newly acquired jacket still smelling of the clothing store, the sneakers clean with soapy water, the collar of the shirt all perfumed and his hair well combed, the ends of his beard well trimmed, he all spotless and smelling good. And a crease of curiosity crept between her dark brows, because Pietro's usual state consisted of basketball shorts and an alternation or two between a pair of baggy shirts that he didn't wash all that often.

“Why are you so dressed up like that? That jacket is new,” she got to her feet then, the soles of her bare dusty feet hitting the cold balcony floor before stepping onto the warm floorboards inside the house, “Are you going to some job interview or something?”

“Job interview on a Saturday night, сестричко? Pff, yeah, I'm going out with a girl. You know, like actual normal people do on their free weekends.”

Pietro looked at her with a mischievous little smile broken at the corner of his thin lips, calling her “little sister” in his native language as he always did when he was purposely teasing her, treating her like a little girl, a silly girl and so ignorant of the lives of adults they should have at the end of that time in life, in a youth encapsulated in the advent of adulthood, which in all its layer of social shyness could never have considered the fact that the brother was going on a date.

And Wanda's brows furrowed for a bit, a thin squeegee of embarrassing embarrassment tugging at the pit of her stomach, her ego vaguely insulted by that childishness insinuated by Pietro – because indeed it was Saturday night, a hot and sultry night of summer in the Big Apple, and the young twin had organized no program for herself but reading pages of Sokovian poetry until her brain became an overworked illiterate while she smoked the ashes of her meager existence, interspersing the two actions between sips here and there of red tea that would eventually cool down and spill all over into her cup. College life hadn't been as kind to Wanda as it had been to Pietro, after all.

“But,” she muttered in a tight voice, brows still pinched together, “But I thought today we were going to—”

“Man, to tell you the truth I'm already well short of time,” the guy then pressed the pad of his right thumb against the side of the cell phone he fished out of the back pocket of his dark jeans, unlocking the device's screen in a flash of white glow next to his apollonian nose, which kind of hinted at the structure of her own.

“Damn it, it's almost half past eight – Monica will kill me if I'm late again. Just... you don't have to wait up for me, right Wanda? If anything, just give me a call,” and Wanda followed him with her eyes, her mouth still half open in a dead sentence, when Pietro's right fingers closed around the tin handle of the front door.

“Побачимось.”

And so Pietro was gone, the door closing with a metallic click behind him without the real expectation of a not really necessary answer from his sister, the parting word already echoing from the corridor outside. He never expected a comeback, it's true. And once again Wanda found herself alone, prostrate like a dead plant in a red clay pot in the heart of that apartment with its withered bare walls and warm floor, sulky and damp during the sticky seasons of heat and cold and bitter in the seasonal blows of winter.

Before the height of her stomach, her right fingers fit into the crooks of her left fingers, her fingertips fidgeting with the handful of silver rings dotted there, twirling them, pressing and pulling them around the spans of her fingers. The dark nail polish on her thumbnail was scratched, but she didn't care about it that much.

Pietro didn't come back for something he hadn't forgotten, but Wanda continued to stand at the door like the most faithful of dogs, as if he were going to open the door and say he'd changed his mind, opting for an evening washed down with salty buckets of popcorn and classic American sitcom along with his little sister's company. But there wasn't that. Nothing happened minutes later. From the kitchen faucet, dripping water trickled into the aluminum sink at a broken, faintly vertiginous rhythm. A fly tinkled its little fluttering wings around the lamp above her head of dark hair.

And then isolation took hold in Wanda who caged the oxygen inside her lungs, as if that house and its walls were nothing more than a bulwark that segregated her from the outside world to that door through which her brother had left her, as if the small apartment in the Bronx was her own cocoon of the social, an abode that harbored a being unworthy of sunlight, a being similar to her.

Wanda found herself trapped in a dilemma as much as she was trapped inside her own home, her body and her mind. She was tired of being hemmed in by the ceiling and floor of the apartment, and she could no longer bear the thought that with Pietro far away, as far away as he was now, being the social animal he always was, Wanda would have to be haunted by the company itself.

Without him there was just her, alone and aimless, like a shipwrecked man floating on an old, swollen piece of wood in a vast ocean where sky and sea met on the horizon, no sign of life nearby, the water so deep and dismal that you couldn't see the sand at the bottom. Just her, floating alone in the dark.

And, together from the pillars of their maternal womb, that primary cradle shared between the two twin children, Wanda did not feel that in fact she had been born to be just her, to live a life as reclusive as the experiences of today's hermit that were available before her, and despite her assertion to her brother that solitude was good for her reclusive spirit, the caliber of her involuntary anthropophobia gave an anxious squeeze to the core of young Wanda Maximoff's chest.

Solitude pleased her, but she only evoked a profuse disgust at the idea of loneliness, of isolation. Wanda feared being alone with her own thoughts.

“Fuck it.” Her peach lips curled into a long thin, taut line.

With the fingers of her right hand, Wanda searched for something in the pocket of her thin burgundy knit jacket, her black nails cut short, then slipping lightly over the half-dented pack of cigarettes also placed inside to, finally, hook against the material of her phone with which cigarettes shared space inside the cut in her pocket. She picked up the device with a certainty born of the anxious restlessness that gushed in the walls of her pharynx.

Wanda then reached for it with a movement of her elbow, bringing her phone close to the round tip of her button nose, unlocking the device's screen with the help of her right thumb. And, without hesitating to dive into that cluster of digital apps, she did what she had to do – what everything in that pitifully withdrawn situation in which she found herself in her own social exile compelled her to do, the digits of her fingers pressing the glass screen, typing on the digital keyboard.

hey can you come over?

piet is out

And then, after a second or two, a new message typed by her quick fingers flashed.

i don't wanna be alone tonight

The emerald eyes, profuse and dull in their clear irises, screwed up in anticipation of the answer like a faithful waiting for a sign from their god, staring at that little speech bubble as long as she could.

The folds of Wanda's fingers pressed against the edges of the poor phone, the loops of her rings scraping against the dark plastic. Just waiting, anticipating, fingers curled, anxiety bubbling in scarlet bubbles inside her stomach. And then, a prompt response popped up in the chat shared with that other number.

Of course I can go.

I'll be there soon, Wands .

She took a long, deep gulp of oxygen that rushed in and inflated her lungs in a refreshing release, excarcerating it right away. The muscles in both her shoulders softened into the red hooded jacket she wore – there would be no more loneliness to swallow or tears to shed. Soon you would be there for her. And it only took an interval of fifteen minutes for Wanda to open inwards the door that Pietro had closed behind him twenty-five minutes before, with a hard movement of her right elbow taut against her ribs.

That was how her gaze moved in midair so that, in such a way, it clung to your expectant eyes, which intuitively sought her greenish irises as soon as the door was opened to the inside of the apartment – and there you were, you, standing in front of her door, standing in the long, deserted hallway, staring in mutual care at Wanda's grim-faced face; the chiseled arch of her brows, the delicate lines of her button nose, the well-defined arch of her mouth and high cheekbones.

Opening the door at that moment was like opening the way for all loneliness to go away, because then you were there, there for her.

“Hey,” your lips curled into a chaste smile, “Hey, Wands.”

“Thank you.”

And then, desperate, tormented by a ghostly worry, Wanda, speechless from any verbal response to her affable greeting, walked towards you with a long-winded expression on her pretty, lightly made-up, cigarette-scented face, wanting nothing more than her girl in her own arms.

And she cupped both sides of your face between the warm palms of her hands, bringing her lips to you which she padded with her own mouth in a necessary clash, feeling you uplifted against her body, overwhelmed with her own miseries, just trying to feel nothing but you.

Your lips collided then, her hands holding you close, her rings feeling like little cool spots on the skin of your cheeks, such a disparate awareness of Wanda's warm, caring touch. There would be no better touch in the world for you than the one that displayed all the affection you knew Wanda had for you – a symbolic pair of hands on your cheeks, not only to feel you, but also to hold you and worship her. To prove she knew you were there for her like no one else would be.

“Thank you.”

Wanda muttered in a breath of hot air brushing against the pulps of your lips, still feeling the ghost of your warm lips against hers, a delicious tingle running across her tongue, tasting of ecstasy – lids closed, your foreheads touching almost shyly.

“Thank you, Y/n.”

“I'm here now, Wanda. I am here for you.”

Her warm fingers caressed the skin of your cheeks, instilling a placid serenity in her body. Short nails, coated in black nail polish, traced invisible lines across your cheekbones. Wanda reeked of melancholy and fear like the back of Marlboro cigarettes. And she kissed you once more, and then again and again, interspersing the kisses between little whispers of thanks, declarations for the void to hear. She continued until the automatic lights in the hallway went out.

ᗢ

Puddles of fabric were the pieces of clothing abandoned on the bare wooden floor like helpless stray animals. When Wanda looked up, the movement was conducive to her becoming aware of the erratic pattern where one fold of wallpaper stuck to another on the wall in front of her. It was a rather threadbare wallpaper, derived in the most accurate sense of the word from a faded red wine red that had been there before she moved into that apartment. Her orientation perspective was choked and restrained at that point – her fingertips seemed to enjoy the feel of warm flesh pressed against them, soft and firm at the same time.

Even though her vision was clouded, splattered on her lepidopterous eyelashes by drowsy droplets of a soft intoxication, she saw herself, as if able to smile to herself, lightheaded, her eyes dark green like moss – she was high because you had smoked a joint together some time ago, on the balcony (your elbows brushing and she looking at your glow under the starry sky, because no star would shine brighter than the twinkle inside your irises when Wanda looked at you, hiding the world around you two behind a foggy layer of smoke).

A thick bead of sweat formed above her temple, in her dark hairline, pouring down the length of her pale face until it dripped from her chin, just past the sharp bulge of her left cheekbone. A drop that landed on the arched back below her.

“F–fuck, daddy! Daddy!”

A high-pitched sound vibrated through the room's four red walls—the crack of a slap delivered against your skin, a smack that Wanda made sure to mark on your bottom in euphoric readiness, her fingers in pink welts on your skin, because something in her always delighted to press the bruises with which she bestowed you, ever making your flesh her possession. She loved to mark you, to make your body her perfect picture, the masterpiece of those hands that yearned for her warm skin.

“You're a fucking bitch,” she snorted in a hint of a harsh accent, “My bitch. My favorite bitch.”

“Daddy's favorite,” you repeated in a voice choked with weed and pleasure, and an electric shiver runs down Wanda's spine.

The shudder cost her a break in her rhythm and roughness and rhythm, that long scarlet silicone strap sliding to reach inside the wet folds of your pussy, but you didn't realize it, not how she did it – after all, your face plunged into the pillowcase that emanated the sweet aroma of Wanda's shampoo, the folds of your fingers hooking on the sheets that reeked of her woody perfume, as if submerging in a red mist that she referred to so much, you wouldn't have noticed that her hips wobbled once.

It was like being swallowed by her everywhere, and so you screamed, howled like a bitch in heat – and Wanda appreciated how loud you could be. Claiming her name, how good she, only she, was able to make you feel, and that you were close. Definitely close. In muffled pleas begging daddy to go faster and stronger, deeper and harder towards your womb – and behind the strap she felt her own clit every time the tip of the toy thrust into your cervix.

An indecency was arranged in your closed eyelashes when Wanda looked at you from behind, both of you being without any clothing to cover the length of your bodies as you were, as naked as the day you were born as she fucked you from behind. And at that moment, a welcoming warmth radiated from your broad-shouldered body, and for Wanda, it was like seeing herself integrated into a puddle of torrid sunlight, fulfilling her need to have you close; her arms wrapped around you from behind, her bare breasts pressed against the pale skin of your back, her feeling you there, belonging to her, moving with her.

“Daddy– please! Please wanna cum– I wanna–”

Entranced in a flash of wild desire, feeling Wanda's deft hand move across the skin of your abdomen, being smoothed by the eager digits of her left hand's clever fingers wandering southward down your body, into your tasteless hips, your mouth throbbed lewdly.

“Daddy!”

Her face was hidden in the contour of your neck, in the shoulder joint sprinkled with sloppy bruises, so that Wanda would be able to nibble, from there, a fresh patch of warm skin, easing the burning and tingling that came from the act with the tip of her tongue; her greedy nose tangled in a few profuse locks of your sweaty hair.

Your throat flexed, spilling out a breathy needy moan that pulsed against the line of your teeth. In sync your bodies moved on top of the mattress of her bed, back and forth.

“I wanna come on you,” she gasped, “I wanna mark you as mine. I'll paint your fucking womb white with my load, baby. I’ll break you until no one can use you but me. You're my fuck hole – mine, mine, and nobody else's.”

“Y– yours! I’m yours, daddy, yours!” But there was a hitch in your speech, words squeezing into your throat when Wanda's five right fingers closed against the outline of your neck, screwing into your skin like a thick rope. Saliva seeped from the corner of your lips, down into your chin.

 The roar that bloomed through a crack in her lips had been a husky murmur. As her right hand was busy squeezing your neck, her left was busy plucking the pulsing nerve between your legs—so needy, an urgency growing in your bones and flesh, yearning for the ardor of her figure. Wanda, who unfolded to you with such care and mastery, her inhuman touch burning over your skin.

Her fingertips brushed your fine wet, rough pubic hair, and Wanda took a deep breath, her chest rising heavily and falling lightly, snorting a breath of warm air against the hollow of your ear—the scorching skin of her torso girding itself against your spine, who saw yourself as being able to feel the two swollen nipples pressed against your stinging shoulder blades, her thick her cock still straining your insides in a continuous, harsh back-and-forth.

“Fuck,” her tongue flicked against the roof of her mouth, followed by a curse in her native language, “You are mine, Y/n, you’ll always be mine. Mine. No one else is going to have you but me, fuck, I– I'll make sure of it, I, I'll come on you. I'm going to stuff you so everyone knows you're my bitch walking around with my cum leaking out of you.”

Your ecstasy compelled you to choke on a groan coiled in your throat, and at Wanda's speech you rolled your hips back, fucking yourself in her cock, begging for more, as debilitating when against something as simple as a touch, a simple touch of ethereal fingers, despite the strap that widened you from the inside. Wanda was the only one capable of tearing your brittle body to pieces if she wanted to, and even the vaguest idea made her blood boil in her veins.

“W-Wanna cum,” was a moan from you, your brows meeting furrowed across your peach flushed face; you sounded a little dizzy in your rambling speech, pressing your fingers against the sheet.

“Wanna cum around daddy's cock, wanna–”

“Fuck, I'm gonna come inside your greedy little cunt, gonna– fuck, Y/n!”

Before her you came in a rush of nasal groaning – harsh and confused. Screaming for Wanda, pressing your ass against her hips, shaking. But she buried herself back in you one or two more times before she did it on her own – your walls quivering and tight, familiar and pleasant enough before Wanda plunged her orgasm inside you. And in such a way that she did it, as if just being inside you was what was needed to untie the knot at her primordial apex, then a hand below her navel.

“I'm fucking coming inside you!”

She couldn't actually do it, not the way she really wanted to, but it was enough to feel that familiar tightening in the pit of her stomach when she was there, in that position, that characteristic sting of orgasm digging in her belly. Wanda withdrew from you, your glittering liquid glistening around the strap that the dark harness fastened to her waist, and, with her head seeming to weigh more than the rest of her body, Wanda toppled forward, landing on the slats bed next to you panting, in which the chest rose and fell with an impressive weight.

“Fuck… fuck.”

Her lids squint over the heavy gaze, the world dimming for a second, awareness slipping away. Eyes closed, the room immersed in a puddle of accentuated silence. Then a minute passed. And two and three. There was a click of the spark wheel of a lighter rolling against the stone, gas coming out and paper burning. Wanda's nostrils were filled with a hissing odor of burning grass, smoke reaching her. Her eyelids fluttered open.

With your spine leaning against the wallpaper behind the bed, you, sitting there, were lost in the red – the remnants of the summit ascended in a moment of pleasure smeared the inner sides of your thighs, like a ghost of what was once the climax of the carnal act in which they were so vividly engaged. Swallowing a lit joint between your fingers, Wanda never found you as beautiful as she did at that moment, high and fucked, light for the orgasm and the weed.

“You… are really mine, aren't you?” she asked in a grim voice thread, that accent rolling between the words she alluded to.

You looked at her, “Of course I'm yours. Just as you are mine, silly.”

She just looked at you, silent as she could be.

“Give me a hit,” one hand reached out, reaching for what you held. To disconnect from the world and just feel you.

But, holding the rolled cigarette between the extension of your fingers, Wanda realized that an idea took place behind your empty eyes. You then pressed the commission of your lips around the joint, inhaling that dense smoke to the core of your lungs before, then, reclining your face in front of Wanda, who was still lying down.

The ends of your hair grazed her left nipple as your wet lips met, and you let the smoke trapped in your lungs slip into her open mouth before finally kissing her, her tongue slipping between your teeth, her left fingers tangling in the hair above the nape of your neck, holding you close. When you broke apart, Wanda blinked in ecstasy – your noses were almost touching again.

“You're not going to leave me, are you?” was a sigh against your lips, “You won't abandon me, Y/n.”

“I won't,” you smiled, “Because I love you, Wands. I love you. You know I'll always come when you call.”

And then Wanda looked at you. She looked at you as if it were the first time she had seen you in her life – as if she were discovering you again, understanding you once more, realizing that with you there was no loneliness. In the same way she did every time you surprised her. Wanda understood that as long as she had you, you to indulge her, you to love her, there would be no homesickness left to feel.

“I love you too,” she whispered, “I love you too, Y/n.”

She knew she loved you, in that moment, because she didn't belong in New York or Sokovia - in that moment, she just belonged in your arms.

[yourbelgianthings]

can we just talk about montrose pretty for a sec? he’s a gentleman thief and a pretty charismatic guy. he wears a hardlight mask he never takes off until he does and then he’s decades older than anyone thought he was. he’s done the i’m your dad bit twice and also adopted a child separately from that. he knows everything imaginable about ephemera, where he’s a hawkblade of the emerald coven. his fake last name is always goodparty. he’s the bazooka maniac. he got horny when the car he was in exploded around him. he has an animatronic family he visits regularly. he finds it hard to interact with other people but not his best friends. he dressed up as infinite jessie the specter fairy. he’s really just everything <3

[illuminatedquill]

Story Summary: As Sabine's training begins in earnest, she finds herself struggling while wielding Ezra's lightsaber. Disheartened by her lack of progress, Sabine wonders if she is truly worthy of the weapon. Ahsoka, however, senses that the blade's kyber crystal is resisting Sabine's attempts to claim the weapon as her own. With no other recourse, Ahsoka resolves to perform a risky Force ritual which will allow her padawan to commune directly with the crystal. The communion will bring Sabine face to face with what lies in the heart of Ezra Bridger . . . and in her own.

"That's enough," called Ahsoka. She was standing, arms crossed, off to the side near a stack of supply crates. Her voice rang clear through the crisp Lothal air; overhead, a few wisps of clouds were the only things blighting any otherwise clear blue day. In the distance, you could see the spires of Capital City, still being rebuilt after Thrawn's vicious siege.

Huyang nodded in acknowledgement and stepped back, his sparring lightsabers closing down. Sabine, standing opposite him, followed suit with her own lightsaber, a gift from her friend, Ezra Bridger. The emerald blade disappeared, and she straightened, panting slightly, rivers of sweat pouring down her front and back.

The courtyard of Sabine's home - formerly Ezra's comm-tower - was serving as their practice area this time. Ahsoka visited her padawan there to continue her training semi-regularly when not running the occasional mission for the Rebellion. It was peaceful there, Ahsoka found. Something incredibly rare - and precious - during these dangerous times.

But she and Sabine knew that peace could easily be shattered. Elsewhere in the galaxy, the fires of war continued to spread between the Rebellion and the Empire.

Once upon a time, Ahsoka would have been out there, on the frontline of missions against the Empire. But things had changed. For now, her place was here, training Sabine and preparing her for whatever the Force had in store for her.

"Bow," said Ahsoka.

Huyang went first, then Sabine. The former Jedi noted her padawan visibly shaking, worn out from the sparring match.

She knew Sabine well, having served alongside her and the Specters during the early years of the Rebellion; Ahsoka had seen firsthand what the younger woman was capable of. This exercise should not have left her so winded.

Something was wrong.

"You look exhausted, Lady Wren," observed the droid.

Sabine merely nodded - and then fell down, landing on her backside. The lightsaber fell from her grip, rolling a few inches away on the ground before coming to a stop. In a flash Ahsoka was next to her, studying Sabine's face with worry.

"Sabine," she said. "Talk to me."

"Ezra's lightsaber," Sabine wheezed. "It's so karking heavy."

Ahsoka cast a glance at Huyang. The ancient droid returned it, his photoreceptors shifting into a concerned look. It bothered her that Sabine continued referring to the weapon as her friend's, despite him passing it on to her some time ago.

She reached to her belt and unhooked a flask of water. "Here," she offered, extending it to Sabine. "Sit up and take a few sips of this."

Her padawan grabbed the flask and guzzled down the water, ignoring her master's instructions. Ahsoka snorted. Should have expected that, she thought wryly. Sabine was a much more willful personality than Ahsoka had previously thought; passionate, driven, and intense. Spending time with her outside the Specters had been . . . enlightening, to put it politely.

She's just like Anakin. The thought, unbidden, rose suddenly to the surface of her mind - and she immediately clamped down on it.

The truth was there, she admitted privately. Ahsoka was still unsure if training Sabine was the right path for the young Mandalorian - or even for herself. But she could not ignore the gentle nudges from the Force that had led her on to this current path.

She had returned from her exile to look for Ezra, as promised.

Instead, she found Sabine.

Her musing was interrupted by Sabine choking on a last gulp of water. Sitting up abruptly with her eyes wide, she clutched at her chest, heaving with the force of clearing her lungs from the sudden intake of water.

Ahsoka sighed and thumped her solidly on the back. After a few seconds, Sabine's breathing returned to normal.

Wincing, she handed the now empty flask back to her master. "Still thirsty?" Ahsoka asked sarcastically.

"I'm good," Sabine croaked.

"I doubt that," Huyang remarked. "You vomited out all the water you just drank."

The young woman threw a weak glare at the droid, but no snarky response erupted from her mouth. Ahsoka raised an eyebrow in surprise. She really is tired, she observed.

Reaching past her padawan, the former Jedi carefully took Ezra's lightsaber from the ground. Examining it closely, she extended her senses in the Force reaching out the kyber crystal within.

Instead of the small twinkle of life she was expecting emanating from the crystal, Ahsoka felt . . . a sense of dimming; like a slowing heartbeat, felt only in the Force.

That's what I was worried about, she thought grimly.

Sabine, despite her exhaustion, didn't miss the sudden change in expression on her master's face. "What is it?" she asked.

Ahsoka hefted the lightsaber, feeling the weight of the weapon in her hand - it's history, the solid construction of its design. She could feel Ezra's presence in every centimeter of the lightsaber's hilt, constructed years ago without the instruction of a Jedi Order. In the years since the fall of the Order, she never thought another would be built. But Ezra, along with his master, Kanan Jarrus, proved that the Jedi ways would continue to exist regardless of the Empire's best efforts to purge them from galactic history.

Ezra Bridger was a marvel, a bright spot of light in the darkness of the Empire's reign. This lightsaber was his life - his legacy.

And it was dying.

-----

Sabine lurched to her feet in shock. "Dying?" she demanded. "What the hell do you mean, it's dying?"

Ahsoka sat cross-legged on the ground. Closing her eyes, the lightsaber lifted from her palm and began to carefully disassemble in front of Sabine's eyes.

In the middle of the floating mechanical components was the kyber crystal that made up the weapon's heart: a small emerald crystal that glowed with an inner light.

Or, rather, it was supposed to be glowing. Instead, the crystal was dull, almost opaque in the Lothal sunlight. Only upon a closer inspection could you see a faint inner light, pulsing weakly within.

"Take it," Ahsoka directed, eyes still closed. Sabine did so immediately, carefully plucking the crystal from the air.

"It's not . . . shiny," Sabine noted, trying to keep the panic rising in her voice.

Her master reassembled the parts back into their correct configurations, and the lightsaber hilt was rebuilt with hardly a whisper. As always, Sabine felt a mixture of awe and envy at the apparent ease of Ahsoka's use of the Force. Her, Kanan, and Ezra - they made it all seem so easy.

Despite Ahsoka telling her that it was possible - that the Force was present in all living beings - she was still not able to reach out to the cosmic power that the Jedi regularly wielded in life and death situations.

Ahsoka laid Ezra's lightsaber onto the ground before opening her eyes. Blowing out a breath, she looked directly at her padawan. "The kyber crystal is fighting against you, Sabine," she said, her tone calm. "The effort spent to do so is causing it to fade. As you can see."

Sabine gripped the crystal tightly in her hand. "I've dealt with this before," she said. "With the Darksaber."

The former Jedi tilted her head in a curious manner. "Yes. Hera told me about your training with the Darksaber. What did Kanan tell you at the time?"

She rubbed her head, trying to remember. "Something about the kyber crystal needing to resonate with me. I was fighting against myself at the time. Suppressing feelings about myself, my family, my reason for running away . . . "

Ahsoka nodded. "The crystal resonates with its wielder, becoming an extension of them. It's said that it can retain memories, feelings, and . . . desires over time from the being that constructs it. This lightsaber is essentially a piece of Ezra. And he gave it to you."

"A Jedi's weapon is their life," Sabine quoted. "Kanan was fond of saying that."

So was Anakin. Ahsoka mentally shook the image of her master away from the forefront of her thoughts.

"His life is in my hands," her padawan said quietly. "Why is the kyber crystal fighting against me? I don't understand."

"It's something you're not dealing with," Ahsoka surmised. "Something about Ezra."

Sabine was silent for a moment. Then she shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I honestly can't think of it. There's nothing about Ezra that I don't . . ."

Ahsoka watched her trail off. No, there's something there, she concluded. Something even she isn't aware of.

Kanan managed to find a way to get Sabine to confront her issues. But she wasn't Kanan. And they didn't have time, going by the kyber crystal's weak vitality.

"Huyang?" she prompted. The droid had been standing off to the side, giving them distance, but never too far away to assist when called upon.

"How may I assist, Lady Tano?"

"How much time do we have to save Ezra's kyber crystal?" she asked.

He walked over to Sabine, still morosely staring at the crystal in her hand. "May I?" he asked.

Without a word, the young Mandalorian offered it up to the droid. He examined it, his mechanical photoreceptors taking in every minute detail. After a solid minute, he responded, "Not much, I'm afraid."

Ahsoka snorted. "Yes, I gathered that. Do you have a specific time frame?"

"Could be a day," Huyang offered, somewhat dryly. "Could be a month. But the longer Lady Wren continues to wield it, the more energy it will expend resisting her. That much is certain."

"What do we do?" asked Sabine. "I can't - I can't lose this. He trusted me."

Ahsoka reached out to grab Sabine's hand. Giving it a reassuring squeeze, she said, "You won't. There's a ritual we can do."

Huyang's head snapped towards her. "Ahsoka. You can't be serious."

Sabine blinked in confusion, her gaze turning from her master's face to the droid's. "What ritual? Is it dangerous?"

"Immensely," Huyang said. "It could accelerate the kyber crystal's decay if it fails."

"If it fails," Ahsoka countered. "It won't."

"How can you be so sure?" the droid asked.

The former Jedi smiled brightly, looking back at Sabine. "Because Ezra Bridger trusts her," Ahsoka said. "And so do I."

-----

Sabine's heart thudded a silent, steady beat against her ribs. She had never felt this nervous before. Normally, the awareness of an incoming battle left her in a heightened sense of anticipation and focus. Her Mandalorian upbringing taught her that the belief in victory before a fight helped to determine the outcome long in advance.

But this was not a physical battle that was about to be waged. Involving herself with the Jedi and their mystical connection to the Force had taught her that not all battles could be won with superior firepower and tactics. It took heart; it took soul.

Dusk was falling on Lothal, the evening sky becoming a burnished red and gold. The whisper of a cool night breeze brushed up against the tall grass fields surrounding the comm-tower. It felt good against her skin, as she leaned into it, breathing deeply in the scents of her new home.

Ahsoka had settled into her usual meditative position: cross-legged, hands laying sedately on her knees, palms open, facing the sky. In front of her was the kyber crystal contained within a metal bowl.

Piled around the crystal was a small amount of tinder. Enough to light a small fire.

Huyang had assured Sabine that the fire would not damage the crystal in any way. But still seeing the small gem outside of its protective casing made her realize just how vulnerable it was, despite the droid's assurances.

Ezra's life, Sabine thought. It's all in my hands.

And now it was dying. He trusted her with this weapon, and she was failing him.

Her hands curled into fists. Sabine took a deep breath, diving deep into the Jedi calming techniques she had been taught, forcing herself to relax.

No. No, I haven't failed you, yet. I will fix this, I promise.

Ahsoka spoke into the evening air, her words barely rising above a whisper. "Sabine, it's time."

"Okay." She took her spot opposite the former Jedi, mimicking her master's pose. "What do you need me to do?"

"Close your eyes and center your thoughts. Still your mind, take my hands, and wait for the crystal to reach out."

"Sounds easy enough," replied Sabine. "What will you be doing?"

Her master waved at herself. "I will be acting as a kind of . . . conduit, between you and the kyber crystal. You can't touch the Force yet, so I'll be acting as the connection."

"Cool. Right. Well, let's get this started," she said.

Huyang walked over, a match grasped in his mechanical fingers. "Prepare yourself, Lady Wren."

She frowned at him. "What can I expect? It's just a conversation, right?"

"Depends on how receptive the kyber crystal is. Which, as we've seen so far, it's not feeling particularly so towards you."

Sabine blew out a breath. "Great. Thanks for the pep talk."

"You are very welcome. Remember, if this fails, the crystal's strength will fade forever," Huyang pointed out.

"Huyang," Ahsoka groaned. "Just light it, please."

"As you wish," he said and lit the match by striking against his steel frame. A second later, he dropped it into the metal bowl; the tinder surrounding the kyber crystal burst into flame - but not the usual warm, golden glow. It was an eerie, emerald flame that looked familiar to Sabine.

She glanced at her master. "That looks like - "

"Witch-fire," Ahsoka confirmed. "Not your standard Jedi ritual."

"Hence why I argued against it," Huyang remarked.

Sabine had tangled with Dathomiri magick before, along with Kanan and Ezra. It was not the most enjoyable of experiences and definitely not one she wished to repeat anytime soon. But Ahsoka was here and seemed to know what she was doing.

"Are you ready?" her master asked.

Sabine straightened her shoulders, steeling herself and pushing aside any remaining doubts. "I am," she said, trying to project confidence into her voice.

Ahsoka nodded. "You look ready."

She reached forward to take Sabine's hands.

The fire between them roared, wicked green sparks flaring out from the flames.

A deep breath . . . and the ritual began.

-----

After a few minutes of silence, Sabine began to fidget. She couldn't help it; despite the calming techniques she had run through previously, anxiety continued to spike through her in erratic pulses.

The quiet was overwhelming. It seemed that even the fire had gone silent, since she could no longer hear the crackling flames. Sabine bit down on her lip, fighting against the impulse to speak out, vent her frustration and impatience that the ritual didn't seem to be working -

A voice spoke, suddenly. Not Ahsoka, but female - human. And very, very familiar.

"Are you my thief?" asked the voice.

She opened her eyes, at last.

Sabine found herself sitting in . . . what appeared to be void-space. A small oval of light surrounded her; outside of it lay an open sea of stars and the occasional flashes of emerald light.

Am I inside the kyber crystal? she wondered, filled with awe at the majestic view around her.

The voice spoke again, sounding curious. "Are you my thief?"

She focused onto the source: a figure sitting across from her, draped in an overly large cloak with a hood obscuring its face.

"Ahsoka? Is that you?" she asked uncertainly.

The hood raised up enough to catch a glimpse of feminine, human features - and familiar eyes the color of rich, vibrant wood.

Where I have seen . . .

"What is 'Ahsoka'?" asked the unnamed figure.

It suddenly clicked for Sabine. who the figure was "You're the kyber crystal," she realized.

"Is that what I am?" it asked.

"You must be," Sabine insisted. "The ritual worked. I'm here to talk with you."

The shadowy face inside the hood cocked to the side. "Talk about what? You're not my thief. I have nothing to discuss with you."

Sabine frowned at the cloaked figure. "Thief? You mean Ezra? Why do you keep calling him that?"

"Because he stole me away. From the caves of Ilum. You were there, weren't you, Sabine Wren?"

She blinked at the figure's mention of her name. Yes, she was there. Years ago, in the frozen caves of Ilum, she had helped Ezra build his new lightsaber. It had been a tumultuous time for her best friend after his experience on Malachor. Sabine had decided to accompany him on his pilgrimage since Kanan was out of action, against his wishes.

It was a good thing she did, since they ran into trouble.

She brushed the memory aside. A story for another time; she had to focus on the task at hand.

"If you know me," she said steadily, "then you know that Ezra trusted you into my care."

The figure was quiet. She continued, "If that's the case, why are you spending your energy fighting against me? We should be working together."

The cloaked face seemed to stare at her with those familiar brown eyes . . . "I cannot allow you to wield me."

"But why?" asked Sabine, her tone becoming heated. "I have nothing to hide about Ezra. He was my best friend!"

"This is not about Ezra," said the figure. "This is about you. You do not understand your purpose, as of yet."

"My purpose?" Sabine blinked, taken aback by the statement. "What purpose? I'm a fighter, that's my purpose."

The figure shook its head. "That cannot be all that you are. You must be more. Just like Ezra was."

It waved at itself. "Just like I am more than a kyber crystal."

Sabine opened her mouth to ask what it meant by that when a recent memory flooded through her mind in Ahsoka's voice:

"The crystal resonates with its wielder, becoming an extension of them. It's said that it can retain memories, feelings, and . . . desires over time from the being that constructs it. This lightsaber is essentially a piece of Ezra."

The figure gazed at her, and Sabine got the sense it understood the direction of her thoughts. "You begin to understand."

"Maybe," Sabine admitted. "A little more clarification would be helpful."

"What was Ezra Bridger to you?"

She felt her face heat up at the question. "What do you mean?"

The cloaked figure regarded her patiently but said nothing. Sabine blew out a nervous breath, thinking what her answer should be.

Finally she said, "He was . . . my partner."

"Is that all?" it asked.

Sabine stared directly at the place where the cloaked figure's eyes would be. "In every sense of the word," she added.

There was a nod in the depths of the hood. "Ah. An acceptable answer. I consider him to be the same."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. You thought a lightsaber was merely a tool used by the wielder?"

Embarrassment colored Sabine's cheeks. "Well . . . yeah," she confessed. "Sorry. I sort of considered you to be on the same level of importance as my Westar blasters."

She caught a glimpse of something resembling a smile that flashed briefly in the shadows. "Still very important, considering who you are," remarked the figure.

"Yes," Sabine said, "but they'll never be more than just that. I'm beginning to see that now. You grow and evolve with the person who wields you."

"Yes. And they do the same. We become two parts of a whole being, in tune with one another to achieve the wielder's desire."

"So, when Ezra wielded you . . . he became something more than he was," Sabine said.

"It was his purpose as a Jedi," confirmed the figure. "To fight against fear. To bring courage and victory when there was none."

The statement from the mysterious figure brought a melancholy smile to Sabine's face. In her mind's eye, she could still see her friend, brandishing the emerald blade in the heat of battle, batting aside blaster shots.

"I am the part of Ezra that contained his bravery and his commitment to victory against any injustice he saw," said the figure solemnly. "Whenever he was scared, he thought of a single image - of a single person, who represented unerring courage and absolute victory to him."

Sabine saw the brown eyes flash fiercely within the hood - and it struck her all at once where she had seen those eyes before.

Her heart thudded painfully inside her chest. "Show me your face," she whispered.

The figure stood up and let the cloak fall away.

Before her stood a young Mandalorian woman with warm brown eyes, dressed in strikingly colored beskar armor. Her hair was cut in a short bob, the edges tinted a rich, deep purple.

Sabine stared at the younger version of herself, feeling her eyes begin to fill with unshed tears. "This is what you are?" she managed to ask.

"I am what lies deep inside the heart of Ezra Bridger," said the younger Sabine. "I am courage incarnate; a shining beacon of victory to all those who fight against the dark."

This is what he fought for, Sabine realized. This is who he wanted to be in his darkest moments.

This was his purpose.

"I understand now," Sabine said quietly. "Why you're fighting against me."

"Do you?"

"Yes," Sabine answered. "This was Ezra's purpose. This is what he had in his heart. But you can't be that for me. I need my own purpose. Which means you need to be something else - something I need."

The younger Sabine smiled kindly at her. "For what it's worth, you have plenty of courage yourself, Sabine Wren. You don't need more."

She wiped away the tears with a snort. "Thanks."

Looking at the younger version of herself, she asked, "Ezra really thought so highly of me?"

"It would seem to be the case."

Oh, Ezra. "I don't know if I'm really like what he saw me as," Sabine said. "Sometimes I feel like I forget. Especially since he's gone."

The younger version of herself squatted in front of her. "No one's ever really gone. If you keep him safe in here," she said, pointing at her chest. "Ezra will always be with you, whenever you need him."

Sabine placed a hand on her heart, feeling the organ's steady, purposeful beat.

"I know what my purpose needs to be. What you need to be," Sabine said.

The younger Sabine nodded. "Name it."

She smiled, thinking of a young boy from long ago she met on the streets on Lothal . . . "Do you know what hope looks like to me?"

The younger Sabine grinned - and then, in a flash of pure white light, transformed. The features changed, lengthened, becoming more masculine -

And there he was. Standing in front of her, like no time had passed. Ezra Bridger, as he was on the last day she saw him.

He stuck out his hand, and Sabine's heart leapt into her throat. "Ready?" he asked. The voice, the familiar tones of it making her heart ache, sent goosebumps prickling across her arm.

She forced herself to blink back the hot tears that were threatening to burst forth. It had been so long . . .

No. No, she would not mourn him. There was nothing to mourn.

He was still out there. With that fact, hope remained.

Her hope.

Sabine slapped her hand into his and hauled herself up. "I'm ready."

A flash of emerald light -

-----

She came back to herself, blinking rapidly in the cool Lothal evening.

Evening? How much time had passed?

Ahsoka was across from her still; the former Jedi's expression was neutral. "Well?" she asked.

Sabine coughed, her throat feeling raspy. A wave of exhaustion suddenly fell across her. "Well, what?" she responded.

"Did it work?"

She looked to the metal bowl sitting between them -

The kyber crystal sat within the dying embers of the fire, glowing with a fierce, emerald light. It looked like a tiny star had erupted within the bowl's center.

Sabine grinned. "Do you mind?" she asked her master.

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. "Sure, since you asked so nicely."

With the Force, she quickly inserted the kyber crystal back into the lightsaber's hilt and passed it to Sabine.

She gripped it in her hands, her palms suddenly feeling sweaty.

In her mind, she saw Ezra smiling at her. Her hope. The thing she clung to the most for strength in this dark galaxy.

Sabine felt her anxiety fade away. She would never let him fade away. Not as long as she drew breath.

"Ignite the blade," said Ahsoka.

Sabine did. The emerald saber blazed to life, humming in the cool, dark evening - like a bright star, lighting the way for all who could see.

[seastarblue]

Full Moon Festival: Part One

under the cut!

“Come on, Kaids, we’re gonna miss all the good stuff!” Felix huffed, fixing his raven mask over his face.

Kaiden answered with a grunt as she pulled on her left boot, wolf mask and light brown cloak already in place. “We have all night, Fel, please.” She stayed seated on her stool and crossed one leg over the other to get those pesky laces tied.

“No we don’t! People’re gonna run out of treats! And then we’ll be left with tricks.” Felix huffed, leaning on the doorway, his exasperation noticeable even through his mask. “You don’t want to get a fistful of Mots to the face, do you?”

‘Mots’—a powdery, relatively harmless substance in a motley of colors—were a staple of the Full Moon Festival, held during every night with a full moon during the Tenth month. It was a relatively normal celebration, involving many foods, drinks, fun, and music, but what set it apart from the many other festivals was the fact that all the Moon Market goers donned costumes of every shape, size, and color.

However, what caused the now bouncing half-fairy to be so impatient were the treats that people gave out during this event. It could be anything, really, from small candies to a few coins. But in spite of Felix’s excitement, the young knights weren’t there for the festival.

“We aren’t even using the main roads, remember?” Kaiden said, getting up and slipping two small knives into their sheaths at the small of her back. “We’ve got work to do, stupid. Now let’s get going.” Kaiden dragged the grumbling knight with her when she walked out of the room.

Oh yes, the pair were there to apprehend a serial killer who had eluded the Emerald Guard for weeks now. This murderer—nicknamed the Butcher for their violent way of chopping citizen after citizen up—only killed under the cover of night and the safety of crowds above, and later dragged their victims down into the Bay below the city. The festival was the perfect place for their next stop.

The people were unsettled—and when the people were unsettled, the Azari stepped in.

———

The festival was now in full swing, the crowds of costumed folk gathered around and moved like currents. Music floated over their heads, a sweet lilting breeze over the sea of people.

The two knights were on the opposite outskirts of the crowd—Kaiden on the upper levels of the city, Felix on the lower—needing to stay vigilant for any suspicious activity. A vibrantly decorated stall stood on Kaiden’s right, displaying decroative lunar knickknacks to be sold for the low, low price of three coppers.

The knight leaned against the side of the stall, making sure to stay out of sight from the stallkeep—she didn’t want to be haggled into buying a cheap rune. ‘I—we— need to be focused,’ she thought, ‘and that doesn’t involve partaking in festivities—wait a damn minute.’

Something had caught Kaiden’s eye. She skimmed the rest of the street from her spot, only to facepalm at the sight of her partner-in-justice merrily chatting away with a woman in front of another—somehow brighter—shop.

Kaiden nearly lost her mind right there. Keeping position, she tried to catch Felix’s eye and get him to get back to watching for the Butcher. Felix, being completely engrossed in his conversation, kept talking with the shopkeep.

A shiver ran through her then, and she looked up, causing her to jump at the specter now peering down at her.

‘Spirits in such a crowded place, huh… what’s it doing?’ she thought, scrunching her eyebrows in confusion.

It started to motion to…itself? Or its own …eye…spaces? Kaiden couldn’t tell, considering the spirit’s overall lack of a solid shape. It fizzled, then its shape became much clearer. It was covering its eyes! Kaiden inwardly chuckled at the ghost’s suspicions: there was no way Felix didn’t see her. Or at least sense her impatience, what with the literal soul bind they shared.

‘Well it seems like I’ll have to change that,’ she thought, picking up a stray flyer. Making her way down and across the crowded street—‘staying in position be damned at this point,’—she crumpled the flyer into a tight ball. Felix wouldn’t know what hit him.

———

Felix was immersed in a very engaging conversation with Darla, the owner of a little inn that was almost swallowed by shimmering Moon Festival decor. The elderly woman practically glowed with excitement as she explained all the decorations—and even gave him some Mots and a Combustion rune—in detail to the knight, who was listening while keeping an eye on his surroundings. He had a job to do, after all, despite the many distractions—and his partner’s glare nearly burning a hole in his head.

He had just noticed something—or someone—moving in his peripheral when a ball of paper nearly hit him in the eye.

Grumbling, and turning the flyer into ash with a quick spell, he snapped his gaze to the culprit—now wading across the crowded street. When she arrived, and was in earshot, he started, “The hells was that for?!” crossing his arms over his chest.

Kaiden was not amused, if the scowl that was on her face was anything to go by. “That was for not paying attention, Felix.” she barked, now standing right in front of him. “What would you do if the target passed right here?! Keep yammering with the actual partygoers?”

Felix glanced to where Darla once was, worried that Kaiden’s outburst would tell the woman why the two of them were there. The shopkeeper had left.

Kaiden took a breath, removed her mask and continued, “Really, Fel, we gotta stay alert, you know? This is our first solo mission, we need to get this right!” With the mask off, she still looked annoyed. Her eyes glowed gold, as they usually did when she was upset. A twinge of guilt passed through him—he was also strung up about this task. “…Sorry Kaids. It won’t happen again.” He gave her a sheepish, apologetic grin.

“…”

“Uh—Hey what’s that?” Felix pointed slightly past Kaiden’s head to another flyer, this one plain white, tucked into a crevice in the bricks. That must have been what he saw earlier, he realized.

Kaiden gave him a look. “You’re not gonna run away if I turn around, will you?”

“Whatttt? Nah.”

Kaiden raised an eyebrow but complied. On the wall was a piece of paper completely blank, save for an hastily-scribbled arrow pointing to their left. She made her way over and ripped it from the wall, flipping it to the other side.

Someone had drawn a simple map, directing them to the left and down into the lowest levels of Vespar—the Bay. At the bottom of the map was a X, right next to a…smiley face?

Felix—who had peeped over her shoulder—scoffed. “Is this guy mocking us?”

“I’d guess so,” she replied, tucking the scrap into her pocket. She then turned to the direction the arrow pointed. The dingy alleyway gaped ahead of them, dropping down into near pitch blackness.

“So, there might be a…let’s say a 90 percent chance we get butchered—“ he snickered at his own joke, ”—and tossed into the bay if we take the bait. Think we should go?” Felix asked, suddenly somber.

Kaiden nodded. Something told her this map was their ticket to successfully completing this mission, however dangerous it may be.

“If that’s the case, then,” he unsheathed one of his sais and gave it an artful flip, “let’s catch us a cutthroat, shall we?” He gave his partner a wild grin, nearly vibrating with excitement.

Kaiden responded with a smirk of her own, returning her wolf mask to its rightful place. “We shall.”

“Ladies first~” he gave an obnoxious bow and motioned to the direction the map pointed to.

Kaiden snorted and strided over to the nearest ladder. “Don’t tell me you’re scared, Felix.” 

Before he could reply, she dropped down onto a shabby roof, and then descended onto the road in front of it. Felix followed, and as two knights moved forward, the ornate decor of the festival above faded away into the grime and disrepair of the Bay.

———

here’s part two!

and tagging: @xenascribbles @notyourlocalworm @bunnymermaidwrites

@thebookishkiwi @bardic-tales

[medra-gonbites]

If I Were to Weave

A one shot chapter for @bloodweaveweek 2024

Day 3 | Jealousy

Word Count: 779

SFW - Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Astarion was not the jealous type. 

He never felt inadequate as he did not compare himself to others. He had confidence in his skills, was aware of his shortcomings and knew very well the effect he had on people. 

But he was very new to this whole relationship thing and tonight he felt insecure.

They had met Rolan at the Emerald grove where he had been abrasive, rude and pompous. So had Gale when he had pulled him out of the portal. Back then he had thought that maybe it was just the kind of first impression to expect from wizards and he did not think twice about that insignificant little mage.

Then they had crossed paths again at their camp, during a party that was held in their honor. Gale and Rolan had talked about the weave and the apprentice had tried to impress him with cheap magic tricks. Astarion had noticed of course: at the time he did not care. Neither about Rolan nor about Gale. Not in the capacity he did now. So he had not said anything.

He had also remained quiet when the two mages had reunited at the Last Light Inn a few days ago, or when, before the dismay of the young tiefling, Gale had taken some time to comfort him, guiding him out of his torpor and promising to save his siblings.

He hadn't peeped when later that same day, they had to rescue the horned bastard from shadow specters because he had set himself out to do the very thing Gale had promised to fix for him. 

Now Astarion was silent once more, but seething with anger, as the young man was hugging his lover after they had ensured Cal and Lia’s safe return. The hug was a little too tight. The hands were a little too low. The embrace lasted a little too long. And eyes lingered as the two men parted from each other. 

Astarion was not the jealous type. Usually…

----------------------------------------------------------

Back at camp Astarion had gone to bed early. He did not want to sleep but he was upset and did not want company. A voice came from outside the burlap walls of his tent, disrupting his wishes.

“Astarion, can I come in?” Gale called out.

The vampire grunted. He turned his back to the entrance as the wizard stepped in. He felt the man kneel beside him. When his hand came down to graze his shoulder, he jerked it away. 

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” Gale asked softly.

No way Astarion was going to admit what was wrong. 

He felt angry with Gale for giving someone else attention. Angry with Rolan for eying what was his. Angry at himself for his lack of confidence and for feeling threatened by such an unextraordinary suitor. 

What did he have that Astarion did not? Sure, the young man was charming,  talented, sexy even, if you were into that sort of thing (the naive, sheepish bit). But so was he. Tenfold even! 

Yes, the tiefling had kind eyes. A soothing voice. A mastery of the weave that Gale could relate to. He was not a broken doll, used up by hundreds of years of servitude and exploitation… He was most likely capable of loving unconditionally and… Physically…

Astarion trembled at the thought. Gale tucked one of his grey curls behind his ear, and the elf shuddered when the mage’s fingers came to caress the pointy tip.

“I love you…” Gale murmured.

“Do you mind that I don't cast spells?” Astarion asked abruptly.

“You do cast spells!” Gale protested.

Some cantrips and spells he could indeed cast. But that wasn’t what this was about.

“Don’t patronize me!” Astarion spat, “You know what I mean!”

Gale knew what he meant. He had noticed his clenched jaws back at the Last Light Inn and the hint of hate in his eyes. He had noticed his silence throughout the evening and how quickly he had retreated into his tent. 

He laid down beside the vampire. Wrapping his arms around his back, delicately placing one hand on his lover’s chest as to feel a heartbeat that wasn’t there. 

It was fine if he did not want to talk. It was fine if he did not want to turn around. It was fine if he did not want to kiss. Gale just wanted to be there and hold him.

“Noone can compare with you.” He murmured, “You’re the only star that shines for me.” 

Astarion swallowed a sob.

“Yeah… Whatever!” He scoffed, trying to conceal the wobble in his voice.

With a sigh of relief, he squeezed the hand that laid against his heart.