#I can confidently say I would not survive the winter

[maevesque]

a/n: it's been a rough fucking day and i needed this. genuinely—being the one to take care of a beloved after they had a rough day is just as rewarding as being the one to be taken care of.

this is also my 'i'm being useful' reaping the rewards of being that special to someone.

you know what would also heal me? sylus coming back home after a long day. the roles reversed. you're sitting on the soft, maybe leafing through a book, or watching something on the tv. luke and kieran are off doing tasks assigned by sylus. it had been a rough day for him, but he's already looking forward to going home, knowing you'll be there waiting for him. 

it gives him that boost of energy he needed to make the last trips back home to you.

his footsteps are silent, but you know he's padding through the base, eventually reaching the sofa you rested on. your eyes meet, and for a second, you get lost in his red eyes, they seem to dull from how drained he is from all the tasks he had to do himself. you shift in your position, gently patting your lap to guide him to lay his head there.

he may stare for a bit. perhaps letting his mind register that it's okay to ease his mind away from the survival mode. he's in his base, with you, and the tension on his shoulders begin to melt. he'll finally sit down, staring at the beauty that is simply you. a soft gaze, the adoration, and nothing but pure love spelled in those beautiful lovesick eyes. 

"i'm tired," he whispers admittedly, easing down as he rests his head on your lap. your fingers gently carding through his silver locks draws upon a low hum. you can even think of him purring just by the feeling of your fingers in his hair. 

"then rest, i'm here. i wont go anywhere," youll reply with the softness of your voice that eases him into that state of mind he never thought possible for him.

peace. 

sylus never knew peace until he met you. his life thrived off adrenaline rushes, no time to sit back and relax, danger lurked around every corner with a huge target on his back. there was no time for him to stop and smell the flowers that bloomed where he refused to step. he had always been tensed, waiting for the next attack, to ensure he remains in the place he built this empire from the bottom up.

until he met you. 

now peace wraps around him like a cozy blanket of security on those cold winter nights. the warmth of your hands on his cheek, the soft brush of the pad of your thumb against his skin. he cups your hand, turning his face and nuzzle into it. and, then, there's that smile. a smile only reserved for you, because you are the one that managed to bring to him this peace he never knew. you are the one that makes him feel complete. 

his fears that wrap around his throat like a vice, in which he endures in silence, wanting to always be someone you can depend on and confide in, loosens and melts away just by the touch of your lips against his. 

you. 

you say that he's your home. the one you feel safest with. well guess what? you do the same exact thing for him.

when he melts into your arms, you know he feels safe to let his guards down and simply just be in the moment with you.

even if he doesn't say it out loud.

[mud-castle]

What is your zombie apocalypse survival plan?

Survival?

Babe, a zombie apocalypse would be my 13th reason.

[feyhunter78]

Think I'm Gonna Call it Off

Description: You have been Prince Aemond's secret for years now, but a certain visiting Stark opens your eyes to what could be.

Inspired by the line “think I’m gonna call it off, even if you call it love, I just wanna love someone who calls me baby.” From Good Luck, Babe by Chappell Roan

Part 2

This is ridiculous, you are a Lady of a fine house, virtuous, beautiful, intelligent, kind and your embroidery skills have been praised by Queen Alicent herself and yet here you sit waiting for Prince Aemond to return. To return and not spare you a single glance. Not until you are tucked away from the prying eyes of the court, until he is confident no one can hear your conversations.

You wonder if it is foolishness that keeps you sitting there, leaning against one of the many windows in the library, searching the skies for Vhagar’s great form set against the clouds.

You have rejected a number of suitors, worried your father and mother, made yourself seem all but undesirable in the eyes of the court, all because the prince swore that he would tell his mother. That he would announce to the whole of the realm that he loved you, and that you would be wed as soon as possible. He does not want a Valyrian wedding he said, he has no taste for it, he wants to honor you, honor his mother, and the Seven whom he worshiped.

“Lady y/n?” Lord Cregan Stark’s voice rolls through you like thunder, the deep baritone, the rouge northern brocade that made him pronounce your name just slightly different from everyone else, just enough that shamefully it makes you feel special.

You turn your head away from the towering window and give him a small smile. “Lord Stark, I did not expect to see you here.”

He returns your smile and leans against the wall; arms crossed over his chest.

Seven help you, he did have such strong looking arms, the sight of them never ceases to distract you. Even his thick tunic, and his dark-colored cloak could not hide them. Truly, everything about Lord Stark seemed strong. Queen Alicent said it is common of a Northmen, that they must be strong to survive the winters, while Lady Frey said it was the wolf’s blood in his veins. That all Starks had unnatural strength, speed, and stamina granted to them by the Old Gods. Neither woman’s explanation accounted for the man’s looks though.

Lord Stark is quite handsome, a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones with a close-cut beard, more stubble than a full beard though, and gray eyes like a winter storm. His dark hair is around Prince Aegon’s length, though often tied back and much better cared for. His lips are full and healed, having been cracked and dry from the drastic change in temperature on his trip down south. A small scar runs through the corner of them, on the right side, giving him a more roguish appearance. He said he had gotten it as a child, playing around with his father’s sword. And he was tall, so, so tall, towering over you in a way no man has before.

Then he laughs, the sound warming you to the bones, making a blush rise to your cheeks. “Do not tell me you think me a barbarian, as the others do. I thought you knew me better than that, little fox.”

The name he has graced you with never fails to make your heart stutter and disrupt any coherent thought you might have had. It is a reference to your house sigil, you know that. But the way he says it, how his accent wraps around each syllable, makes it seem far more…intimate than simply a friendly moniker given to you by a man who does not know your customs.

Aemond calls you his, or some sweet term of endearment in High Valyrian in private, sticking to Lady y/h/n in public. You wish he would use your name, you have told him time and time again, even the Queen and Princess Helaena use it. You have been at the Red Keep for nearly a decade now, been in the Princess’ inner circle of friends for almost as long, it would not seem strange to others.

“Lord Stark—”

“Cregan, or Lord Cregan if you must add the lord, as I have told you before.” He corrects you, but not unkindly, his lips curling up into a fondly exasperated smile.

“Lord Cregan, I did not mean to imply I believe that libraries were not your preferred place to spend your time, only that I thought you would be joining the other men on their hunt.”

He glances out the window towards the Kingswood. “And I would think you would be taking tea or sewing with the other ladies.”

You have been caught.

“Ah yes, well, as you know, Prince Aemond is to return today and Princess Helaena asked me to keep watch. She loves her brother very much but has to entertain the other ladies so could not watch for him herself.”

You pray Helaena will forgive you for involving her in a lie.

Cregan hums low in his throat and his eyes flicker to you, picking you apart. “Did she now?”

You nod, not trusting your own voice.

“The prince is lucky to have such a vision of beauty to return home to.” He says, running his eyes down your form, drinking in every detail with something akin to reverence? Though you know you must be seeing things. Cregan Stark would not look at you in such a way, there is no reason to.

“Princess Helaena is quite beautiful.” You agree, trying to keep an air of propriety around you even as your mind screams at you to flee for fear you will say something utterly stupid.

Cregan reaches out, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering for a moment caressing your cheek. “Aye, but she is not who I speak of.”

You? He means you?

You duck your head, cheeks warming once more. “You flatter me.”

He shifts forward, invading your space, the scent of forest air and woodsmoke filling your nostrils. “Is it flattery if it is true?” He is so close, still a respectable distance but close enough that you can reach out and touch him, can feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

“I believe that is a question for the maesters.” You tease lightly, your heart pounding in your chest.

“You are a smart girl, little fox, I am sure you can figure it out.” He teases back, a glimmer in his eyes that excites you.

No one teases you; no one jests or challenges you like Cregan does. You assume it is because they all know Prince Aemond has claim on you, or because you are a lady, but you are educated, and strong-willed, you enjoy a good challenge. You enjoy Cregan speaking to you like an equal.

“Truth is relative, as they say.” You offer, cocking your head innocently, barely able to keep a smile off your face.

“Aye, some say. Though your beauty is truth, relative or not. Surely you must know that.” He counters.

“Vanity is not a virtue.” You say, meeting his gaze. The storm gray of them has softened to a dove gray, mirth dancing within them.

“Neither is lying and yet…”

“Are you accusing me of lying, Lord Cregan?” You gasp in mock outrage.

“About knowing that your beauty is what every man dreams of returning home to? Yes.” He says, his tone light and blithe, but his words, and the way his eyes darken for a moment? It takes your breath away.

“Your beauty, little fox, is one that haunts men’s dreams, that keeps them fighting when they are the last standing. That they keep in their mind as they clash swords, traverse through snow and sea.” He continues, holding your gaze, voice no longer light, but heavy with intent and promise. “It is a beauty one wishes to see the moment they return home before all else, or any others. A beauty that should be admired in all lights and shadows. The setting of the sun and its rising, the summer days and winter nights, one to be cherished.”

You break away from his gaze, a twinge of sadness in your chest. Aemond has never spoken to you in such a way, he has waxed poetic about your beauty, flattered you, lavished you with sweet words, but it has never felt the same as Cregan’s did now. Guilt replaces the sadness, and you toy with the edge of your sleeves. You should not be engaging with Cregan in this way, it was not right, even if it made you feel…something. “You are too kind, My Lord.”

Cregan reaches for you, breaching what was proper, and taking your hand in his. They are so much larger than yours, so warm, so gentle. “Have I spoken out of turn?”

“No, no, I am just—I am a maiden of the South, Lord Stark, I am not used to such forwardness from a man I am not courting with.”

“Honesty, it is honesty, though I apologize for my forwardness.” Cregan says, subconsciously stroking the back of your hand with his thumb.

“Either way, I am not used to it.” You say heart calming with each stroke of his calloused thumb.

Cregan’s brows furrow. “I have heard tales of—the other noblemen, they speak highly of you. Of your beauty, your kindness, your wit, are they all struck dumb by your very being, is that why no one has praised you as you deserve?”

You feel you should say something about Aemond, but what could you truly say? There is no formal betrothal in place, he has not publicly staked his claim beyond a possessiveness that those who spent enough time in court could see. But nothing is ever outwardly stated.

You go to speak, but Cregan stops you. “My apologies, I should not have asked such a thing, how are you to know what lies within the minds of man?”

“You are correct, I do not know their minds.” You say instead and bury down any explanation involving Aemond and his invisible claim.

A dragon roar fills the air, the window vibrates with the force of the sound, and your eyes shoot back to the window. Prince Aemond is home.

“Or they fear the mind of one man and thus hold their tongues.” Cregan says, releasing your hand.

“The prince? I—he—we…it is not—” You cannot get the words out fast enough.

“I will take my leave.” He says, remaining for a moment searching your face until it seemed he had found what he is looking for, and left.

You watch him go, admiring the strength in his stride, when he turns back, a strange look in his eyes. “At the feast tonight, might I have a dance?” He asks.

“With me?” Your heart is pounding against your chest.

He nods.

Footsteps rush by the open library door, and you can hear Princess Helaena calling out to Prince Aemond.

You stand, smoothing out your skirts with shaky hands, why did he make you so nervous? Or is not nerves, but excitement? “Of course, Lord Cregan, I would be honored.”

“I will hold you to that.” Cregan smile, then he disappears down the hall, and you are left alone to hurry after the princess.

Aemond does not call for you until hours after he has returned. When you knock on the door to his chambers, dressed already for the feast, he bids you to enter in a soft voice, exhaustion tinging each word.

You hurry to his side, clasping one hand between your own. “My Prince, I cannot tell you how happy I am that you have returned safely.”

He uses his free hand to cup your cheek, that half smile, half smirk he wears so well on his well sculpted face. “I was only gone for a mere moon, and I was never in any danger, did you doubt your Prince, ñuha nūmio?”

“No, of course not, but…you would not tell me where you were going, no one would.” You say, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

“That is simply because it was not information you needed.” He says, brushing the pad of his thumb across your lips.

“But if I am to be your wife, would it not be prudent if I were to know where my husband is?”

Aemond’s eye, a brilliant amethyst, hardens, then he looks away and sighs. “Lady y/h/n I have told you patience is a virtue, and your virtue is what I adore most.”

You bite your lip, internally chastising yourself. You know better than to rush him. “My apologies.”

Aemond frees your bottom lip from between your teeth and brushes his lips across your forehead. “Do not take my words so harshly, your eagerness is quite endearing, and I to wish for us to be wed, but it is not yet time.”

You lean into his touch, “I understand.”

“How have you been amusing yourself while I was away, ñuha nūmio? Did anything exciting happen?” Aemond asks, his thumb resting beside the corner of your lip.

“Not much, it seems you had taken all the excitement with you. Though as you know Lord Stark’s arrival has caused quite a stir and now two moons later still is. Many ladies are jockeying for the position of Lady of the North.” You tell him, giggling at the memory of some of your friends’ actions.

“But not you?” Aemond asked, his tone making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

“No, I am yours, why would I wish to be Lady of the North?” You reassured him, brushing back a lock of silver hair from his face.

For a moment, you are struck with the memory of the feel of Cregan’s fingertips, rough and calloused but gentle against your skin. The warmth of his skin, the softness of his gaze, the earnestness of his words. What was he looking for when he stared into your eyes, when he took in every detail of your face?

“If you are too distracted, you may leave, My Lady.” Aemond says, the irritation in his voice drawing you from your thoughts.

“No, no, I am not, I am just so happy you have returned.”

Aemond hums in acknowledgement, dressed in his feast finery as well. “I have missed you.”

Your heart flutters. “I have missed you as well.”

He releases your chin to trail his fingers down the column of your neck. His cool touch causes goosebumps to follow in his wake, and he dips his head low to press his lips to your cheek, then begins to follow his fingers with his lips. “I have missed you, your voice, your smiles, your touch.”

You shiver in response, grabbing onto his doublet.

“Do not touch, you will wrinkle the fabric.” He warns, even as his hands grip your waist.

You remove your hands, clasping them behind your back.

“I will not be able to dance with you tonight, mother has brought another girl for me to try and charm.” He says, into your skin, his silver hair brushing against your exposed décolletage.

Your heart sinks. “Not even one dance?”

Aemond sighs and presses a final kiss to the hollow of your throat. “You know I detest it as much as you do, but it is my duty.”

You nod, blinking back the tears that threaten to appear on your waterline.

He smooths down your hair and turns you towards the door. “I will try to find time for one dance, but I cannot make any promises.”

His words lift your spirits, and you smile at him. “Thank you, Aemond.”

“Prince Aemond, we have guests tonight.” He reminds you, then he shuts the door, and you hurry back to your chambers.

The Great Hall is decorated beautifully, and you sit at your table with the other ladies of Helaena’s circle. A wine glass in hand as you watch Aemond dance with Cerelle Peake, her brown hair pinned up with a net of gold and sapphires, her umber gown flowing beautifully as she twirled.

“Come now, y/n, you will never be asked to dance with such a scowl.” Johanna Swyft says, poking your cheek goodnaturedly.

“No, she will never be asked to dance because the prince glares at anyone who tries.” Mina Redwyne says, clinking her glass against yours in silent sympathy.

Johanna shoots her a look. “Do keep your voice down, Mina.”

You take a long drink from your glass, emptying it, then setting it down, scanning the crowd for another servant. “Perhaps I do not wish to dance.”

“I am crushed to hear that Lady y/n.” Cregan’s presence makes every lady at your table sit up straight, and you turn to face him.

“Lord Stark.” You say, bowing your head in his direction.

He holds out a hand, and you remember how it nice felt, the phantom warmth still lingering. “I do believe you agreed to a dance, earlier today?”

“Lucky.” Mina hisses, as Johanna juts her elbow into your side to prod you up and out of your seat.

You stand, and take his hand, trying to ignore the twinge of pain in your side. “I did.”

Cregan leads you to the dance floor, and you can hear your friends giggling behind you, much to your utter embarrassment.

“Your friends seem quite encouraging.” Cregan says, barely holding back a laugh.

“When they learned I have no sisters, they decided that they would act as such, apparently that means acting in a most embarrassing way.” You say, falling into the rhythm of the dance.

“I knew you had brothers, but I did not know you were the only daughter, that must make you very precious in your father’s eyes.” Cregan ventures, his large, warm hand pressed to yours as you circle each other.

“I would like to think so.” You smile, your heart aches for a moment with homesickness. “He could not attend this feast, he is too ill to travel, my eldest brother is here on his behalf, accompanied by my second-eldest brother who is here to drink and presumably enjoy the Silk Streets.”

“I never had a taste for brothels.”

“Nor I.”

Cregan smiles and twirls you. “I thought not, for I have heard you are far too virtuous.”

You shrug. “It is more, I do not wish to spend the coin.”

Shock flashes across his face then he laughs, repeating your words quietly with a chuckle, and as you are spun back into his arms you cannot help but laugh as well.

“You are clever, little fox, I will miss you when I return home.” He says, his eyes searching you once more.

Your heart stops, and you trip over your feet. “You are leaving?”

His grip on you tightens as he helps you right yourself. “Aye, I have been here for two moons, that is far too long, my people need me.”

You do not want him to leave, you will miss him dearly, his laugh, his expressions, his stories. You will miss the walks you had taken together, the discussions that ran late into the night, just outside your chambers, the men standing guard pretending they were not listening. The way he presented you with the pelts of animals he had hunted, regaling you with the tale of how he felled it. Who would challenge you now, who would make you laugh, would listen to your words, and respond as if you were an equal, as if your sex did not diminish your intelligence?

“When will you leave?” You ask, unable to keep your voice steady, so you spin away from him to give yourself a moment to smother your emotions.

Cregan pulls you back into his arms, trapping you with his steady gaze. “In a few days time.”

“Oh…” You manage to choke out, swallowing hard, your eyes on your feet.

“I have been meaning to tell you, there just never seemed to be a good time.” Cregan says sheepishly.

You nod, still staring at the floor. “Well, I will miss you.”

“I will miss you too, y/n,” he says softly, then he slips a finger under your chin and lifts it gently. “In all lights, in all seasons.”

Tears blur your vision, and you hastily blink them away, not even noticing he has said only your given name, no title attached. Cregan’s warm thumb catches any stray tears that fall, and you lean into his touch, desperate for more of that something he had made you feel before. That something you realize he was always making you feel, and that he is making you feel right now, though it is tinged with grief. “Cregan, I—”

“Lady y/h/n, I believe I promised you a dance.” Aemond’s voice is steel, ice, the frigid fear that ran through the veins of Vhagar’s victims, and you hurriedly wipe away any remaining tears plastering on a false smile, before you turn, Cregan’s other hand still on your waist.

You drop into a curtsy. “My Prince, that you did.”

Cregan’s hand lingers, and your heart lurches in your chest when the warmth of it is finally removed.

Another song has begun to play, one you love dancing with Aemond to. It allows for close movements and lingering touches that you always long for with him.

“I thought you did not wish to be the Lady of the North.” He says, his eyes picking you apart as Cregan’s did but there is a cold methodical feel to it that makes you feel utterly and horribly exposed.

“He was merely being kind, no one else had asked me to dance.” You protest, falling into the rhythm as you had before.

“No one else should, you are mine.” Aemond say, spinning you out, and then back in.

His hands burn through your gown, your skin, meeting bone, and before you would have loved it, relished the feeling, but now you feel they are too hot, your skin prickles uncomfortably.

“I like to dance; I do not get to dance when you are occupied, and you are often occupied.” You say quietly, your head bowed ever so slightly.

“I had them play your favorite song, as a reward for your patience.” He says, ignoring your words. “Do you like it?”

“I do, thank you.” You smile and raise your head, hoping to catch his eye and find it brimming with affection. That would soothe your wounded heart, would banish the grief you feel at Cregan leaving.

Instead, his eye is elsewhere, you follow its gaze to see it land on the Peake girl. You do not blame her, do not hate her, though your blood turns to fire in your veins, and you brace yourself for what you are going to say next.

“When are we going to be wed, I have been patient for many years, and you never tell me when my patience will be able to end.” You say, holding your chin high. You are not a Peake, but you still have pride.

His eye flicker back to you, his grip tightening. “Are you truly asking this now?”

“Yes. Yes, I am, because I am tired of waiting, tired of watching as you charm others, tired of being shunted to the side because even though you will not claim me, no one else is allowed to.” You can no longer keep your emotions contained. “I want to be happy Aemond, I want to be happy with you, but I am not happy.”

“Not everything is about your happiness, Lady y/h/n.” Aemond snaps.

You reel back as if you have been struck. “I did not say it was. You have been the one saying you wished to marry me, promising me you would tell the whole of the realm how deeply you care for me. I have done nothing else but dote on you and be patient.”

Guilt flashes across his face, and he reaches for you, but you push his hands away. “It is not so simple.”

“Do you see my face in your dreams, does it keep you fighting, keep you marching on, am I the first person you wish to see when you return home, do you wish to see me in all lights, in all seasons?” You throw Cregan’s words in Aemond’s face and wait for a response.

Aemond laughs, taking your hands, and bringing you back into the dance. “You have picked up a new book of poetry, I see.”

You cannot find it in yourself to be angry, the shock settling in, muffling everything until it is as if you are floating underwater. The rest of the night passes that way, you go through the motions, avoiding Cregan, your friends, shooting you concerned looks.

Then the feast ends, guards escort those too drunk to find their chambers, all others dispersing to their places for the night, or into Fleabottom for more revelry.

You try to sleep, but it will not come, Cregan and Aemond’s words echoing in your sleepless mind, until finally you throw off your blankets and wrap a robe around your nightshift.

You creep through the halls, no true direction in mind, letting your feet take you where they wished, when a flicker of umber catches your eye. Pressing yourself behind a pillar, you wait a moment then peek out.

“Lord Stark, might I be allowed to enter?” Cerelle Peake’s voice is soft, as was required for the late hours.

“Lady Peake, might I ask why you wish to enter my chambers?” Cregan asks, his words thick with sleep. His hair is loose, his night shirt exposing his broad chest.

“I thought perhaps you might enjoy some company.” She says, as she takes a step towards him, moving to run a finger down his chest.

Cregan catches her hand and gently returns it to her side. “I do not wish for your company, Lady Peake. Please return to your chambers quietly, and I will not speak with your father about this.”

Cerelle scoffs and turns on her heel, storming down the hallway. You wait until Cregan’s door closed then follow her.

Halfway there, you know where she was going, you have walked these halls many times. Not wanting to further your own pain, you turn back to your own chambers, but your feet disobey you, and you find yourself in front of Cregan’s door.

You knock before you could stop yourself and the door swings open, a tired and angry Cregan standing before you. “Lady Peake, I do not need any comp—” His words die on his lips as he realizes it was you and not Cerelle. “Y/N?”

“All those things you said, about my beauty, about me, did you mean them? Truly?” Tears prick at the backs of your eyes, your chest tight, your bottom lip trembling.

Cregan rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Do not tell me you woke me only to hear more flattery.”

A sob escapes your lips. “I thought you said it was truth, not flattery.”

Cregan snaps awake, pulling you into his arms. “Little fox, I am sorry, I was half asleep, yes, yes, it is truth.”

You cling to him, gripping his night shirt, your face buried in his chest as you sob, every fear, every pain spilling out into his warm embrace. “Tell me you meant it, that you see me in your dreams, that you want me, in all lights, all seasons, that I am not destined to wait forever for someone to love me.”

“I love you, y/n, I love you, you do not need to wait, I will tell you as many times as you desire. I meant it, all of it, you haunt my dreams, you plague my waking thoughts, I want you at any time, in any manner, or light, or moment I can have you.” He says, his voice is steady, and you can feel the vibrations of it deep in his chest, alongside his beating heart.

“I want to go with you to Winterfell, I want to be your Lady of the North, or even just your mistress if my house is not a good enough match, Cregan I do not care. I love you and all I care about is that we are not parted, that we are never parted, I do not think I will be able to breathe if we are parted.” You confess, looking up at him afraid to see what you saw in Aemond’s eye.

Cregan cups your face and kisses you, the taste of honeyed ale on his tongue, his hands warm as he keeps you close, using his foot to kick the door closed so he can press you against it.

Now in the safety of his chambers he breaks the kiss, your breaths intermingling. “You will not be a mistress, you will be my wife, none will come before you.”

“Will you tell your people, will they know?” You ask, your lips brushing against his with each word.

“I will wake the whole Red Keep to announce it now if you wish.” He says, his forehead resting against yours.

You reconnect your lips with his, his stubble brushing against your skin, but you pay it no mind, letting Cregan devour you, his hands moving into your hair, as you loop your arms around his neck, keeping him close.

He groans against you, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, delving in when you part them and exploring every inch of you. “My little fox, my y/n, my wife, my beautiful, clever wife.” He presses the words into your skin, heated lips trailing down to your pulse point.

“Husband.” You sigh, tilting your neck further exposing yourself to him, his teeth sinking into the skin claiming you as his own.

“Say it again for me, my wife, tell me who I am.” He breaths, sucking, and nipping at your neck, returning to darken the marks between creating new ones.

“You, Cregan, my husband.” You say, eyes snapping open when he releases you and stalks over to the window.

He threw it open and stuck his head out, shouting. “Y/N Y/H/N, is to be my wife.”

You rush forward and pull him from the window with a scandalized giggle. “Cregan it is the middle of the night.”

“Then at the very least a few guards heard.” He says, pulling you close and kissing you again, in full view of the window, the moon, anyone else who might look up, and it is exactly as you want it.

I lied in the comments imma do a part two I’ve given into the peer pressure stay tuned my loves!!!

HOTD taglist: @nyctophilic0vitnir, @svtansdaddyx, @fan-goddess, @dc-marvel-girl96, @shintax-error, @bellameshipper, @the141bandicoot, @the-phantom-of-arda, @haydee5010, @partypoison00, @serrhaewin, @issshhh, @pax-2735, @malfoytargaryen, @sahanna, @dellalyra, @mxrgodsstuff, @jkhomes, @unusual-raccoon, @boofy1998, @kravitzwhore, @caribbeangel, @krispold, @issshh, @afro-hispwriter, @ryswritingrecord, @prettykinkysoul, @elissanatok, @sahvlren, @its-sam-allgood, @happinessinthbeing, @8e-h-e8, @feyres-fireheart, @just-emmaaaa, @crazylokonugget, @hedahobbit98, @devils-blackrose, @mercedesdecorazon, @snh96, @imjustboredso, @izzicle, @hiatuswhore, @aslanvez, @devils-blackrose, @yentroucnagol, @queenofshinigamis, @partyposion00, @cryptidsrcool, @jennifer0305

[ynsbarbbb]

down bad | d. ricciardo

hypothesis - daniel is not ready nor is he willing to leave this thing behind.

pairing - daniel ricciardo x fem!baker!reader

[fic is inspired by “down bad” by taylor swift]

“fuck it if i can’t have us, i might just not get up, i might stay down bad”

“y/n,” your name slipped past his lips in a devastated sigh, eyes big as he stared at you. brown orbs drowning in a pool of tears.

a big, red suitcase sat on your bed, clothes haphazardly thrown around and you, sitting there on the foot end of the bed, messy hair surrounding your face and one of your favourite tops scrunched up in your hands.

daniel’s feet is glued to the hardwood floor by the door, his mind swimming, “wh—what are you doing?”

he looks around the room, your belongings, their familiar spots now empty. a sob escapes your mouth and you crumble from the edge of the bed down to the floor, ankles crossing and knees bucking up.

“i can’t do this anymore, daniel.”

his feet moves him to crouch in front of you, “baby, what are you talking about?”

you look up at him, “this,” you gesture around you with your hand, “the spotlight, the constant hate, the amount of time you leave.”

“let’s talk about it, yeah?” daniel asked, his voice hoarse. he’s swallowing at the lump in his throat, as he moves to sit down.

chuckling, you throw the top to the side, “what’s there to talk about? i’m a baker, i bake cakes, in a small town. and you,” you sniff and wipe your nose with the back side of your hand, “you travel the world, you race, everyone knows about you.”

he nods, “baby, i still don’t see the problem here.”

“i’m out of your league, i’m so far out of your league. i don’t fit into this lifestyle, i can’t flaunt money anywhere i go.”

daniel takes hold of your hands, “where’s all of this coming from, honey?”

you look up at him, and reach your arm back on the bed where you have thrown your phone after spending hours reading what his fans had written about you.

his fans, the people that would run to the end of this world to support him, that go to his every race to shout his name as he passes the finish line, the people he confided in the most when he started dating you.

“i can talk to them, disable our comments on our posts, hell, baby, i’ll even delete all social media,” daniel says, his eyes not leaving the phone. his eyes reading every comment twice and his heart swelling and breaking.

switching off the phone, you stand up and grap the top you had thrown to the side, “don’t bother, it’ll either way just get worse.”

daniel shoots to his feet, grabbing the things you had haphazardly throw into the suitcase and putting it on the bed.

he’s not going to loose you. he won’t.

“y/n, please don’t do this, it’s almost winter break, we can go somewhere private, just us. we can work this out, we will get past this,” daniel is practically begging, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he keeps on swallowing on the lump.

your shoulders sag, “daniel, stop,” you place the jeans in your suitcase and walk up to him to take his hands in yours, “find someone else, someone who fits into this life, who will walk it with you every step of the way. there are so many women out there who’ll be better and much more supportive than i am, and someone who can handle a bunch of teenage girls’ comments.”

daniel shakes his head wildly and grips your hands tighter, “no, no, fuck all else if i cannot do this with you. i don’t need someone else, God, i only want you. i am my best when i am with you, y/n, forget those fucking comments. remember what i said in the beginning of this relationship?” daniel’s hands moved up to cup your face, wiping at the wetness under your eyes, nodding his head,

“it’s us, baby, it’s us against all else,” his voice breaks as he said it. he bites his lips, the tears he was forcing away finally slips down his cheeks.

“i will fight, y/n, i will fight for us. i will fight for you. i will fight anyone who is against us, because, baby, i will not survive this night if you walk out those doors,” he moves to tuck those little hairs around your face behind your ears.

you nod your head as best as you can with daniel’s large calloused palms holding it. falling into him, resting your head on his chest and securely wrapping your arms around him, you believe him.

because, against all odds, you weren’t ready to leave, to leave everything you’ve accomplished together.

you weren’t ready to loose daniel. to loose his jokes, his comfort that comes with his presence, his laugh that made everyone in the room giggle, his hands that easily engulfed yours, his shoulder when you needed someone to lean on. you weren’t ready to loose that.

his chest heaved with a sigh of relief as he rested his chin on the crown of your head and wrapping his arms around your shoulders tightly.

“it’s us against it all, yeah?”

with your face smushed into his chest, a mumbled agreement sealed with a kiss to your forehead is all both you and daniel needed to know that none of you were going anywhere anytime soon.

fin.

[elliewritesfantasy]

Escape in the Night

A/N: I never thought I would be posting fanfiction on this account. However, Baldur’s Gate has captured my attention and my inspiration for months now. I don’t even know if anyone will see this, but I enjoyed writing it, and that’s all that matters.

Some protective dadstarion for you all. And strong boss Tav. Female Tav x Astarion.

Snow fell in great white clumps, blanketing the forest in an eerie silence. Cold crept up your fingers, reaching further with every moment that passed. You remained crouched under the boughs of an old maple tree, the bare branches leaning under the weight of the snowfall. You were burdened with your own weight; a greatsword hung between your shoulder blades, a relic of your paladin oath long forgotten among other worries, and a bundle against your chest. It was the one spot of true warmth on this winter night. Your baby. Astarion’s baby.

Armelle.

Boots shifted, crunching snow and dirt.

“Astarion?” His name was barely a puff of air from your mouth.

“I’m here.” He appeared next to you, and knelt. His silver hair shone even on this starless night, a mess of curls barely tamed. His eyes searched your face, his hands clenched around his longbow.

“Where are the vampires?” you asked.

“They’re close. I need to get you out of here.” Astarion placed a hand on your shoulder, guiding you to your feet. “I’ve lost a lot of my vampiric senses, but not all.”

“I wish they would see reason.”

“I know.”

You had found a wish scroll for him long ago, as part of your promise after the defeat of the netherbrain. The wish scroll brought him not only the cure for him vampirism, but the promise of a wide open future free of having to hide in the dark. It brought him hope and the freedom to finally say that he could marry you without feeling like he had trapped you in a vampire’s nest for life. And it had brought him his second-most precious gift of all - the wrapped child you clutched with the strength of a mother’s fierce love.

The vampires didn’t know Astarion was cured. They thought he had sired a dhampir, the offspring of a vampire and a powerful being with hungers rarely fully sated. A dhampir would be an asset to their coven, and they wasted no time in searching you out in the two weeks you have had her. You hadn’t meant to have your baby on the way to Waterdeep for a companions’ reunion. She was early. A surprise. But you were already so far from home, it wasn’t worth it to turn back.

Maybe that was a mistake.

“Y/N.” Astarion broke you from your thoughts. “Waterdeep isn’t far. If you run, you can make it while I hold them off.”

“I can’t leave you.” Your soul burned with your paladin’s oath, and your hands itched to strike the vampires down with all of your holy might.

“Just for a second. I’ll meet you there I promise,” Astarion said. His lips lifted in his slightly crooked smile. “If we can survive the Absolute and the attempted end of the world, we can survive this.”

You steeled your nerves, drinking in his familiar confident expression, though it wavered just a bit as the bundle on your chest let out a small, sleepy whine. “Alright”

“I can smell you. I can smell her.” The crooning voice of the vampire master Kazimir cut through the dampened night. Your heart quickened.

“Run.” Astarion notched an arrow, his breath coming in quick, clouded puffs. “Run!”

You didn’t hesitate. Your boots dug into the snow, into the frozen mud and you sprinted with all of the strength left in your body. The lights of Waterdeep twinkled on the horizon. It wasn’t much farther. You could make it.

“Ah, not so fast.”

You skidded to a stop, your throat lurching with fear. Kazimir stood before you, red eyes shining with glee.

“I can’t let you go, not with that creature you have.”

“She’s not a creature,” you growled. You drew your greatsword.

“Oh, but she is. And what a delicious creature she would be to have. She should be raised by a real vampire, not a pithy elf and a weak spawn.” He drew his own blade, a wicked sharp rapier. “Hand her to me peacefully, and I will let you return to your spawn without fuss.”

“No.” You swung your greatsword in an arc, poised to strike.

“A shame. Then I will have to take her from you.” Kazimir lunged forward, blade catching on the woolen edge of your wrap. You lurched back, narrowly escaping his rapier. You raised your sword, letting the anger in your stomach explode outward, lighting the weapon with a golden light. The vampire hissed and shrunk back instinctually at the light. With a cry, you leaped forward, bringing your sword down in a blazing arc. The vampire recovered just in time, spinning out of the way of your smite, his cloak billowing out behind him. He vanished among the trees, flitting between them like a ghost. You reeled, then recovered, and grounded yourself in the snow. You had to be ready.

Your eyes searched the darkness desperately, your eyes struggling to perceive anything beyond the falling snow.

“Behind you!” Astarion ran from the trees, an arrow whistling through the air. It found its mark in the shoulder of the master vampire. He screamed, turning from you to Astarion.

A blast of blue light blinded you all in an instant. A dimension door appeared just to your left with a familiar hand reaching through it.

“Gale!”

“Come with me,” Gale emerged wholly, his hair whipping in the wind of the portal. “Quickly!”

“But, Astarion-“ you looked back the silver elf now fighting Kazimir with his dagger, locked in an expert hand-to-hand battle.

“You have something more important to think about now, eh?” Gale gestured to you once again. You closed your eyes tight, sheathing your weapon. With one last glance at Astarion, you let Gale pull you through the gate and into the candlelit drawing room of his tower.

Shadowheart was the first to run to you. “Y/N, what happened?”

You couldn’t answer, your body wracked with violent shudders and shakes. Some of it was from the cold, some from the fear that made your very soul twist. Shadowheart wrapped you in a blanket. Through a tendril of consciousness, you managed to pull aside your wrap to check on your baby. You collapsed into a chair at the sight of her, eyes still closed, asleep. Safe.

“I’m going back for him.” Gale began furiously searching for a scroll through the precarious stacks upon his end tables.

Shadowheart laid a hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t risk it. What if the vampire comes through this time?”

Gale shook his head. “I can’t leave him to that master. I remember how strong Cazador was.”

“We have to trust him,” Shadowheart argued.

You could only sit, your arms holding your baby to you, her head cradled in your hands. A prayer of safety rang through your mind again and again. You had been a thirty minute run from Waterdeep before, and with the fight, maybe it would take him an hour.

“Please, I need you,” you whispered. Gale and Shadowheart retreated, letting you hold your child and warm by the fire while your brain was wracked with thoughts.

Please. Please.

I should have stayed.

Please.

The door to the drawing room burst open. You ran to it immediately, blood rushing in your ears.

“I’m here.”

“Astarion.”

He was here, his armor streaked bright red with blood. His hair was clumped with gore, and a cut on his cheek shone. He drank your face in hungrily, then reached for the woolen wrap, pushing it aside to reveal the perfect girl curled at your chest, her fine, newborn-soft silver hair glowing in the candlelight. Astarion placed a hand on her head, giving her a soft kiss right above her brow. He pressed his forehead against yours, tucking you both into his chest.

Even years after his cure, the feeling of his body warmth was novel. You soaked it in.

“He’s dead,” Astarion said. He twined a hand through your hair, pressing you into his shoulder. “He will never bother us again.”

“I can’t believe you killed him.” You drew back, studying his face.

Astarion laughed, his brows crinkling. “What, you doubted me? Hero of the world, slayer of the netherbrain?”

“You know it was my sword that landed the final strike,” you teased.

Armelle stirred, drawing Astarion’s attention. Oh, how much he had changed. From only being able to care about his own survival, to dedicating his whole existence to the survival of two others. It scared him more than the impending end of existence did.

“It doesn’t matter anyway.” He traced Armelle’s rounded, flushed cheeks, taking in the hair that matched his own, the nose that matched yours. “I have everything that I need right here.”

[georgescitadel]

George R.R. Martin on the process of creating A Game Of Thrones

You hold in your hands the second volume of A Song of Ice and Fire… but not the second volume as originally intended. Although I wrote the opening of A Game of Thrones back in the summer of 1991, as related in my introduction to the Meisha Merlin edition of that volume, it was not until October of 1993 that I drew up a proposal for my agents to take to publishers. There is no mention of any book titled A Clash of Kings in that proposal. In 1993, I was under the impression that I was writing a trilogy.

Trilogies had been the dominant form in epic fantasy ever since J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings had been broken apart by publishers and released in three volumes. And the story that I wanted to tell divided quite naturally into three parts; much more so, in fact, than The Lord of the Rings, which is actually one fairly seamless narrative, and not a trilogy at all. I planned to title the books A Game of Thrones, A Dance with Dragons, and The Winds of Winter. I knew right from the start that they would all be large books. Huge books, even. But there were to be only three of them, and…and none were to be called A Clash of Kings. Sometimes the author is the last to know.

As I write this, I am halfway through the writing of A Feast for Crows, the fourth volume of my ‘trilogy.’ There is no mention of that title in my 1993 proposal either. These days, when pressed, I confidently assert that A Song of Ice and Fire will ultimately run to six books… but behind my back I know my lady Parris is smiling knowingly and holding up seven fingers. She may be right. Though I may dream of six books, plan for six books, work toward six books, the only thing that truly matters is the story. And the story needs to be as long as the story needs to be.

In Hollywood, the suits will tell you how long that is. A television show has to fit within its allotted time slot, of course, and you cannot beg, borrow, or steal an extra minute, no matter how much the story needs it. Running times are somewhat more flexible for films, though not as much as one might think. For the most part, the studios still want movies to run about two hours, so they look for screenplays of 120 pages or less, and demand cuts in any scripts that come in longer. My own screenplays and teleplays were almost always too long and too expensive in first draft, so in my later drafts, along with addressing the inevitable notes from studio, network, and producers, I was constantly trimming. In the end, I would deliver a shooting script that was the right length and under budget, but it was never a happy process… and I often went away feeling that the earlier drafts were the better ones.

The size of A Song of Ice and Fire was in no small part a reaction to ten years of trimming. I wanted to do something epic in scale, something at once grand and sprawling and complex and subtle, with a cast of thousands, huge battles, mighty castles, gorgeous costume, lavish feast, great rivers, towering mountains, vast fields… all the things I could not do in television. In short. I wanted to make a world. And for that you need a bit of room.

In my original proposal, I estimated that each volume of the trilogy might run as long as 800 pages in manuscript. The novels that I had written during the 70's and 80's, before Hollywood, had generally come in at 400 or 500 pages or thereabouts, so an 800 pages book seemed very lengthy indeed. The three books of the trilogy would be structured around the long, slow seasons of Westeros. A Game of Thrones would be summer’s book, A Dance with Dragons would take us through autumn, and The Winds of Winter… well, the title says it all. Even in the Seven Kingdoms, where a season can last for years, 800 pages ought to give me enough room to reach the end of summer and conclude the part of my tale, I reasoned.

‘Twas a lovely plan of battle… but no plan of battle ever survives contact with the enemy, it has been said. Writers know the truth of that as well as any general, though our wars are fought on blank white sheets of paper and empty computer screens. For the map is not the territory, the blueprint is not the house, the recipe is not the dinner… and the outline is never ever the book.

- George R.R. Martin, A Clash of Kings Limited Edition Introduction (2002)

[homunculus-argument]

Have you ever had one of those things happen that just straight-up sound like something that'd only go down in a badly written sitcom?

This one time a few years ago, I had nothing to do in the middle of the day so I went out to wander around the city, and encountered one of those christian missionaries of some sort - not mormons, some local finnish-speaking one, probably Jehova's witnesses, I can't recall - who addressed me first. Having only gone out to kill time I figured I'd stop to see what he had to say, this might get interesting.

He started talking about sin, and I told him that I don't think that's real, humans aren't inherently bad creatures that need to be goaded into not doing evil by an outside force. Apparently taken back by my confidence about this, he asked me why I think so. And while I was absolutely not this eloquent about it while talking as I am typing it out now, I explained that if doing good didn't come naturally to people, it wouldn't feel good to do it. There's been studies about that - it makes people feel happy to help others, even when they gain nothing from it, or even at a cost to themselves sometimes.

Doing good things feels good for the same reason as eating, sleeping and having sex feel good - because we're supposed to do it. It doesn't matter to me why that is - either there's a god who made people with inherent goodness to them, or natural selection of the cold uncaring universe saw this behaviour as beneficial for survival. People want to be good to one-another just like migratory birds want to fly south for the winter.

He gave me his best annoyed "alright, fair enough"-shrug and was clearly trying to think of how to disagree with that when we were interrupted. I have no idea how a person that large and entirely indifferent to concepts like subtlety, stealth or an indoor voice even can sneak up on people, but we were both startled when someone I had briefly met appeared out of apparent nowhere, loudly going

HEY AREN'T YOU THAT TRANNY FROM THE PARK

addressing me. I used to go drinking at the park quite often back then, and while I did meet a lot of people that way and my memory is the first thing to disappear when I'm drunk, someone that loud, tall and broad-shouldered, covered in tattoos, with long hair, braided beard and electric blue eyeshadow isn't someone you easily forget. I was, indeed, the tranny from the park and I had been the person who had explained the concept of "nonbinary" to them.

My acquaintance here was somewhere between 30 and 50 and not exactly up to whatever the kids are doing these days, and their reaction to this information was roughly "oh huh so there's a name for the thing I'm doing". As they only spoke finnish, I can't say that I would have been the one to explain the concept of gender neutral pronouns to them, but they had been fascinated to discover that other languages have gendered pronouns in the first place.

Refreshing my memory of the encounter - and apparently unintentionally also recounting it to the missionary who was still silently standing with us - they proceeded to explain that they've never really felt like a man or a woman. And sometimes not really even like a human, but more like an alien who had just been dropped off here from a spaceship - but not like in a psychotic delusions sort of way, but just the vibes, you know? They then proceeded to tell us about some other fascinating epiphanies that they had had while on psychedelics.

As they went on, the christian missionary next to us was drifting backwards so slowly that I don't think I noticed him actually take an individual backwards step, just silently sliding gradually further away from this situation, with apparent mild concern. And while my happenstance acquaintance - whose name I either never heard or couldn't remember hearing - was talking, I noticed I had gotten a text message from a friend, who asked if I'm around and whether I want to come hang out.

So as the nonbinary giant self-appointed alien was finished with their story and took their leave - telling me that they'll probably see me around, and as I was around a lot, I reassured them that they would - I turned to the missionary and told him that while I'd love to carry on with what we were talking about, I actually have people to see now, and bid him good luck with whatever he was trying to do.

It's been like five years between that day and today, and during that time I moved to a different city and back here. I don't think I've seen the nonbinary giant again even once during this time, and wherever they are, I hope they're doing ok and no longer doing any weird drugs. Or if they are, that at least they're having fun.

[azrielslightintheshadows]

Princess

Azriel x f!Reader.

One of the series I’m currently working on. Enjoy!

Summary; Reader is Mor’s new friend that she found in the winter court while she was away for business. Y/n has been raised as a princess since her parents wanted to wed her to a noble fae in order to climb the social ranks. When her parents are brutally murdered y/n is left alone without a clue about the harsh reality or the brutality of the world. Mor finds her and takes her back to Velaris afraid of what might happen to her if she was left to live on her own. Will y/n survive the hate she will receive from certain members of the inner circle -including her mate- regarding the way she grew up?

Warnings; angst, mentions of abuse, trauma and death.

Masterlist.

Princess Masterlist.

Chapter 4

Now you know. The shadows whispered in your ear and disappeared.

You didn’t know why they showed you this, it felt like invading Azriel’s privacy. Your heart broke as the image of the boy resurfaced, so young and thin. You shook your head and walked to the bathroom to wash yourself, the house had already changed the sheets.

After fixing yourself as much as you could you walked to the dining room and found Cassian, Nesta and Azriel there, they all looked at you when you entered, and Cassian smiled.

“Good morning” he said and turned back to his food.

“Good morning” you smiled and took a seat next to Azriel. You didn’t know why but you felt the need to be close to him, you couldn’t remember what happened last night, the only memory you had was walking into a bar and then Azriel placing you on the bed and leaving. Maybe it was the nightmare that made you feel this way. Azriel was surprised too yet he didn’t say anything nor moved away.

A plate of food appeared in front of you and you started eating.

“So y/n would you like to join us for training?” Nesta asked and you almost gasped, you didn’t expect her to be nice to you.

“I don’t want to be a burden, I have never fought in my life… I will just hold you back” you replied, your voice soft. Nesta snorted and shook her head.

“Nonsense, I hadn’t fought a day in my life when I started training too. At least come and watch and then you can make your decision” she shrugged.

“Okay” you nodded.

You glanced at Azriel who had an approving look on his face and instantly you felt proud of yourself.

After breakfast you went into your room and Nesta followed you. “Listen… I don’t really like you, we’ve all been through a lot and your appearance here is mocking us. You will never be able to understand the sacrifices we made and our trauma but as a female its my duty to help you become strong, confident and independent. Take the opportunity, you won’t regret it.”

You didn’t know how to feel about her statement, you admired her. Most females on your circle tried to destroy the others, it was one of the most successful ways to eliminate the threat and get married first. Nesta could see the gears in your head turning and that was enough for her, so she continued. “Lets find some proper clothes for training.”

She opened your closet and snorted when she saw the pink dress you wore the first day. “You should burn that thing, it’s hideous” she made a gagging noise and continued her search. You frowned and your mind went back to the day you bought it. That dress saved your life and even though it was ugly, it grounded you, it is the only thing that reminds you the past.

“I think these are okay” she said and threw a pair of leggings and a top on your bed. “Get dressed and come find us at the roof” and with that she left.

You picked the clothes and tried them on. The top reached your belly button and you felt exposed, your whole silhouette was on display, and you blushed as you saw yourself. Come on, everyone here wears this type of clothes. You can do this. You told yourself and with a deep shaky breath you left the room, hurrying off to the roof.

Cassian, Nesta, Azriel and two females were already there. The females had formed a line and Cassian stood in front of them, demonstrating some moves and then watching them repeat them, correcting them when needed. Azriel was behind the females correcting their stance and sometimes kicking their legs, making them lose balance.

“You should always be aware of your surroundings. Get up and correct your stance. Now.” He barked and moved to the next one.

Everything looked scary and painful, making you shiver. You gathered all your courage and walked outside, taking a seat on the bench in front of them.

“Hello y/n” Cassian smiled and moved to the side so you could see better. You waved at him, and your eyes fell on Azriel. He stood frozen behind the line, his eyes scanning your body. He licked his bottom lip and turned his attention to the females.

Your face burned and you made a mental note to dress like that more often. Then you frowned. He hates you and you should hate him too for the way he is treating you. Stop this. You reprimanded yourself and focused on the females.

They were moving with such grace, you felt like you were watching a choreography, their braids flowing around with every move they made, their muscles flexing their faces turning cold and then soft with a smile as Cassian shouted praises. You felt hypnotized and wondered if you could ever look this elegant with sweat running down your body. You thought about the females you used to admire, all living inside their pink bubble, only caring about their looks and lifestyle. The most successful female of your village had locked her sister in a cell when one lord visited their small cottage, so she didn’t have to compete. She managed to wed him but at a great cost. Her younger sister was afraid of the dark, when she threw her into the cell, she went mad and started banging her body on the wall, she cracked her skull and died. The older sister didn’t even cry and she pushed the funeral a few weeks later so she could prepare her wedding. Her sister’s body rotted in that cell, and she didn’t even care.

You glanced at the females here, they looked elegant and strong and successful. They didn’t care about males, they only cared about themselves. The looks they sent you filled with hope and encouragement in addition to what Nesta said earlier made your heart swell. They didn’t see each other as competition. No. They cared about other females, they wanted to help. You could fit here. These were the females you should admire, the females you could have as your role models and the thought made you smile, determination filling your body and making your blood boil. You got up and hurried off to your room, you opened the closet and picked the pink dress. You walked back outside and stared at Nesta. She stared back a smirk appearing on her face as she hurried off and came back outside with a candle in her hand. She offered it to you, and you threw the dress on the ground, lighting it up on fire and watching it burn. Nesta looked at you with pride and she clapped.

“Welcome to the real world princess” she smiled.

You glanced around and noticed the other females, they were clapping too, Cassian let out a low whistle and Azriel grinned. Your heart melted and you let out a giggle, your eyes filling with tears as you whispered, “Thank you”.

You weren’t thanking them for their applause, you were thanking them for supporting you, for opening your eyes and showing you that its okay to be strong and independent. And as you stood on that roof, proud of yourself and ready to take the wheel of your life, your gaze fell onto Azriel, and the bond snapped.

Your smile turned into a frown and your whole body shuddered. No, no, no. I just decided to take control of my life, I can’t be bound to a male. You thought and stared at him wide-eyed. Azriel noticed your expression and furrowed his eyebrows.

“Are you okay?” Nesta asked.

“Yes, just lost in the emotion.” You smiled.

“Okay I think we had enough for today. Tomorrow we will start our training at the same time, I’m guessing you will be joining us y/n” Cassian boomed. You nodded and smiled.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

You were in your room, trying to do the moves you saw them doing earlier, you wanted to be prepared for training tomorrow. You were interrupted by a knock on your door, you could feel Azriel through the bond, so you stayed silent hoping he would go away.

“I know you’re in there” he shouted. You sat on your bed without replying. One of his shadows slithered down the door and shoot up, turning the lock and opening the door. You cursed under your breath and got up.

Azriel strolled into the room with a soft expression.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing, everything is fine” you replied. “Fine my ass” he snarled “you felt it snap”.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about” you whispered taking a step back. The cold expression returned on his face as he growled;

“Fine, its better this way. The Cauldron was wrong, I can’t have a weak female in my life. I showed you the city like Rhysand asked now don’t fucking come near me again unless its during training” the way his tone changed when he said training made shivers run down your spine. His voice was filled with painful promises and as he left your room you couldn’t help but notice the sadistic grin that appeared on his face.

Your heart skipped a beat and fear mixed with excitement filled your senses, the sting of his words long forgotten as you thought about training with him. You wouldn't let him treat you like that again, if you could manage that then you could do everything. I'm going to blow your mind shadowsinger. You thought and smirked.

I hope you enjoy this part, from now on the series will focus on female power so if you are here just for romance you shouldn't waste your time on this.

@glitterypirateduck , @zara-aliza08 , @mika-no-sekai-blog , @purpleshoelaces , @act1839 , @fasoaurore , @pinksmellslikelove , @bunnyredgirl , @lectoracronica , @tuggboatfishin , @sunnysideup000 , @blessthepizzaman , @universevsd , @raisinggray , @ssmay123 , @kalulakunundrum , @justasillylittlegoofyguy , @tsunami-of-tears , @just-a-social-casualty-1 , @thelov3lybookworm

[sweetracha]

No thoughts only building snowmen with felix and then him getting grumpy bc yours looks cuter

Do you Wanna Build a Snowman?

"Lixie come on! You're going to catch a cold" you said as you rounded the corner in your new home.

"It'll all melt away! Hurry" Felix sounded like a little child worried about his double chocolate cookie crunch extreme scoop of ice cream.

Who could blame him though? Felix couldn't remember the last time he had seen snow. You mentioned how badly the streets would thick over with ice and be packed with white as far as the eye could see. To Felix, this could never be a bad thing. How could it be?

You ran through a mental checklist, ensuring you were both ready for the cold about to hit you. Sure, you were used to it by now but somedays the winter bites back. Felix on the other hand was ready to run out blind to his death, the Aussie would never survive without you.

Thick socks? Check.

Warm boots? Check.

Pants with leggings underneath? Double-check

Long sleeves? Check

Coats? Check and a matching check as Felix insisted you two had to have a matching set.

Gloves? Check much to Felix's complaining 

And finally, a hat to keep your head warm? Check!

When you opened the front door, Felix dashed out with excitement. You couldn’t help but laugh a bit at the pure joy on his face. He found the thickest pile of snow in the middle of your yard, where your garden used to be, and fell to his knees. You should have guessed the gloves would have been long forgotten by now as he feels the snow melt on his bare skin. There was no way to sneak up beside him as the unmistaken crunch of packed snow sounded from under your feet. You crouched next to him and took in all his beauty. It was his first life, wasn’t it?

“Lixie baby?” You asked softly, not wanting to disturb his fun. All you got back was a simple hum to acknowledge he was listening. “Do you want to build a snowman?” You thought he was about to die from how quickly he lit up.

“Yes! We could make a cute snow couple!” His mind went running with ideas.

“Pixie, have you ever built a snowman?”

“No but how hard could it be? Animal crossing taught me everything I need to know.”

Oh how wrong he was. Felix quickly realized he had put too much confidence in his ability to build a snow person. It wasn’t meant to be a competition but he decided himself to make it one. Then he looked over at yours, almost finished while he was barely started. 

Yours was perfectly round and white.

His was lumpy and had random mud stains all over.

Yours was perfectly proportional.

His head always ended up being bigger than the middle.

Yours had arms specifically grown by Mother Nature herself.

His looked as if a dog dragged them in.

Even the face on your snowman looked perfect! Brown buttons you stole out of the craft drawer, a little carrot nose from the fridge, little pebbles curved up into the biggest smile. You even broke off tiny flakes of bark to make the freckles on your snowman! 

Wait…freckles…on a snowman? Brown buttons, a big smile, a blue scarf, a matching hat, Felix’s missing gloves, and freckles.

“Y/n!” He didn’t know what to say so he decided to scream your name to get your attention. However, that backfired miserably as you fell straight on your butt onto the cold ground.

“Felix!” You yelled back. He ran as fast as he could to save you.

“I’m sorry…I just..your snowman…he is…” 

“He is you!” Felix swore the smile you shared could have cleared the skies. “Do you like him?”

“I LOVE HIM!!!” He got up close and personal to inspect every little detail. “How?”

“I’ve had some practice” He fell for your giggle every time.

“Mine looks so…sad” Just then the oversized head rolled off and smashed into pieces.

“Maybe I can help you? I bet we could make him a real find!” Felix liked this idea much more than the competition he was participating in.

“Gotta make Snowlix the perfect man!” Felix stated as if it was an indisputable fact.

“So snowbin, got it”

The Sweetest Batch: @goblinracha @kaciidubs @channieandhisgoonsquad @comet-falls @ddyskz @jiminskies @j-onedrabbles @lixiesweetbrownie @marrivmel @caitlyn98s

[writing-rat]

Christmas Carols

Pairings: Wednesday x Enid

Contents: Fluffy stuff

Summary: The school has to do compulsory Christmas carolling but Wednesday has other plans..

WC: 1153

“Attention students, we are having an assembly. Please make your way to the hall,” the intercom said, Wednesday grumbling, as it was a Saturday at 2 p.m., and it was one of her writing times. Enid groaned, her manicure being half-finished by Thing.

“Looks like we’ll have to finish later. Babe, can you open every door for me and make sure no one knocks me too? I don’t want to ruin my nails,” Enid asked.

“Of course, Cara Mia,” she spoke, standing up as she opened the door. She didn’t bother about changing even if she was wearing some loose sweatpants and one of Enid’s dark blue hoodies with the San Jose Sharks logo, even if she was a New Jersey Devils fan. Enid was wearing some purple sweatpants and Wednesday’s New Jersey Devils hoodie. They were perfect for each other.

Wednesday did her job, blocking everyone from knocking Enid, who was holding her nails out as she was waiting for them to dry. Wednesday missed Yoko’s glance over though, but Enid didn’t. That was when she mouthed at her. ‘She’s a simp for me, she is my soulmate’ she mouthed and Yoko just smirked, holding Divina’s hand before she went to the opposite side. “Might as well help out. Hello fellow gays,” Yoko spoke. 

“Call me that again and you will have a stake through your heart,” Wednesday threatened. Yoko laughed, even if she was being glared at. She knew Wednesday wouldn’t hurt her though, it would upset Enid… and also they were now friends. They shared some of the same morbid interests like taxidermy and death. Hell, she answered some of Wednesday’s questions when Wednesday finally got the confidence to ask her. Safe to say, they were much closer than before and Enid loved that. 

Soon, everyone was in the assembly hall and were sat down as Weems was at the front. She had survived the nightshade poisoning, the medics helping her just in time which Wednesday was thankful for, but she wouldn’t admit it out loud. She did suffer from migraines usually now though, so Wednesday tried to not make as much trouble as possible. She also told Weems wherever she went now, even after curfew so that Weems stressed for no reason. They were more friendly now and Wednesday had improved. In fact, she became a Nightshade, having a circle around her was good. She trusted them all in her investigations now, all having one bit if they wanted to be in it. 

“I am glad to see most of you here. I would like to apologise for interrupting your plans but I need to announce that this Winter we will be going out on the 8th of December carolling. It is mandatory and a way to try to get Normies to like you guys more so there is no discrimination. Now, I do not want any complaints unless your religion doesn’t allow it. You will be allowed to sit it out. You just need to inform me,” she spoke, the assembly soon being dismissed as Wednesday was scowling. “I am getting out of it…” Wednesday spoke, thinking of a way.

“But babe, we can go together,” Enid pouted, stretching ‘babe’ out. Wednesday mumbled, Yoko and Bianca, watching as everyone else was in conversation. Wednesday glared at them before she sighed. 

“Fine… but only because it is for you,” she spoke. Enid grinned and smiled. 

“We can wear our snoods too!” Enid added. Wednesday couldn’t help but groan, but she was way too soft for Enid. She was just like her father, slowly getting more and more physically affectionate. It was obvious, especially when she was holding Enid’s hand in the hall, and she wasn't aware until Enid squeezed it gently. She blushed but kept ahold of it and Enid grinned at that. She couldn’t wait until December 8th.

–

The day soon came and Enid was eager. She had gotten her nails into Christmas colours. Green, red and blue. She also had 1 black nail on each hand to represent her girlfriend, same as Wednesday who had 2 pink nails on each hand. Wednesday meanwhile was not excited. She was wearing some loose jeans, her usual boots and her Devils hoodie, which still smelt a little of her girlfriend. They also had on their snoods as they were outside waiting, patiently, for everyone. Well, Wednesday wasn’t patient as she was just scowling. “I could be writing but no, we have to try and get validation from the Normies. Could this night get any worse?” Wednesday grumbled as the Nightshades stood around.

“Yes, you could get frostbite,” Bianca spoke.

“That would make it better. That is why I have not decided to wear gloves as I would love to feel the pleasurable pain,” Wednesday spoke. “Wednesday,” Enid warned. Wednesday pouted and mumbled an apology before she stood still again, although her foot kept tapping on the ground. It was 4 pm before they went to the bus to start. Wednesday was not ready for this hell as she leaned back in her seat, her head thrown back. Enid meanwhile laid her head on Wednesday’s shoulder and kissed her neck murmuring reassuring things. It was working as she was slowly starting to slowly untense. 

Once in town, they got off the bus and Wednesday was stretching as she popped her back a little and Enid eyed her as she smirked. “You ready for hell?” Enid asked jokingly. 

“I would rather be chained up again,” Wednesday spoke.

“Hey! No joking about that,” Enid told her off lightly. “Sorry,” Wednesday quickly apologised and Bianca chuckled.

“You have her on a leash don’t you?” Bianca joked. 

“Yes, she is down bad,” Enid laughed as Wednesday growled just like a wolf. She was happy Enid taught her how to. Weems immediately interrupted them, giving them the books that they had used for practice. Wednesday declined hers, however, having learnt it. She had a good memory after all. Wednesday and Enid were soon walking to where they would be carolling. The stage. There were a ton of normies already there and Wednesday was uncomfortable. She would do it for Enid though and Enid was thankful for that. She loved performing, yes, but she also wanted to have her girlfriend there. She was happy to start singing, in time. Wednesday took part whenever she felt like it, but Weems was watching Wednesday, she could feel it. Weems was making sure no funny business would happen. Meanwhile, Thing was busy with the stands.

They kept singing for 10 minutes, Wednesday periodically taking breaks as she took sips from Enid’s bottle. That was when the stands suddenly went backwards and the crowd went backwards. Wednesday smirked, and Enid sighed. No wonder Thing had been on the bus but was trying to hide. She couldn’t change her, and Weems sighed too. Safe to say Wednesday was in trouble later.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Wildest dreams, pt. 27

Summary: While Y/N takes a walk with Bella, Paul discovers the truth about his worst fear.

Warnings: angst, fluff, sexual innuendos, swearing, talking about death

Wildest Dreams Masterlist

————————————

At first, it felt weird eating while the Cullens carried most of the conversation. Y/N listened to their banter and memories of their latest trip to Antarctica because Emmett decided to pick up photography as his newest college course. For such a big, confident man, Emmett shyly offered Y/N a peak into his work which she gladly accepted. 

Unlike Emmett’s photography interest, Rosalie was much more interested in talking about writing, another one of Y/N’s hobbies. She’s barely had time to write or read in years, but it’s still a dream she once hoped would come true. If she didn’t become a doctor, she’d have been an author.

Inhaling deeply, she knew the Cullen’s did their homework on her. Whether it was Jacob spilling the beans, or if Paul tried to give them solid ideas for conversation, it was painfully obvious they’ve done their best to make her comfortable in their home and she’s grateful. She didn’t know what to expect when they agreed to this get-together, but she’s put at ease now. Vampires aren’t quite as bad as movies and lore would have her think, at least vegetarians aren’t.

Placing a hand on Paul’s thigh, she takes a sip of water as she glances at him. Realizing his gaze is on her, she gives him an earnest smile of reassurance, igniting hope in his heart. He’s been more anxious than Y/N, especially whenever he felt the fear swirling in her body that kept him on edge for days now. That fear is subdued now, whether it’s real or due to Jasper’s meddling, Paul couldn’t quite tell. Either way, Paul’s relieved. Perhaps Y/N won’t be so quick to say no now.

“The food is spectacular”, Y/N dabs her lips with the napkin, “honestly.”

“Esme trained in France for a while”, Carlisle gushes. “Every winter, for ten years to be exact.”

Smiling, Esme places her hand into Carlisle’s. “And so did Carlisle. It was our favorite winter pastime.”

“And the salad was really good too”; Y/N adds quickly, glancing at Rosalie’s emerging smirk.

“I see Paul presented me in the best light.”

Chuckling, Y/N nods as Paul rolls his eyes. “Had to warn her. If she can survive hurricane Rosalie, she’ll do well with everyone else”, Paul states.

“I’m not that bad”, Rosalie argues.

Giving her a pointed look, Bella speaks up. “You terrified me!”

Grimacing, Rosalie stands. Picking up her plate, she shrugs. “I didn’t like you then”; Rosalie defends. “Her”, she points at Y/N with a smug smirk upon her face, “I like.”

“Shots fired”, Emmett exclaims, cackling.

Sharing a quick look with Paul, Y/N smiles lightly as he takes her hand under the table. “Thank you”, he mouths and she nods, wanting to tell him she loves him enough to do this for him a thousand times over but instead, she remains quiet.

“Let’s help clean up”, Renesmee says as she and Jacob stand.

“We’ll help too”, Y/N volunteers.

“I have a better idea”, Bella suggests. “Would you like to take a walk with me?”

“Alone?” Paul frowns as Bella nods in confirmation.

“Sure”, Y/N manages a smile. Leaning in, she pecks Paul’s lips gently. “I’ll be fine.”

Swallowing thickly, Paul sighs. “If you need me”, he begins.

“I’ll call”, she smiles. “Don’t worry.”

“Impossible”, he reminds her. He always worries, awake or asleep, near or far, Paul worries.

Letting go of Paul’s warm hand, Y/N and Bella leave the kitchen.

“Would you like Jasper to follow us?” Bella asks.

Shaking her head, Y/N glances at Paul over her shoulder. He’s still looking at her with uncertainty. Despite every argument they’ve had recently, Paul barely left her side. Each and every minute only brings him more anxiety over her uncertain fate and no amount of reassuring words on her behalf will ever quell his thundering heart.

“It’s okay”, Y/N states. “Jasper doesn’t need to accompany us.”

Content with her answer, Bella leads the way. She wonders if she should have told Y/N that even though they’re going off alone, any of the Cullens wanting to listen in would be able to do just that. Their hearing is unmatched and it’s impossible for Y/N’s human legs to ever walk far enough in a simple walk to escape their abilities. It used to scare Bella as a human, having little to no privacy gets tiresome after a while, but it’s the most mundane part of her life for a long time now. In the end, Bella decides not to warn Y/N, hoping for an honest conversation. After all, didn’t Paul ask her and her family to convince Y/N to make the same choice she once made? Even if she fails, discovering reasons behind Y/N’s reluctance can only help Paul do the job himself.

Walking out onto the back deck, Bella walks down a path leading into the woods. Letting out a shuddered breath, Y/N clenches her jaw and follows after. She’s never been in the woods without Paul. Since she came back to town, Paul made certain she didn’t trek around the woods alone, even when they were still in their frenemy phase. Despite her spewing hate every chance she was given, Paul protected her.

“I’m sure you have questions”, Bella starts, “and I’m more than willing to answer anything you ask.”

Nodding, Y/N sighs. “You seem to be the only one.”

“It wouldn’t be fair otherwise”, Bella notes. “I knew what I was getting into when I asked join the family. I chose this life so I could be with Edward. I don’t regret it.”

Clearing her throat, Y/N looks at her feet. “You always knew you wanted to be one of them?”

“Since the moment I knew what they were, yes. Edward was the one who didn’t like the idea.”

Furrowing her eyebrows, Y/N licks her lips. “How come?”

Smiling, Bella pauses. “He seemed to believe his kind…our kind, have lost our souls. I had a different opinion on the subject.”

“Do you still have the same opinion?”

“Becoming a vampire doesn’t change who you are”, Bella continues to walk. “Your senses are stronger, your thirst for blood is…difficult but manageable. You get a lot more time since you lose the ability to sleep, which allows you to do all you’ve ever wanted to do. Any hobby, any activity”, Bella smirks, “for however long you want.”

Pulling down her sleeves over her hands, Y/N nods. “Jacob said you didn’t have a lot of issues with controlling your thirst for blood.”

“It’s not easy, not even for me, but I had a good support system. Besides, my daughter is part human, I have no choice but to control myself.”

“And your feelings for Edward didn’t change?” Y/N looks at Bella, her eyes glossy.

“They did”, Bella smiles. “I loved him even more. Every emotion you have ever felt feels like it has no bounds once you become one of us.”

“I worry it would be different for me and Paul”, Y/N admits. “We’re bound by an imprint bond. What if feelings and memories of our past are affected by the bond? What if I say yes and become a vampire only for that bond to be severed and”, Y/N closes her eyes, covering her mouth. “I would never give up on what we have now. Death would be kinder than to find out it was all a lie.”

“Is that truly the only reason you’re hesitant?” Bella asks, her golden eyes seem almost empathic. It’s hard to tell what emotions lie underneath the surface, but she seems to care.

“I want kids”, Y/N says quietly, as if her desires are a sin. “To be there for my dad as he enters the last stages of his life and care for him”, Y/N pauses as her lips quiver. “I want to get married and to travel the world and watch as Paul grows older too. He had such a good grip on his anger and now he’s shifting again and I feel like every time he does it I lose a part of him I can never get back.” Sniffling, Y/N looks up at the sky with a lump at the back of her throat. “If I turn, he’d shift every day to keep himself from aging too and I know he hates it. So he’d spend an eternity doing what he hates? How will that not be a reason for him to resent me down the line? And not to mention me hunting animals and drinking their blood? He’d be disgusted with me! And what happens if I kill someone? If I can’t control myself and someone gets hurt, he’d hate me! I’d hate me! I spent so much time learning how to save lives, I don’t want to be a killer!”

Placing her hands on Y/N’s shoulders, Bella gives her a light shake to stop her rambling. “You really gave it some thought.”

“Of course I did”, Y/N admits. “I thought of his solution before he did. But if becoming a vampire means risking what he and I have now and losing everything we both wanted our future to be…is it truly worth it?”

“You know we can ask Alice”, Bella reminds her. “She can try to see the future if you get past your fears and make a firm decision now.”

Scoffing, Y/N feels the familiar sting of tears forming in her eyes. “I can’t.”

“But you’d be okay if Paul dies when you do?” Bella gives Y/N’s shoulders a tighter squeeze before releasing her, choosing to fold her arms over her chest.

“No one knows if that’s real. It doesn’t have to be death, it could mean a million different things.”

“Sometimes, death is kinder.” Bella signs before continuing the walk.

“Was your brush with death kind?” Y/N asks. “Paul told me how it happened, but”, she pauses, “how did it feel for you?”

“Painful”, Bella answers. “I was scared and in so much pain that I’d black out several times before my heart stopped. All I remember is the smell of blood and a cry before my heart gave out.”

Swallowing thickly, Y/N nods. “And the process? When the venom was in your system?”

“Far worse than anything I’ve experienced before.” Looking at Y/N, Bella smiles. “And I’d still go through with it.”

Chewing on the inside of her bottom lip, Y/N blinks fast as she twirls her engagement ring over and over again. “I’m scared.”

“The pain is temporary”, Bella comforts her.

“I’m scared of what Paul’s seen”, Y/N interjects. “He has this look”, she rubs her temple before huffing. “It’s like he’s haunted by this image of my body and he barely told me what happens, only that it’s violent and”, Y/N shakes her head as a panicked giggle passes her lips. “No matter what I choose, apparently violence and pain is guaranteed.”

Frowning, Bella allows herself the freedom of wrapping an arm around Y/N, pulling her closer in an awkward side hug. “That’s true. But only one of those two options ensure you’ll live to tell the tale.”

“Bella seems to be making progress”, Edward notes.

Pacing up and down the living room, Paul nods in acknowledgment. “If she gets her to agree, tell Bella I’ll let her punch me. Without wolfing out on her this time.”

Smiling, Edward shakes his head. “She can hear you just fine.”

“Eleazar is back”, Carlisle warns Paul, showing him to the couch. “I’m sure he’d prefer the less known wolf to be seated and calm before he comes inside.”

Paul doesn’t argue, taking a seat next to Edward immediately. As soon as he sat down, the door opened. The vampire doesn’t speed up as he walks into the room like Paul’s used to. Instead, his eyes darken and focused on Carlisle.

Glancing at Edward, Paul frowns when he sees even he has lost the playfulness from earlier and his lips are pressed in a thin line.

“What am I missing here?” Paul dares to ask, his heart roaring as a new wave of anxiety rushes through his veins.

“Y/N can’t be turned”, Edward states, his eyes still glued to Eleazar.

“Speak, friend.” Carlisle sits on the couch across from Paul, watching his friend do the same.

“She’s a healer”, Eleazar spits out, as if in agony.

Almost fearful, Carlisle asks, “Like Cassandra?”

“Yes”, Eleazar confirms.

“Who the fuck is Cassandra and what does she have to do with my Y/N?” Paul raises his voice ever so slightly, his hands beginning to tremble as Carlisle turns to him.

“She was a friend with a very rare ability.”

Scoffing, Eleazar continues. “So rare that she’s the only one that’s ever had it…until now.”

“What’s so wrong with healing?” Paul furrows his eyebrows, clasping his hands in order to calm their shaking.

“Healing abilities mean being a cure all for everything in this world”, Carlisle states. “Even vampires.”

Blinking fast, Rosalie’s lips part. “She could cure vampirism?”

Swallowing thickly, Carlisle nods. “Which is what happened with Cassandra. She cured a Volturi guard by accident. She didn’t even know she could do it and when Aro found out”, Carlisle pauses, closing his eyes as Edward continues for him.

“They killed her”, Edward says. “Ripped her to shreds while she begged for mercy.”

“Then burned her so she couldn’t heal herself”, Eleazar explains bitterly. “As if she could. Truth be told, she was a cure all for humans and vampires, but she was unable to do it for herself. Cassandra never wanted to be a vampire.”

“Hold up”, Paul stands, unable to keep himself calm. “Why would they kill for curing a vampire?”

“Because she’s a threat”, Jacob sighs. “And they’ll see Y/N as a threat too.”

“A threat to what?” Paul growls. “Y/N wouldn’t go around curing vampires!”

“It’s Y/N”, Jacob reminds him. He still remembers how insistent Y/N was in helping every single animal she encountered, despite the danger to herself and she certainly never shied away from helping strangers no matter how often Jacob got mad at her for it. She’s always done the illogical, dangerous thing as long as she believed it would help someone. Sighing, Jacob continues, “She’d be unable to walk away from humans she could help and if someone”; he glances at Rosalie, “anyone asked her to cure them from vampirism, Y/N would do it.”

“Then we make sure the Volturi never find out about her”, Paul exclaims. “We would be the only ones aware of this healing ability she might have in case she chooses to turn.”

“Arlo would know”, Edward remarks. “Even if you tried to hide it and all of us managed to escape him reading our minds, eventually someone Y/N decides to help would tell another living soul and you’d have a wildfire of rumors spreading across the world and Arlo would be at your door within a day.”

Slamming his fist on the table, Paul shouts, “WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?!”

“Live whatever time you have left to the fullest”, Eleazar says, earning himself a glare from Jacob.

"No," Paul mutters to himself, his voice a low growl, as if the very act of denying it could change the truth. How can he accept this?

He glances around the lavish room, his gaze landing on the grand piano by the corner, the ornate furniture, and the exquisite artwork on the walls. None of it means anything to him, it can’t anchor him as his thoughts are running rampant. All he can think about is her, his imprint, the woman he would do anything for.

His heart pounds in his chest, a mixture of fear and desperation twisting his insides. He can hear the faint sound of his own breath, rapid and uneven, as his thoughts race. He wishes he can just phase into his wolf form, let the transformation release some of this overwhelming emotion. But he can't do that here, not in this place.

The realization hits him like a wave crashing against the shore—he’s helpless. There is nothing he can do, no way to save her. He’s always prided himself on being strong, on being the protector. But now, faced with this situation, he feels powerless.

He closes his eyes, his hands trembling. Images of her flash in his mind—her smile, the sound of her voice when she talks about him, the way she looks at him with eyes full of love, even when he makes her angry. He feels a lump form in his throat as the weight of his emotions threaten to overwhelm him. He had imprinted on her, their souls forever bound, and yet he can't save her.

A growl of frustration rumbles in his chest, the sound barely contained. He wants to throw this table he’s gripping straight out of a window, to unleash his anger in a physical way. He wants to let his wolf instincts take over, to tear through the room, to howl his pain to the heavens. But he can't. Not here.

With a deep breath, he tries to steady himself. He knows that losing control won't help her, none of it will change the situation.

“If you want to and Y/N is willing to join our family, I don’t see a reason why we wouldn’t try”, Rosalie states, shocking Paul to his core. She’s likely doing this in order to have a promise of a cure for herself, but he still appreciates it.

“It would be like a putting a target on our backs for an eternity”, Emmett argues with her.

“Renesmee, Edward, Bella and Alice all have exceptional abilities that already put targets on our family. What’s one more?”

Emmett shakes his head, giving Rosalie a pointed look. “There’s a real chance it could be one too many.”

“Leaving her to this fate would be cruel”, Esme argues.

Desperate, Rosalie looks at her sister. “Alice?”

With a blank look, Alice shrugs. “I can’t see anything. As long as Y/N is undecided, we”, Alice pauses, her eyes widening as she gasps loudly. “NO”, she shouts at Rosalie who takes a step back.

Edward grabs her forearm firmly, stopping her from running off. “You can’t.”

“What is it Alice”, Jasper asks, rubbing her arm up and down.

“Rosalie made the decision instead”, Alice frowns. “If she were to turn Y/N, it would start a war with the Volturi. I don’t know how, but they’d know of her abilities. Soon.” With a shiver running down her spine, Alice looks to Paul with sorrow in her eyes. “Even if Y/N doesn’t turn, the mere promise of what she could become will be enough for the Volturi to act with lethal force.”

Covering his face, Jacob shakes his head. “Are you telling me that she’d have been fine if we didn’t try to convince Y/N to become a vampire?”

Paul remains quiet as he can't shake off the gnawing realization that his actions, his reckless words, have set in motion a chain of events that will ultimately lead to the very thing he's been desperately trying to prevent. He’s the reason she dies.

His fingers grip his hair in frustration, his dark eyes burning with a mix of anger and fear. Every step she takes now feels like a countdown, each heartbeat echoing a haunting reminder of the impending danger. He never meant for any of this to happen, never intended to put her life at risk.

Out there, in the woods, Y/N walks alongside Bella Swan, unaware of the storm that rages within Paul's heart. He can almost hear her laughter, a sound that's both beautiful and agonizing. He pictures her smile, her eyes lighting up with joy, and he can't help but let out a guttural growl. How can he bear the weight of knowing what's to come?

It’s my fault.

“It’s not your fault”, Edward tries, but it’s of no use.

His hands ball into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as if the pain might help him focus, might offer some sort of release from the torment of his thoughts. He wants to reach out to her, to grab her and pull her away from the path that leads to danger. His instinct is to be her shield, her guardian, to keep her safe at any cost.

I killed her.

Paul's breath comes in short, ragged gasps as he struggles to hold back the tears that threaten to spill. He's barely holding it together, his emotions a tumultuous whirlwind that threatens to consume him. He wants to break something, to let out the howl of agony that's building up inside him. But he can't. He can't let anyone see the depth of his pain. Edward and Jasper feel it, they share his agony unwillingly, but the rest will not see him fall apart.

I did this.

He closes his eyes, and for a moment, he imagines holding Y/N in his arms, comforting her, protecting her from the darkness that looms ahead. His heart aches at the thought, a deep ache that resonates through every fiber of his being. He wishes he could be there with her, to whisper in her ear that he's here, that he'll always be here.

I’m so sorry.

As the minutes tick by, he fights the overwhelming urge to phase, to run into the woods and find her, to be with her and shield her from the world ending, because that’s what it feels like. But Paul knows that he can't, he’s not safe to be around now as his body trembles violently. He’s a coward, allowing himself to succumb to the need of shifting, abandoning Y/N in this mess of his making.

Forgive me.

Without a word, Paul rushes to the door. Slamming it behind him, he runs toward the woods as his human bounds are ripped apart and the wolf takes over once again.

_________________

Tags: @b-tchymoon​ @squiddaloo​ @abbiesxox​ @kellyashcroft​  @the-chaotic-cow​​ @xxxjaexxx​​ @captainrogers-19​​ @bexloxl​​ @llovergirlll​​ @adaydreamaway08​​ @sunsetevergreen​​ @volturiwolf​​ @twihard08​​ @galacticstxrdust​​ @sorrow-and-bliss​​ @ireadthensuetheauthors​​ @missxmarvelous​​ @locokoca​​ @unstablekay​​ @makhaia​​ @venusdelaroix​​ @avadakadabra93​​ @tearsforhan​​ @a-marie-a​​ @lendeluxe​​ @seagulls-corner​​ @jdbxws​​ @konigslilslut​​ @rottenstyx​​ @itsmytimetoodream​​ @dreamerwasfound​​ @convolutings​​  @thingfromlove​​ @jennyamanda8​​ @havecourage-darling​​ @luvr-exe​​ @alittlejudgemental​​ @turningtoclown​​ @emptydoorsandpaintedwindows​​ @marvelmenarebeautiful​​ @bringmethe-world​​ @alitaar​​ @sugasthreedollarkookie​​ @chloe-skywalker​​ @heyheyheyggg​​ @feral-ratatattat-king​​ @queereddie​​ @fandomrulesall-blog​​ @queenotaku27​​ @dcgoddess​​ @lilac-crowns-blog​​ @small-town-wayward-daughter​​ @yourqueentp​​ @boreddemigodd​​ @chaosgoblinreblogsthings​​ @felinegrate​​ @lunajay33​​ @gtfoana​​ @hpboysslut2707​​ @tpwk-harry-styles​​ @amberpanda99​​ @let-love-bleeds-red​​ @mo-s-blog​​​ @nj01​​ @myheadsinanotherworld​​ @problematicpastry​​ 

A/N: I promised angst, didn’t I? Let me know what you think about this one, and as always if anyone wants to be tagged (or have their tag removed) just send an ask or leave a comment, just make sure your blog visibility settings are on and that your blog hasn’t been flagged (blurry pfp is usually your clue that you have been flagged) as those are most common reasons why tumblr won’t let you be tagged. Also keep in mind changing your @ might mean you lose your tag since I can’t track everyone down when that happens. 

PART 28

[rippleclan]

RippleClan: Moon 66

Weedfoot recovers from her adventure in the Dark Forest with a scar. She encourages Lavendertwist to have a difficult conversation with Elmsprout.

[Image ID: Weedfoot has a scar around her back left ankle. Under her, it says - CONDITION: MANGLED LEG. She says to Lavendertwist, “You obviously care about her. if you want to get to know her better, you have to be willing to get hurt.” Elmsprout stands to the side.]

(Weedfoot: 115, female, deputy, charismatic, steady paws, formidable fighter)

(Lavendertwist: 32, male, historian, playful, great singer, good storyteller)

(Elmsprout: 33, female, caretaker, charismatic, helpful insight)

Spikecrash helps Mosspounce handle some of the kits.

[Image ID: Mosspounce and Spikecrash face Wolfkit and Billowkit. Under Wolfkit, it says + NEW SKILL: CURIOUS ABOUT STARCLAN, CONFIDENT WITH WORDS. Under Billowkit, it says + NEW SKILL: ACTIVE IMAGINATION.]

---

Getting fourteen kits to take a nap was about as hard as holding water in your paw. How exactly the Clan would survive a winter with so many kits in the nursery, demanding attention and care, Spikecrash didn’t know. What she did know was if the kits didn’t nap now, they would be ornery that night as Longest Night celebrations took hold and the entire Clan gathered under the cloudy winter sky. Somehow, by some miracle, Oilstripe, Clammask, Lemmy, and Harvest (who still looked so exhausted from her long journey to find the Clans from her kithood storied) napped with their children around their bellies. 

Twelve of them, at least. It was up to Spikecrash and Mosspounce to stop the two most stubborn kits from bothering the rest of the Clan as they set up holiday decor.

“Mama’s notta warrior,” Billowkit huffed, staring hard at the ground as he thought. “She’s notta care cat. She’s notta… uh…”

“Codekeeper or historian or mediator or artisan or cleric,” Wolfkit recited, sitting quietly. She had a strong and clear voice for such a little kit. The pair of them were barely a moon old, only recently able to fully see camp for all its glories. If Spikecrash was honest, from the way Billowkit wobbled around, he and his littermates might have still been under a moon. From what Spikecrash could vaguely remember, all she had wanted to do at their age was nap. So why wouldn’t they?

“So what is Mama?” Billowkit whined, throwing his little paws about the sand and snow. 

“She’s your mama,” Wolfkit huffed, cocking her tiny fuzzy head.

“I know that!” Billowkit cried. He threw his whole body down, mewing pathetically.

“Your mama doesn’t know how she wants to contribute to the Clan yet,” Mosspounce explained, laying on the snow beside Billowkit. “She’s focused on caring for you right now.”

“But the other mamas have jobs!” Billowkit huffed. “Mama needs a job!” He stuffed his face in the snow.

“Well, do you know much about Clan roles?” Spikecrash asked. Billowkit mewed a pathetic no, voice muffled by the sand. “If you don’t know about them, how can your mother choose? Maybe you can help her by learning more about what we do with our time. Mosspounce is a caretaker, and I’m a mediator. We have a lot we could share with you.”

“Maybe,” Billowkit grumbled, still refusing to reveal his face.

“I’ll listen!” Wolfkit chirped.

“Excellent,” Spikecrash purred, settling down between the two kits. “There’s a lot that goes into being a mediator. Maybe one day when you’re older, I might train one of you, or one of your littermates.”

“I want to hear what Dad does,” Wolfkit said, trotting to her father’s side. She nipped at his ankles, spurring on a hearty laugh.

“Oh, so it’s the life of a caretaker that proves more interesting?” Mosspounce said. He scooped his little daughter underneath him with a playful growl. Wolfkit squealed, kicking up fluffy snow in her attempts to get away from Mosspounce’s grasp. The black caretaker was too mighty for her, however, and grabbed her by the scruff. Billowkit pulled his head from the snow as Wolfkit laughed and laughed. Mosspounce dropped Wolfkit beside Billowkit and sat around them. “If that will keep you little mice happy, then sure, I’ll tell you about being a caretaker.”

Hmm. Maybe kit-sitting wouldn’t be as hard as Spikecrash thought.

(Spikecrash: 41, female, mediator, wise, good speaker, lore keeper)

(Mosspounce: 27, male, warrior, adventurous, talented fire-starter)

(Billowkit: 1, male, kit, bossy, active imagination)

(Wolfkit: 1, female, kit, polite, curious about StarClan, confident with words)

Rapidleaf gets Ravenkit in trouble.

[Image ID: Rapidleaf yowls at Ravenkit, “No, no, no! You’ll hurt your sister!” Weevilkit and Robinkit watch on. Under Ravenkit, it says + NEW SKILL: PICKY NEST BUILDER. Under Weevilkit, it says + NEW SKILL: CURIOUS ABOUT STARCLAN. Under Robinkit, it says + NEW SKILL: AVID PLAY-FIGHTER.]

---

For Rapidleaf, Longest Night used to mean painting the mountainous walls of LynxClan’s camp, covering yourself with dye that wouldn’t leave your paws for a moon. It was watching the stars from the highest point in the Clans. It was a gift given someone dear; a shiny stone tool, a special trinket, even an exceptionally pretty pebble. It as snow and fire in the place she’d grown up.

Longest Night in RippleClan, like so many other things, was very different. It was hard to clear snow for the great bonfire, as the sand shifted with it. Rather than exchanging a gift or two in private, everyone pulled out their gifts come nightfall, enjoying the love in the fire’s protection. When Troutpool and Honeybuzz weren’t offering thanks to the ancestors, cats gathered around historians and artisans alike for a tale or enjoyed the peace of the bonfire. Scaleripple and Tempestshade laid beside each other, even though Tempestshade seemed only half-there, mind blurry from their mangled leg. Downstar shared tongues with Wildclaw while Rattlepelt wandered the edge of camp, quietly checking the necklaces adorning the torches.

A surprising number of cats played music, encouraging their friends to sing and dance. Rabbitjoy danced as she sang an old WheatClan tune. Drumtooth eagerly beat his namesake instrument. Slushkit shook a rattle offbeat to Lavendertwist’s song. Trumpetspore showed Tallowkit how to make scrapers; notched bones that made a delightful sound, especially when you had a stick strapped to your tail. Waspdawn and Wildclaw argued over who could use the Clan’s only Gutpluck; a half-moon shaped instrument of curved wood and a long taut line as a base, with different lengths of string made of prey gut running through the center. All a cat had to do was carefully pluck strings with their paws, and their music would be as varied as birdsong. Of course, the unique and delicate nature of the instrument meant it was in high demand for the celebration; had Rapidleaf been younger, she likely would have fought for a turn plucking the strings as well.

Rather than join in on all the music and laughter, Rapidleaf sat with her few gifts (a shell-tooth comb from Asterblaze, a cat’s face carved into bark from Mitepaw, and a rock from LynxClan that Elmsprout traded for at the last Gathering) beside the bonfire. Harvest sat with her; the former kittypet looked shockingly like Fennelspot with her white markings. The new arrival had mostly kept to the nursery since Troutpool and Honeybuzz found her, slowly carrying her five tiny kits through the forest. She had a lot of gifts from many of RippleClan’s most friendly cats, all happy to have an eager new addition to their home. Rapidleaf and Harvest had a quiet spot away from the noise and laughter of the rest of the Clan.

“Old Oakface told me about Longest Night when I was a kit,” Harvest muttered, breaking the comfortable silence between her and Rapidleaf as she shuffled through her gifts. “This is so much like his stories. Well, almost. We haven’t painted anything like he said his Clan did.” Rapidleaf dragged herself out of her quiet observations.

“That’s a LynxClan tradition,” she said. “You knew a LynxClan cat?” Oakface, Oakface… had any of Rapidleaf’s kin known an Oakface? They must have for Harvest to know him.

“I thought Troutpool would have shared my story with the rest of the Clan,” Harvest gulped, suddenly very intrigued by a stone someone gave her.

“If there is anything this Clan won’t do,” Rapidleaf said quietly, “it's to pressure you about your past.” If Harvest could see any of the deeper meaning in Rapidleaf’s words, she ignored it. She cleared her throat and brushed out her whiskers

“I grew up in a large stone settlement with an older tom named Oakface,” Harvest explained. “He would tell me stories of his old home with the Clans. He was taken from them and was too old to make the long journey back. He always encouraged me to find them if I grew tired of our quiet life with the humans. When I became pregnant, that’s just what I did.”

“You were traveling with kits for two moons?” Rapidleaf muttered, taking Harvest in a new light. 

“Oakface taught me how to protect myself,” Harvest gulped. “It was hard, but I’m glad I made it. Just look at my kits.” Harvest’s large litter squealed and laughed on the other side of the bonfire. Elmsprout stomped around, dancing to Lavendertwist’s song, showing Anchovykit, Yarrowkit, and Currentkit how to place their paws to the beat. All three laughed and shrieked whenever they tumbled into one another. Billowkit slept on top of Wolfkit, their missing nap finally catching up to them, nestled beside Lemmy and James. Robinkit trotted away from his siblings to join Weevilkit and Ravenkit in their play-fight. 

“I’ve never been around so many kind faces before,” Harvest purred. “I’m glad my kits have so much support now. Is this what your kithood was like too?” Rapidleaf laughed. How often had she found herself playing with Scrubmask like that in their youth, pretending they were truly littermates rather than distant kin? Her gaze drifted over to Clammask, who sat outside the apprentice’s den with Halibutdusk. The pair told a story together with an attentive audience. Drumtooth had abandoned his drum to join his brothers in front of their mother. Potterykit, Moonkit, and Vervainkit watched Halibutdusk with awe, completely enthralled in their story. Both generations of siblings listened to Clammask with all their focus. Rapidleaf’s laughter faded

Scrubmask should have been telling them that story.

“Yes,” she said softly. “It was this happy.”

“Ow!” Weevilkit squealed, catching Rapidleaf and Harvest’s ears. Ravenkit had her tiny jaws around Weevilkit’s scruff, pinning her into the snow. Weevilkit squirmed under Ravenkit’s grasp. 

Not again.

“No, no, no!” Rapidleaf yowled, launching up and around the bonfire. She snatched Ravenkit by the scruff and threw her off Weevilkit. Ravenkit yelped, tumbling into the snow and sand. Weevilkit and Robinkit, the unfortunate bystander he was, gasped. “You’ll hurt your sister!” Ravenkit’s green eyes froze on Rapidleaf. She cowered under the brown tabby’s curled lip. 

“What did I do?” Ravenkit whimpered. Her tiny, broken voice bit at Rapidleaf’s pounding heart. The music quieted, Clanmates stopping to stare. Rapidleaf took a step back as Ravenkit mewed pathetically. What was she doing?

“We were playing, you old flea!” Weevilkit yowled. The tiny tortoiseshell fluffed up her fur like an angry warrior. Robinkit, not one to be left out, copied his friend.

“Go away!” Robinkit hissed. 

“I thought—” Rapidleaf stammered.

“Rapidleaf.” Lemmy stood silhouetted by the bonfire behind her, blue eyes sharp. Even with a kittypet’s collar around her neck, her icy voice crept along Rapidleaf’s pelt. “Step away from my daughter.”

“I’m sorry,” Rapidleaf gulped, quickly scampering back with her head bowed. “I thought Ravenkit was hurting Weevilkit.”

“So you threw her,” Lemmy growled. Ravenkit met her mother halfway, burying her face in Lemmy’s hind leg. A dozen eyes stared at Rapidleaf. The small decorated torches that lined the edges of camp seemed more like judges than the memories of cats lost. 

Her sins were on display. If only they knew the depth of Rapidleaf’s transgressions.

[Image ID: Rapidleaf says to Honeybuzz, “None of this was supposed to happen. Your mother should be here, not me.” Scrubmask’s spirit watches.]

Rapidleaf was quick to join Honeybuzz in his duties the next morning. She didn’t want to be in camp, to be near Lemmy’s burning blue eyes, to see Ravenkit flinch at the sight of her… better to brace the snow and assist a cleric. That sort of work was redeeming in the eyes of StarClan… Rapidleaf could use some of that redemption. She hadn’t asked what Honeybuzz needed help with, merely agreed as soon as he requested a warrior. Rapidleaf didn’t care much, however. If Honeybuzz needed her help, why would she say no?

Honeybuzz’s pelt seemed barren without his beloved cicada wings; he had kept them carefully dried and stuck onto a tiny piece of wood, which he then hung around his neck, but the cold weather and a few poor decisions broke the fragile wing apart. Now, as he waited for the cicadas to return, there was a physical absence to his appearance that left a rock in Rapidleaf’s lungs. Honeybuzz trotted confidently through the snow, which parted around the two RippleClan cats like a snail left a trail of slime in their wake. Rapidleaf followed Honeybuzz south, bracing herself against the open wind. 

The harsh diluted winter light drained Honeybuzz and Rapidleaf of their bright colors. Honeybuzz’s vibrant golden head was now a dull, dark cream, and Rapidleaf looked more like mud under the Great Northern River than her usual brilliant brown. It seemed the entire territory had nothing to say to Rapidleaf, save for the hiss of the wind rumbling in her head. 

“I shouldn’t be long,” Honeybuzz promised, lifting his paws high with every step, the cold seeping through his thin fur. “Just keep an eye out for any disturbances; holes, fallen markers, moved stones, issues like that.”

“What are we marking?” Rapidleaf asked. She looked around Honeybuzz. There was a field up ahead, where pawprints dotted the land, human dens lingered in the distance, and only a few trees blocked the cold wind. It seemed like a common hunting ground, yet Rapidleaf scented little prey.

“Sorry, I’m a mouse-brain,” Honeybuzz sighed with a light heart and soft laugh. “You were still recovering the last time someone died. I bet no one’s even told you how RippleClan handles their dead.” Rapidleaf forced her tail to stay out and not slip under her. Her stance stiffened.

“Do you not just dispose of the bodies?” she muttered, still staring at the field.

“It didn’t feel right,” Honeybuzz explained. “We take our dead to this field. We call it a graveyard; Parsley gave us that word, according to Oilstripe. We sometimes have our elders help us, like in AshClan, but we don’t force them. We bury the dead a little ways under the ground, cover their bodies, and place wood and stones over their graves to remind us where we left them.” Rapidleaf stepped back. It was one thing to know the body of an old Clanmate had been returned to the cycle of life and death, feeding the world in return for how the world fed them. But to know exactly where their body lay, to stand over them?

“You should have told me,” Rapidleaf gulped. Honeybuzz cocked an ear.

“There’s nothing to fear,” Honeybuzz promised. “Their spirits don’t linger here. I just wanted to make sure they fared well during Longest Night. The snow makes it easy to tell what graves have been disturbed by—”

“Stop,” Rapidleaf snapped, eyes shut tight. “Stop talking, Honeybuzz. I…” Scrubmask was there. Her body was somewhere in that field. Rapidleaf had gone hunting here before, she was certain of it. She had caught and killed prey on top of Scrubmask’s body. She had spilled blood over her grave. It didn’t matter if spirits roamed the field or not, the ghost in Rapidleaf’s heart yowled.

Let me out.

“I can just—” Honeybuzz said.

“I’m the one who killed your mother,” Rapidleaf said, eyes locked on the golden tom. “I killed Scrubmask.” 

Only the wind replied. Honeybuzz stared back at Rapidleaf. Rapidleaf’s breath clouded her face. 

“No,” Honeybuzz scoffed, face curling as though Rapidleaf had simply gotten a fact wrong. “You didn’t kill anyone. You were half dead yourself when you got to camp.”

“How do you think I got to camp?” Rapidleaf groaned. Honeybuzz shifted, gaze drifting north as he thought. The dismissal curling his face softened.

“The leaders guessed you fell in the river escaping the cougar…” he muttered. He blinked rapidly and shook his head like he was clearing water from his ears. “No, no, you didn’t remember what happened, you didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t remember until shortly after I recovered,” Rapidleaf gulped. She sat, snow freezing her flank, fighting against her warm and pounding heart. “I did fall into the river. But I didn’t crawl out on my own. Scrubmask was there.” The memory still came in lightning flashes; bubbling currents, throwing Rapidleaf against the rocks; water pouring into her lungs; fangs lunging toward her. “I didn’t even know what was happening, all I saw was someone trying to grab me, and I reacted.” She hadn’t even known who or what it was that had pulled her from the river. Familiar blue eyes melted with the angry glare of a cougar. She did what any warrior was trained to do.

Grab it. Bite down, hard. Smash its head in, drown it. Protect LynxClan. Get help. Head for the tallest thing you could see. The shipwreck, the mountain of wood…

“None of this was supposed to happen,” Rapidleaf whispered, her air gone once more. “Your mother should be here, not me.” She didn’t deserve to take Scrubmask’s place. She deserved to go on trial, be judged and exiled or even executed for taking a mother from her sons, for killing a Clan founder. So why was Honeybuzz just looking at her? He barely even breathed! The only sign of life in his body was the twitch of his golden ear and his dark, narrow pupils.

“I need you to go home now,” Honeybuzz said, quiet as a pawstep.

Rapidleaf did not argue. Her body turned before her mind processed the request. Anything to get away from the smoldering, rotting corpse under her paws.

(Rapidleaf: 84, female, warrior, lonesome, prophecy interpreter)

(Harvest: 54, female, queen, nervous, good fighter)

(Weevilkit: 1, female, kit, bullying, curious about StarClan)

(Ravenkit: 1, female, kit, sweet, picky nest builder)

(Robinkit: 1, male, kit, unruly, avid play-fighter)

(Lemmy: 42, female, codekeeper, cold, deep StarClan bond)

(Honeybuzz: 14, male, cleric, daring, constantly fiddling with tools)

Clammask and Halibutdusk’s litter try to go on an adventure but are easily caught.

[Image ID: Vervainkit, Moonkit, and Potterykit are stared down by Clammask and Currentkit. Potterykit yowls, “Tattletale!” at Currentkit. Under Vervainkit, it says + NEW SKILL: LOVES NATURE. Under Moonkit, it says + NEW SKILL: QUICK TO HELP. Under Potterykit, it says + NEW SKILL: LOVES TO SING. Under Currentkit, it says + NEW SKILL: CONSTANTLY CLIMBING.]

(Vervainkit: 1, female, kit, fearless, loves nature)

(Moonkit: 1, female, kit, quiet, quick to help)

(Potterykit: 1, female, kit, self-conscious, loves to sing)

(Clammask: 60, female, caretaker, righteous, lore master, good teacher)

(Currentkit: 1, male, kit, polite, constantly climbing)

Silverkit and Yarrowkit annoy older cats with bird calls so Anchovykit can eat a bug.

[Image ID: Silverkit and Yarrowkit chirp at Splashtuft and Downstar while Anchovykit is naughty in the back. Splashtuft says, “Should I be annoyed or laugh?” Under Anchovykit, it says + NEW SKILL: CURIOUS ABOUT STARCLAN. Under Silverkit, it says + NEW SKILL: ALWAYS ASKING QUESTIONS. Under Yarrowkit, it says + NEW SKILL: STARES AT FIRE.)

(Anchovykit: 1, male, kit, charming, curious about StarClan)

(Silverkit: 1, female, kit, daydreamer, always asking questions)

(Yarrowkit: 1, female, kit, noisy, stares at fire)

(Splashtuft: 14, male, historian, adventurous, fast runner, student of art)

(Downstar: 125, female, leader, wise, trusted advisor, very clever)

Honeybuzz hears the voices of StarClan cats.

[Image ID: Honeybuzz stands alone. Under him, it says + GUIDANCE FROM STARCLAN: STAR-BLESSED PROPHECY.]

---

Honeybuzz shouldn’t have just left camp. Halibutdusk was so close to beating their greencough, and Tempestshade grew weaker and weaker. He couldn’t leave Troutpool to care for them alone, not for long. But he couldn’t be in camp, not when Troutpool had Rapidleaf assist in medicine preparation. 

He hadn’t believed her at first, but the more she spoke, the more it all made sense. Why had no one suspected her before? She was soaked, reeking of the river, the place they had just found Scrubmask’s body. But no, it had all seemed so deliberate, Rapidleaf was too weak to do something like that, the thought never even bloomed in the codekeepers’ minds. But then again, that was the problem; everyone thought it had been deliberate.

Honeybuzz mindlessly fiddled with a small stick and stone deep in RippleClan’s forest. There wasn’t much he could do with it, no useful craft to aid in healing or interesting trinket to brighten a patient’s stay in the medicine den. But it gave his body something to do. He rolled the stick over the stone, the worn bark rubbing into his pads. He’d borrowed one of Rattlepelt’s “long hunt” pelts for the day; various leather pelts stitched together by Rabbitjoy, forming something close to the size of Rattlepelt’s famous fox pelt. Honeybuzz tucked himself under this pelt, hiding from the winter chill, even as snow melted underneath him.

His ears buzzed from the formless thoughts clawing at his mind. His head felt filled with wax. The wind seemed muffled to him. Honeybuzz scratched at his ears, letting his stick slip into the snow. Why did Rapidleaf have to tell him anything? Why leave the burden of that all on him? He had moved on from Scrubmask’s death, why bring it back?

Something slipped through Honeybuzz’s plugged ears; a soft, shimmering sound like water on water, the ocean at rest. The fur along his spine rose. Someone was there.

As the ocean rises, so does the shore rise to meet it in eternal war. So too do curses and blessings fly through the Clan, balancing the other out. Balance our three blessings, Honeybuzz.

What. What. What was that. What was that? The voice, the voices, they were inside Honeybuzz, speaking directly inside his heart! Honeybuzz gasped as a violent shiver overcame him. He’d been to StarClan’s Shrine enough to guess what that could have been. Troutpool had prepared him for this day. This was a prophecy, one StarClan felt too important to wait to share until the half moon.

“Couldn’t you tell me what to do about Rapidleaf first?” he groaned to the cloud-masked sky. Another gust of wind brought him his answer. Long hunt pelt thrown over his bony back, Honeybuzz hurried back toward camp. The issue with Rapidleaf could be put to the side for now. Troutpool needed to hear this message.

What were these blessings? Even more important, what were the curses?

(Honeybuzz: 14, male, cleric, daring, constantly fiddling with tools)

[kylesgarrick]

I would love to see javier x male reader!! Maybe something where reader gifts javier a present?

i realised that like i havent completed a single ask, and i swear im getting to them (maybe in a year or so), but i REALLY wanted to do this!

javier escuella x male reader, criticism always appreciated. i chose to not include that much spanish, i don’t speak spanish and do not want to butcher it or makes any of my spanish readers uncomfortable, sorry. set in chapter 1 :) DID NOT PROOF READ

javier has been stressed recently, it’s hard to get through winter by itself, but its been even worse after everything that happened at blackwater. the whole gang was barely getting by and he wasn’t sure everyone would survive the winter. he tried to not worry you too much and act confident in dutchs plans, but you could practically read his mind.

you saw how he was getting less and less sleep, staying up thinking about what happened on that boat with the pinkertons. how he was clinging onto you whenever he could, acting like you were gonna leave him or die if he wasn’t there with you. you wanted to treat him to something nice, get rid of his worries or atleast make him feel slightly better, even if it lasts only an hour.

so the second you hear that javier is going on another stressful mission to try kill colm o’driscoll with dutch and a few others, you decide to go looking for something to surprise him with. yes, it was a dumb idea. you probably shouldn’t have done it in the winter alone, especially after what happened with john and the wolves. but you honestly couldn’t care less, javier deserved something nice.

while you were waving them goodbye, javier gave you one big hug, and a little kiss on the cheek. most people were okay with you and javier being two men inlove, but it was still the 1800s and you weren’t going to get murdered for your love. you caught micah scoffing in disgust at the sight of you two and you roll your eyes, before drifting your attention back to javier.

“stay safe, love” you say, as javier wraps his arms around your waist and you put your arm around his neck, the rest of the gang was still preparing themselves for the mission. he smiles softly, “i will, amor.” you exchange one last kiss, before he gets on his horse and rides out with the rest of the gang.

once you make sure they’re out of seeing distance, you hop on your horse and ride into the snowy forest, looking for things to get for him. you end up finding an old pocket watch and a piece of wood. perfect! you could try carve him something, like a mini guitar or a horse. you rode back to camp, thinking of what you could do.

you go into your tent and begin carving a mini guitar for him, after a few hours he gets home and you quickly put it under your pillow and run over to him, pulling him in for a hug and a kiss, he laughs as you practically jump up on him, wrapping his arms around you and hugging you back. “someone’s excited to see me” he smiles, and you smile back at him.

“i have a surprise for you” you whisper in his ear, before leading him back to the tent. he was clearly thinking of some other surprise with the way he was shamelessly looking at your ass while smirking. when you get inside the tent, you reach under your pillow, getting nervous that he might not like it. when you pull out the mini hand-carved guitar sculpture, he gasps, eyes wide.

he stares at it in shock “you did this for me?” he says, as he sits down next to you and admires the mini sculpture. “i just thought that you’ve been stressed lately, i wanted to do something nice.” he looks at you, he places the sculpture in his lap before resting his hand on your cheek, bringing you in for a deep kiss. his lips were soft, and you felt his facial hair tickle your face, making you giggle a bit. he deepened the kiss, grabbing your waist as you straddled his lap, you finally break the kiss and rest your forehead against his. “i love you, javier.” “i love you more, my sweet thing”

ending is rushed! i can make a smut pt2 if you guys want :) this is so bad im sorry😭 barely any of its even about javier ARBE anon, if you dont like it and want me to redo it, just ask!!

[bg-brainrot]

Halfway through the BG3 Holiday Challenge ✨

Prompt: Holiday Spirit

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Premise: You’re used to being stressed: first, life as a rogue on the streets of Baldur’s Gate, then, surviving the Absolute. What you were unprepared for was how particular holiday stress would be. In particular, how stressful hosting would be. When Astarion notices this, he aims to get you back in the holiday spirit.

Tags: POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, Holidays, post-canon, comfort

Word count: ~1.4k (this was supposed to be short, what happened)

Midwinter is just around the corner and you find yourself running around like a madperson– well, more mad than usual. For some gods forsaken reason, you've decided to have guests over for the holiday– you even had the unmitigated confidence to tell your lover, ‘don’t worry, I want to do this myself.’ You haven't the faintest where to start.

Astarion, the perceptive vampire that he is, notices that as the days to Midwinter countdown, your 'holiday spirit' or so you call it, seems to be dwindling. On this particular evening he watches you as he leans on the doorway to the kitchen.

You're walking in circles, apparently unable to decide where to place a decorative candle. After you put it back in the same spot for the third time, he speaks up.

"Darling, are you alright?"

You jump, not realizing that Astarion's been there this entire time. It's rare that he surprises you, so your heart begins working overtime at the sudden shock. "Oh gods, Astarion," you breathe out. "How in the hells did you sneak up on me like that?"

He chuckles lightly and pushes off the doorframe. "I'm afraid I've been watching you for at least half an hour. It's been cute, mind you, but I figured I should say something eventually."

That brings a small frown to your face. Am I losing my touch? Or is it all of this damned stress? You're about to ask when Astarion places a finger on the corner of your mouth.

“Love, what’s the matter?” he says, prodding your cheek up to form a half smile. “You seem to be in short supply of your usual winter-merriment.” You move to bite his poking finger, but he avoids it easily, adjusting his hand to cup your cheek. “Darling.”

“I guess,” you start glumly, annoyed to be trapped in his loving palm. “I am stressed about this whole Midwinter get-together we have planned.”

He brings up his other hand to cup the other side of your face. “I can see that, my sweet. But why are you so stressed? They’re just our old companions.”

“Friends,” you correct as you give him a look. He’ll get used to the word eventually, you’re sure. “And it’s not them that I’m stressed about. It’s… me.”

You feel your face squished between Astarion’s cold hands as he says, “Don’t you dare say something disparaging about yourself next, I’m warning you.”

The glare you give him is quite likely the opposite of whatever holiday cheer is. “Then why did you ask?”

“Because I thought it would be something reasonable!” he says, indignantly, shaking your head a bit. “Like that you were annoyed Gale actually accepted the invitation.”

You laugh at that despite yourself, and you see Astarion’s self-satisfied grin at your reaction. “No, I’m afraid it’s nothing like that,” you say and your laughter turns into a sigh.

“Fine, tell me. But if you’re too hard to yourself, I will spend the rest of the evening lavishing you with praise,” he warns, finally letting go of your face.

"Astarion, I don't know how to be… domestic," you say the word like it may as well be abyssal. "The only things I know how to do are kill and apparently lead a crew of barely functional adventurers. What if the whole thing is a disaster?"

"You know, for someone who seems concerned about disasters, you sure run toward them a lot, my dear," Astarion replies with a smirk.

"You aren't helping."

"Sorry, sorry, I couldn't resist," he says and moves to grab your limply hanging hand. Holding it between his, he brings it up for a kiss and continues, “Well, if it makes you feel better, I don’t think any of us are very good at being domestic– except maybe Gale, I suppose.”

You groan at that. “You’re right, we should have let him host.”

Astarion tugs on your hand now, shaking his head. “No, no, no. That’s not what that means. What that means is that this is new for all of us, so none of us have any expectations. If your version of Midwinter involves decorating with skulls and blood, so be it.”

You give a breathy laugh at that. “I think only you would like that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn't rule Shadowheart out either,” he says, taking a step closer to you. “And if you need more brilliant ideas like that, you know I’m here to help, love.”

“But I wanted to do this on my own,” you mutter, looking down remorsefully. “To show you that the holidays can be fun, even if it doesn’t look like it right now.”

“You know there’s nothing I’d like more than for you to prove me wrong,” he begins, finally closing the distance between you and pulling you into his arms. He speaks his next words into your hair, “But I think I’d still prefer it if you were having fun again. To me, the most important part of the holiday is living vicariously through your joy.”

You blink blankly in his embrace for a moment, surprised at how easily his words fill you with relief. “Are you sure you want to help?" you ask, squeezing him to you tightly. "I won't go easy on you, there's a lot of decorating, tidying, and cooking to help with."

"When have you ever gone easy on me?" he asks with a laugh. "And you might want me to steer clear of the cooking, but otherwise, I'm all yours, love."

Pulling away from him, you give him a good, long look, verifying he means what he says. His smile is sweet, his eyes expectant, and you decide that it's alright to let this go – you really could use a second pair of hands at least. "Oh very well," you huff, though you can't resist the smile that comes to your face. "But if at any moment you feel like you’re starting to hate the holiday, you have to warn me!"

He places a hand on his chest in a vow. "You have my word. Besides, I can all but guarantee you that this will be the finest Midwinter I’ve had in 200 years."

“Astarion,” you say, feeling an ache settle in your chest at his admission.

The vampire grabs you by the shoulders and says, “Stop that. I didn’t say that to make you feel bad, I said it to inspire you. Understood?”

“Yes, love,” you say, swallowing down the emotions that threaten to overtake you.

“Good. Now tell me what you need,” he says, releasing your shoulders and gently running his hands down your arms.

You nod. "Alright. Your first task is simple: where in the hells should this candle go?" You gesture to the very same candle he'd been watching you struggle with earlier. It stands awkwardly on your kitchen table like a testament to your frustration.

Astarion looks at it for a moment and places a hand on his chin as he thinks. He walks over to the candle, picks it up, turns it a few times. Finally, he answers you with, “In the bin.”

“What?”

“In the bin, dear. We can do better.” He walks back over to you and hands you the candle, a beautiful white thing that has little snowflakes carved into the side. You wonder what could possibly be wrong with it but he’s already answering you. “I know you were probably trying to be mindful of my taste, but this candle? This isn’t you at all. Where is the red one that smells strongly of cinnamon?”

“Oh, I didn’t think you like that–”

“Nonsense,” he says, waving away your concern. ”If we’re going to host others, we’re going to make our home reflect both of us and be appropriately festive. This is why you were struggling, love. You needed someone with vision.”

You smile at him, appreciating his enthusiasm despite the snark. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you’re starting to enjoy the holidays yourself, Astarion.”

“Oh, darling,” he murmurs, wrapping a hand around your waist. “You know I can find enjoyment in anything involving you.” His fingers grip you a little tighter and he gives you a naughty grin.

You raise an eyebrow at him suggestively and say, “That’s good, because I plan on keeping you busy all night. Let’s start with picking some placemats.”

Tossing the candle into a pile of decorations, Astarion and you get to work, setting up the home you’ve built together for the allies you now call friends.

[evenhisfacewasanalias]

After Hours

Lady Jane Grey/Guildford Dudley

Rating: Teen

Modern AU - Jane is an overworked medical student at Cambridge who is in dire need of a date to her sister's engagement - all in order to keep Lady Frances from setting her up. She decides to bring the worst guy she can find and make her mother regret her meddling. Guildford is playing in a rock band at the local pub, and Jane of course picks the man she was always going to.

Really just an excuse to give Guildford a little earring.

“She’s gone completely off her rocker!”

Susannah shakes her head at her friend’s histrionics, and Jane knows she’s being ridiculous.  They were supposed to be at the pub to unwind and catch up. The loud band playing in the corner isn’t helping much, however. They’re nearly shouting to be heard over the screeching guitar and excessive drumming.

“I would have thought having one daughter getting engaged might soothe the savage beast?” 

Jane practically chugs down the second half of her pint, “Oh no, not Lady Frances Grey - if anything this has only sped up her timetable for having me married off. I need another drink.”

“You’ve had two already. Isn’t alcohol poisoning something you learned about at that fancy medical school o’ yours?” Susannah laughs, pulling her friend back to the small table.

“My fancy medical school is half the reason I drink,” Jane sighs. “The other half is Mum’s new threat to set me up with Lord Dudley's son.”

“Stanley Dudley? That's cruel, even for Frances. Besides, I'm pretty sure he has a thing for your mum.”

And that part is probably true. She thinks she caught Stan attempting the boombox move from Say Anything outside her mother’s window on winter break. Only her window was four stories up, and an mp3 speaker didn’t have quite the same impact. She’s been trying to forget the memory of it ever since. She often tries not to think too hard about her widowed mother’s love life.

“Not Stan, at least. Apparently Lord Dudley has another son we've never even heard of - some Oxford dilettante off gadding about.”

“Oooh collegiate rivalry, could make for some great shagging.” Susannah is little better than her mother at times with the way she fusses over the lack of men in Jane’s life, but at least her best friend isn’t trying to marry her off to some vagabond Lord.

“My mother’s taste in men tends toward the vapid.” So does Susannah’s, but in the name of friendship, Jane won’t mention this.

“He doesn’t need a doctorate to be good in bed,” Susannah shakes her head at her friend. “Though I feel like I should have an honorary one in the subject, at least.”

Jane laughs at her friend’s ego, though secretly she can admit she admires her confidence. “He doesn’t need a doctorate, but he should at least be able to manage his end of the conversation.”

“I forgot that a lively debate was practically foreplay for you.” 

Jane snorts out another laugh. She’s not even getting that much lately.

“So then what else is on ‘Jane’s list or a shaggable man’ - other than his oral skills?”

Jane’s face heats at her friend’s joke. It really has been too long if she’s blushing over some double entendre. Single entendre, really.

“I can’t even think about men with studying for exams this month.”

“Or last month, or the one before it. Find a hot enough bloke and you’ll make the time.”

“Well I’m certainly not going to find Mr. Right in this pub.”

She looks around at the crowd - it’s mostly secondary students and couples at the bar and tables, with a few grungier looking guys gathered around the stage. This isn’t really the sort of venue where she’d hope to find a worthy suitor.

“I’m only talking about Mr. Right Now,” Susannah teases.

“That doesn’t exactly help me with the engagement party situation.”

“It’ll help you to relax a little about the engagement party situation,” she winks.

And ok, maybe Susannah has something of a point - she’s survived her mother’s nagging for twenty four years, it usually takes a little more than a set-up to wind her up like this. But still, the threat of it remains her most pressing concern.

“It won’t help me much unless it gets my mother to back off.”

“Why not just bring some random guy as your date then?”

It’s not as though she hadn’t considered it. She’s not exactly attending a convent, she could have just invited one of her fellow med school classmates. “Because then my mother still wins.”

“And we can’t have that, can we?” Susannah is no fan of her mother either, but she can never resist mocking what she calls Jane’s ‘contrary’ nature. “Well then, make Frances regret it. Bring someone she’ll hate.”

Susannah has her own spiteful streak as well. It’s why they’ve always been friends, even when Susannah stopped working for her mother.

“So any man without a title, then?” Jane suggests. 

Her father had been a Duke and her mother refused to entertain anyone lower in rank than a Viscount. Her sister Katherine was already pushing it, marrying the Earl of Hertford.

“Worse.”

“A man without a trust fund?” 

“Worse,” and then Susannah’s eyes are shifting over towards the makeshift stage, to where the band is still wailing to the world’s smallest mosh pit.

Jane chuckles at the idea - it would certainly make her mother’s head spin. The members of the band - The Affliction, apparently, very fitting - look to be about her own age, but they’re about as far away from her social class as they could get (a characteristic Jane preferred and her mother detested). Definitely not a title or trust fund to be found among the lot of them - not with the sorry state of their clothing and instruments. They’re all decent looking enough, in a tattooed and leather jacketed bad boy kind of way. If you were into that sort of thing, which Jane most assuredly isn’t. Or at least she had never considered herself to be - she didn’t care to be so predictable. But objectively, they’re an attractive bunch. They’re what loosely might be called a rock band, but they’re playing in this shithole of a pub so clearly they’re not very successful. And most importantly, her mother would be livid at the sight of any one of them.

That, plus the two pints in her stomach, has Jane actually considering this mad gambit of Susannah’s. What if she did bring some wannabe rockstar to the engagement party? Katherine wouldn’t mind - at least not much. And she’d certainly forgive Jane when she saw her engagement gift: a minibreak stay at a B&B in Chipping Campden to escape their mother’s wedding planning. Her mother, however, would never forgive her. Jane might even get uninvited to several events she’s been dreading. She smiles at the thought.

However, Jane doesn’t want to be uninvited from the wedding entirely, so she does some quick research before she even begins to truly contemplate this madness. Susannah laughs at the sight of Jane googling, though she hadn’t laughed when Jane used her powers of research to perform recon on her friend’s sketchy tinder dates. She doesn’t want either one of them getting axe-murdered by some random guy - a fact which Susannah usually appreciates. And even though she wants to piss off her mother, she’s not about to bring some registered sex offender to her little sister’s engagement party. 

The Affliction has a facebook page, and a soundcloud, but nothing professional. That’s good news on the unsuccessful front, neutral on the ‘is one of them an axe-murderer’ question. She looks at the band members individually. It turns out the bassist is actually a woman, with a very cute pixie cut and great bone structure - Jane briefly considers the possibility of giving her mum a heart attack by bringing home a woman, but is quick to realise she’s already married to the lead singer anyway. There’s two options out, leaving the guitarist and the drummer. A drummer would maybe get an extra rotation on the head spinning front, but in both the facebook photo and up on stage now Jane can spot a cigarette in the guy’s mouth. Gross. She’s seen too many textbook images of what the tar does to your lungs to think of anything else whenever she sees someone smoking.

Which leaves the guitarist. If she’s honest with herself, he’s the one she would have been drawn to out of all of them. Floppy brown curls, mouth curved into a devilish smirk - but thankfully no more than a spare pick pressed between his lips. A good jawline, with the barest hint of stubble. Warm brown eyes and surprisingly nice hands. She gets a little distracted watching strong fingers wrapped around the guitar's neck and deftly plucking at its strings, stacked rings only drawing more attention to his hands - though none of that really matters since she’s not actually looking for a real date. What does matter is the rips on his jeans, the way the sleeves are cut from his t-shirt to show off his many tattoos, and the glint of an earring she can spot even from back here. He’ll drive her mum batty. 

His name’s not listed on their facebook page - there’s apparently another guitarist who should be here tonight - but this guy’s in a few of the older photos. Including one at some kind of children’s charity fundraiser event, so at least she knows he’s not on any registries. And he’s probably not a criminal or anything if they’re doing philanthropy shows. There’s a newer shot with the entire band, plus him, all cuddling animals at what is apparently a shelter rescue gig. Another point in the not-a-serial-killer column. Still no name but there’s a tabby curled around his neck pawing at a pair of necklaces she realises are the same ones he’s wearing tonight. She’s always thought cats to be good judges of character. They’re certainly good judges of cheekbones, she thinks as she looks back and forth between the photo and the man on stage.

Someone tosses a glass bottle his way in between songs - to give it to him or to critique the music, she can’t be certain - but he catches it easily, tossing it back up again with a little spin before flicking off the cap to take a drink. Jane’s a little caught up in the line of his throat, those ridiculous necklaces. He leans over to the micromobile, and she hears his voice for the first time. 

“‘What I like to drink most is wine that belongs to others,’” he unexpectedly quotes Diogenes, and she falls a little in lust.

“Do you think he’d agree to it?” She asks Susannah, who follows her line of sight and grins at her choice.

“Do I think he’ll say yes to a date with a hot girl?” She gives Jane a look that implies she’s an idiot.

Jane waves away the compliment, and the word ‘date’. “It wouldn’t be a real date, just to get my mother off my back for a bit.”

“Then do I think a grown man playing Clash covers in a pub would say no to pissing off someone’s parents?”

“Good point.” 

The idea is left to simmer in her brain for the rest of the band’s set. They switch their conversation over to Susannah’s troubles. Things with the new guy are going well, but her best friend is currently working as an au pair for a family that doesn’t pay her anywhere near well enough to put up with their nightmare son. But she refuses to let Jane use her connections to get her a better job, or at least better pay, though Jane is slowly wearing her down. Or at least the Bradfords’ son is. Jane wishes she had something better to offer her friend for her repeatedly kicked shins than some paracetamol, but it’s all she has on her. She jokingly offers some anaesthesia whenever she finally gets her medical licence. 

“For me or for the wain?”

“Your choice. I think it’s better if I have plausible deniability on that one.”

“Ditto,” Susannah laughs, and directs Jane’s sight back towards the front of the pub, where the band is finally starting to pack it in. Susannah is no fan of Jane’s mum, but she definitely doesn’t want to get on her bad side. It had been hard enough wheedling a good reference out of her when Susannah had left. And this plan will definitely get someone on her mother’s shit list.

Jane has sobered up a little from earlier, but the idea is still the best one they’ve got. If nothing else it’ll irritate her mother, and spare her having to talk to some Tory-supporting wanker she’ll inevitably be set up with. She knows next to nothing about music, but she’d still rather hear about that than some guy’s stock portfolio all evening, or the endless name-dropping she was so often forced to endure. And he’d certainly be easier on the eyes. It only takes a little persuasion, and one good hard shove, from her friend to have her beelining towards the stage. 

She mentally assesses her own look tonight on the way there - heeled boots and a short-ish skirt that made her legs look longer, and a sweater that was more cosy than sexy but not utterly disastrous. She tugs her hair free of its messy bun and hopes her curls were behaving for once. Even though she was only asking for a fake date, she hopes a good first impression might tip the scales a little in her favour.

The pub isn’t overly large, so it only takes a few steps to push through the small gathered crowd to where the guitarist is pounding back the bottle he caught from earlier. She waits for him to set it down before she tries to introduce herself.

And he promptly belches in her face.

“You’re perfect,” she smiles. 

Normally, the rudeness would have her ready to tear into the man, but the entire point of this was to send her mother into a conniption fit. Bad manners was just the icing on top of a very offensive cake.

“I take it you’re a fan of The Affliction, then?” His grin is both lazy and arrogant, another point in his favour - or disfavour, as it was. It’s not even remotely as charming as he seems to think it is. 

“Oh no, your music is atrocious.”

“Then what is it I'm perfect for?” He seems a little taken aback by the dig at their music, but then he’s grinning again. “Or do you just have a thing for devilishly handsome guitarists?” 

Might as well rip off the bandaid. She takes a deep breath. “If I say yes, could I borrow you for a few hours tomorrow? I’m Jane, by the way.”

He takes her outstretched hand automatically. His hands are warm but the rings he wears are cool, and she can feel the calluses along his fingers as he grips her hand firmly.

“For like a gig? I’m not really…” He looks even more confused now considering she’s professed not to be a fan.

“Something like that - my sister’s engagement party is tomorrow and my mother is threatening to set me up if I don’t bring a date.”

“So you’re asking me on a date, then?” The grin is back in full force, and he keeps holding her hand.

“I’m asking you to rescue me from my mother for a few hours,” she answers flatly.

“You know what I find works best with parents?” 

The fact that he’s still smiling at her is troubling, but her curiosity wins over her good sense and so she asks him just what he thinks will work.

“Telling them to fuck off.”

“Yes, well I would love for you to swing by Saturday and tell my mother just that.”

He actually throws his head back and laughs at that. 

“Not that I don’t love telling off busybodies, but is there some reason you can’t just bring a real date to get her off your back? Surely your talents for flattery could win some undiscerning man over.”

Jane finally pulls her hand away to cross her arms in front of her, “If you wanted flattery then you shouldn’t have named your band ‘The Affliction’. And for your information, the reason I don’t have an actual date is because I’m currently too busy with my studies at the School of Clinical Medicine.”

He looks unimpressed. “Oh, is that like a local further education school?”

“It’s at Cambridge University, you halfwit.”

That grin again. “I’m fully aware, it’s called a joke - perhaps you’ve heard of them?” 

“This whole conversation is a joke!” She nearly shouts, half in frustration with the man in front of her but mostly with herself. Why she ever thought this was a good idea is beyond her.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re cute when you’re angry?” 

His nose scrunches a little when he says the word ‘cute’ and Jane can feel the rage rushing white hot through her veins.

But he keeps talking before she has the chance to tell him off. “Alright, I’ll come with you to your little party. If your mother’s half as easy to wind up, it might even be fun.”

And she’s annoyed at both him and herself for falling into his little trap, but she’s stuck on the fact he’s agreeing to come with her. 

“You’ll actually come?”

“Sure, why not?” 

Not giving him a chance to change his mind, Jane quickly lists off the party address and the time they should meet, typing her number into his mobile and texting herself with it. She neglects to tell him the dress code, half hoping he’ll wear this exact outfit again. The t-shirt is practically in tatters, which will infuriate her mother, but the arms they reveal are quite nice to look at - tattoos and all. She’s not usually into that sort of thing, but the designs there curve around the musculature in a way that scratches the part of her brain that’s been pouring over anatomy for the past three years. She imagines herself tracing the lines, listing off each muscle group in Latin. 

Jane shakes her head to shut down this line of thinking immediately. This is not a real date because she has no time for dating. She barely had time to come out tonight with Susannah, and she’s only in town at all tonight because her mother insisted on a small family dinner before the big event next weekend. She hands back his mobile.

“And what do I get out of this?” The guy asks, tucking his mobile back into his pocket.

Jane narrows her eyes. “What do you want?”

She sees him looking her up and down. And even though it sends a pleasant little zip down her spine, this is so not what tonight is about.

“Not that.” She states clearly and firmly.

“I didn’t even ask for anything,” his nose is scrunching up again, crinkling the skin around his eyes as well which threatens her resolve to keep this clean and simple. 

“Not that,” she repeats.

“How about 100 quid then?” 

“So you’re an escort now?” 

“Student loans, you know,” he shrugs. And she’s a little surprised to hear he is - or was - a student, but considering he’s quoting Greek philosophers in random pubs it makes some sort of strange sense. “Actually, I have a better idea - you said School of Clinical Medicine, right? So you’ve got medical training?” 

This was never a good start to a conversation, in her experience. “You’re not about to ask me to commit medical malpractice are you?”

“Is it really medical malpractice if you’re not even a doctor yet?” 

“Yes. ” 

“Well this isn’t that, I promise. It’s just a run of the mill bad idea.” 

It’s not at all as assuring as he seems to think it is. “And just what exactly is this bad idea?” 

“I have a friend that needs a doctor.” 

“And does this friend know about the National Health Service?” 

“They can’t help her.” 

Jane hopes his friend is just not a full UK resident or something, rather than some shady thing they’re trying to hide from an actual doctor.

“And you think I can?” 

“I think that you are in luck that I’m nearly as desperate as you are,” his eyebrow arches.

It’s a fair point.

“Alright then, where is this friend? And I’m not making any promises.” 

“All I’m asking is that you try. Just take a look and see if there’s anything more you can tell us. I’ll drive us there.” 

This halts her. “You’re not driving me anywhere - I’m not about to step into whatever van with blacked out windows you have back there.” 

“It’s a motorbike, actually.” 

And of course he drives a motorbike too. “That's even worse. Besides, I have my kit in my car.” 

“You have a medical kit in your car?” 

“It’s also a first aid kit, everyone should have one. Especially people stupid enough to drive motorbikes. And I know this may shock you, but sometimes people find out I’m in medical school and start expecting me to treat them.”

The insult has him raising his brows. “So you do this often then? Lure men into dates in exchange for medical advice?”

“No! I don’t lure anyone into anything. I’m certified in CPR and first aid, and I help people for free.”

“So I’m getting massively overcharged then?” He chuckles.

“You’re not risking your future medical licence, so I’d say you’re getting the better end of the bargain here.”

“Touche. But I’m not risking my life when you’ve been here throwing back gods know how many pints, so we’ll fetch your kit and then I’m driving us.”

“You’re telling me you haven’t been drinking?”

He holds up the bottle he’d been drinking out of - it’s just a soda. “Sober as a nun. I don’t drink when I’m playing.”

“I want you to know I’m taking a lot on faith here, pal.”

“It’s Guildford, actually.”

Guildford, of all names. She thought she had left the posh wanker names behind with this plan.

“It suits you,” she tries.

“I can hear the derogatory tone in your voice, but it’s a family name.”

“It would have to be, who would name a child that in the twenty-first century?”

“Perhaps the same sort of people who would name a child after a eighteenth century spinster?”

“And one of England’s most famous authors.”

He glances somewhere behind her.

“Well you certainly live up to your name, my Lady Jane - your chaperone over there appears greatly worried about your virtue,” he nods back to where Susannah is watching the two of them like a hawk. She signals her friend over to make the awkward introductions and explain the exchange.

“I highly doubt she’s worried about my virtue, just my common sense,” she clarifies before Susannah reaches them. “Susannah - Guildford. Guildford has agreed to come with me tomorrow to deal with Mum, but first he needs my help with his friend -”

“Winifred,” he supplies.

“Winifred, really? Your parents never even gave you a chance, did they?” She turns back to face her friend, “I’ll just grab my med kit from the car and you can drive it to your place or I can call you a cab.”

“No need, Archer’s already on his way. I figured when you two were chatting for so long.” Jane’s not loving the insinuation in her friend’s voice right now. “I just need to real quick -” and then she’s lifting her camera to snap a photo of Guildford, “hope you don’t mind.”

But Guildford just smiles for the photo. “I know the drill, I’ll give you my info in case you need to look into me first.”

He takes Susannah’s mobile from her and pops his info into her contacts. 

“This is almost suspiciously easy,” she stage whispers to Jane, but she smiles at whatever she sees on her mobile.

“Need me to verify anything?” He offers, handing back the mobile.

“Nope!” Susannah says, a little too quickly, tucking her mobile back into her purse. “You two have fun. All my love to Winifred!”

And then she’s out the door before Jane can so much as wave goodbye.

“Well that was weird,” Jane remarks to the empty spot her friend was just standing.

“Are you going to let my friends look you up now so I can make sure you’re not a fake doctor or something?”

“I never even said I was a real doctor, and it looks like your friends have already ditched you.” He glances back over his shoulder at the stage which is now empty. “Did they steal your guitar too?”

“That one’s just borrowed, I would never let my girl out of my sight like that.”

Jane resists the urge to roll her eyes at this - she imagines he’s even given his guitar a girl’s name, like “Lucille” or “Theresa”. She won’t give him the satisfaction of asking about it now, she’ll save that for when her mother is there to hear it. 

They manage to grab her kit and lock up her car with only a minimum of teasing from Guildford about her Prius. She expects to give him back the same when finally sees his motorbike, anticipating either some souped up American monstrosity or a barely-held-together dirt bike. 

It’s neither. It’s an older model, British-made by the logo, but it looks to be in good repair. It’s surprisingly tasteful, considering its owner. She still can’t quite believe she’s agreed to ride on it, however. Like some heroine in a novel racing off at the first sign of someone in danger, or a princess jumping on the back of a dragon to rescue an ill villager. She wonders what that makes Guildford. He’s certainly no knight in shining armour. A knight in shining leather jacket?

Only he’s handing that leather jacket to her. “I have two helmets but you should take the jacket.”

She presses it back towards him, “you don’t even have sleeves.”

Guildford pushes into her space and throws the jacket over her shoulders, “and you’re not wearing trousers. I run hot, especially after a gig, I’ll be fine. The drive isn’t that long.”

And then he turns away to pull out the spare helmet for her, tucking her kit into the boot, and she’s forced to accept the jacket. She slides it over her arms and realises that even though he’s not that much taller than her, she’s practically swimming in the leather sleeves. She shoves them up over her wrists and ignores his grin at the sight. 

Jane does fight to adjust her own helmet, drawing the line at letting him put it on her like she’s his girlfriend or something. She’s only doing this because some woman out there is in need of medical attention, and is apparently unable to find it anywhere else. Jane had considered the possibility that this was all some cheap ploy to get her back to his place, but there were much easier schemes, and even easier women. Had he had better manners, she might have been one of them. 

No, between his rude behaviour and his refusal to elaborate on the situation, she assumed it was probably just something embarrassing - for Winifred or for Guildford, it didn’t matter. Either  was fine by her, she would just build up her portfolio of funny medical stories a little earlier than most. And if things got too weird she could simply call a cab. 

She wasn’t chickening out yet, though. Even when Guildford straddles the bike and gestures for her to take the spot behind him. Jane had forgotten the fact she was wearing a short skirt.

“Eyes forward, mister.”

“Whatever you say, princess,” he laughs, but turns to face the other direction so she can primly lift one leg over the bike, keeping a few inches of space between their bodies.

But Guilford has other ideas. Warm, gloved hands reach back behind her knees to tug her forward, pressing her flush with his back. Her skirt rides up a little in the process, but none of it matters because there’s not so much as a centimetre between them for anyone to see anything. He draws her arms forward to wrap around his middle. 

And he really hadn’t been lying about running hot. She can feel the heat of him radiating everywhere they’re pressed together. Her face is right at the nape of his neck, the curls there damp from exertion and peeking out from underneath his helmet. He smells faintly of sweat and soap and leather, but mostly he just smells really nice. She resists the urge to lean in further, and her helmet thankfully stops her from doing something as embarrassing as pressing her face into his shoulder.

“Alright then, feet on the pegs,” he explains, and she scrambles to get her heeled boots locked on the second set of pegs, “arms tight around me, and lean with me around any curves. I’ll try and be gentle since this is your first time.”

She can hear the smirk in his voice and she wants to hit him, but he’s revving the engine and they’re rolling forward and Jane can’t do anything but hold on. 

He doesn’t peel out, however, and she’s forced to realise he actually does seem to be taking it easy on her - keeping just under the speed limit and avoiding any sharp turns. The wind whips a little at the bare skin of her legs, but otherwise it’s surprisingly…pleasant. Not that she’ll ever admit it. And with Guildford unable to open his mouth and say anything obnoxious, she’s allowed to simply enjoy the feel of her arms wrapped around a firm waist, her legs pressed against warm, solid thighs. 

He takes her further out into the country, to where the manor homes of her former life were surrounded by the less familiar farms and cottages. She starts to envision Winifred as some elderly relative or neighbour who doesn’t trust the NHS, but might allow someone of Guildford’s acquaintance to take a look at her. He turns off at one of the wide green pastures and the picture becomes even clearer. She’ll probably be offered tea and biscuits the moment she arrives.

****

“Winifred is a horse .”

“Yes, that's why you'll notice I brought you out to the stables to help her,” he says as if this is a completely normal thing to spring on a person.

“She’s a fucking horse.” 

“You catch on quick, you know that?”

“She’s a horse, and I'm not a vet.”

“Oh I'm well aware of that - her owner keeps neglecting to pay his bills on time and so no vet in the Tri-County area will come and take a look at her.”

Jane wonders at why Guildford cares so much about a horse that isn’t even his, but perhaps he’s a part time groom or something. Part-time musician, part-time student - she hated that she was actually starting to find him interesting. Most of the people in her social class did so little of anything - including not paying their vet bills. She wasn’t sure exactly who’s estate she was on right now but she wasn’t far from her own ancestral home, so she probably knew its owner. She decided against asking, however, not exactly wanting to give away her own position. Jane didn’t want to be lumped in with Winifred’s owner, even though she couldn’t pinpoint why she cared so much about Guildford’s opinion of her.

But he’s not looking at her right now, his full attention is on Winifred. His hands are stroking at her face and sides, quieting her where she’s startled a little bit at the lights and the presence of a stranger in her stall. 

“She’s been fairly agitated these last couple weeks - restless even, doesn’t want anyone near her except Rupert and me. And she’s been picky about what she eats. We thought she might have hay belly but Rupert’s been buying her the good stuff himself.” Jane has no idea what hay belly is but at least it’s already been ruled out. “There’s a broken fence post out there though and it’s possible she might have gotten a nasty splinter or scratched herself on a nail or something. Could she have tetanus?” 

“If she had untreated tetanus for a few weeks she’d be dead by now.” Jane might not know horses but she knew tetanus, and horses and sheep were even more susceptible than humans.

“Great bedside manner you have there,” Guildford finally looks back at her with a withering look. 

“They don’t teach bedside manner until year four, and besides, I’m telling you it’s probably not tetanus. One would think that would be good news.” 

He goes back to whispering sweet things to the horse, apologising for Jane’s words as if she’s the rude one here. She ignores the way her heart softens a little at his concern for the creature. 

Just in case, they work in tandem to check Winifred for any sign of splinters or scrapes. Jane shines her small torch along her limbs while Guildford carefully lifts Winifred’s hooves for her inspection. For as tough as he looks, he’s exceedingly gentle with her. It’s annoyingly attractive.

The buzzing of his mobile startles both girl and horse, and Guildford is quick to end the call and turn off the phone, looking annoyed at the caller ID. 

“Who’s calling you so late?” Jane has never been one to let her curiosity go unsatisfied.

“My father has somehow figured out I was going to be in town this weekend.”

“What happened to telling your parents to ‘fuck off ’?” Jane attempts to mimic the smugness of his earlier words.

“I think the nine declined calls sends the same message.” 

“The fact that he just called you again tells me it doesn’t.” Jane can commiserate, but she also can’t resist the urge to tease him a little after all his bullshit about not standing up to her own mother. 

“Once he gets something into his head, he’ll never let it go. He’s been nagging me to settle down for years.” And doesn’t that sound familiar.

“A commitment-phobe, how original. Well, I’d offer to show up as your fake date and return the favour, but I’m only in town this one weekend.” 

He snorts at the thought of it. “It’s probably not a good idea anyway - if I told my father I was bringing home a date he’d be booking the chapel and priest the second I hung up.” 

“He wants you to get married that badly?” 

“He wants me to live his life.” 

It’s like looking into a mirror of her own parental relationship. She can’t tease him about that one. “My mother doesn’t understand why I’m spending my youth getting ‘distracted’ by medical school, or my need for independence.” 

Frances Grey couldn’t understand why Jane needed a regular job at all, with no real power or influence, but she was still determined to do it on her own terms and with the full freedom of being unpartnered. It’s weird that this perfect stranger gets it better than her own mother does.

Guildford frowns a little at this. “Does that mean I need to convince her I can take care of you or something, because I…” 

A laugh forces itself out of Jane at the very idea. “Oh no, you just need to be yourself. Don’t change a single thing.” 

“...Alright?” 

Jane doesn’t want a knight in shining armour - especially not tomorrow. She wants the crass, barely employable tattooed guitarist to shake things up with her mother. She just hopes there’s no cute animals around tomorrow to soften his image.

She gives Winifred one last look over and pulls out her own mobile. “I can’t find any cuts or signs of swelling around her joints, maybe we should do a more general look at her vital signs?”

“Are you googling ‘normal horse temperature’?”

Jane looks up from the webpage. “I told you I’m not a vet. It’s not like I know off-hand what temperature a horse is supposed to be.”

“37.5 to 38.6 celsius,” he states, as if it’s common knowledge.

But he’s not the one with the infrared thermometer in his medkit. 

“37.8, as healthy as…”

“A horse?” He groans.

“I was trying not to say it. I can listen to her heart and then I can check her nose and ears,” she tells him as she pulls her stethoscope from her bag.

“Don’t you need to look up a normal heart rate for a horse?” She can’t tell if he’s mocking her or offering an honest suggestion. Jane already saw the rate range when she looked up the temperature question. She’s got the normal respiration rate range too, if needed. She may not be a vet, or even a full doctor yet, but she can memorise text with the best of them.

“Don’t you know it off hand?” She volleys back, half mocking herself. But also a little curious if he’ll know it.

“It doesn’t feel off.”

Guildford has his broad hand on Winifred’s chest, just behind her foreleg. Jane presses in beside him, sliding her hand and the stethoscope beneath his palm. He doesn’t move his hand immediately, but Jane tries her best to focus on counting the beats in time with her watch. 

32 bpm, another normal reading. She moves down to Winifred’s lungs, checking her respiration rate, and listening for any signs of obstruction. Normal again. Guildford is running his hands soothingly over her mane. Gods but his hands are nice. She checks her belly next, listening for the normal gurgles and peristalsis. She hears something else instead.

“Guildford?” She looks up to see the instant worry on his face. 

“How bad is it?”

Jane smiles.

“Winifred isn’t sick - she’s pregnant.”

He looks a little surprised by the news so she hands him the headset and guides the diaphragm back into place so he can listen to the second heartbeat himself - still faint but clearly distinct from its mother’s.

Guildford’s bright smile at the sound makes him look a bit like a kid at Christmas, and it melts Jane’s heart a little to see it. He still seems a little perplexed at the news, however. 

“But how? It’s all mares and geldings in here?”

“You said something about a broken fence?” She reminds him, and sees the exact moment when the thoughts connect.

And then he’s hugging her, lifting her in the air and spinning her to celebrate. Jane feels a little lighter too, oddly glad that she could deliver some good news after all. Guildford sets her back down slowly, keeping her still within the circle of his arms. Jane doesn’t try and break free immediately either. His eyes flick down to her mouth and she wonders if he’s about to try and kiss her. 

Jane realises she wants him to. His bare arms are warm around her sides and his lips look incredibly nice when they’re lifted by a real smile instead of his usual smirk. She tilts her face up towards his, and lets her eyelids go a little heavy. She watches as his tongue peeks out to run across his lips and she’s this close to just sliding her hands into those dark curls and dragging him down to kiss her. But then Winifred is butting her head against Guildford’s side, and the moment swiftly passes them by. Jane reluctantly pulls away.

“She’ll still need a real vet to come in now, if you can maybe find one that doesn’t know her owner’s a deadbeat. I could…” Jane catches herself before she starts offering to find a vet or pay for Winifred’s care herself. She knows that if Guildford actually shows up tomorrow, she’ll probably cave and offer anyway. 

“No chance you’d be willing to pop by for regular checkups?” He half teases.

“I’ll be back in Cambridge after the engagement party tomorrow,” she reminds him.

“...Right,” he accepts, clearly disappointed by the answer. He knows she isn’t a real vet though, and it’s not like she carries around equine ultrasound equipment in her kit. Unless he just wanted an excuse to see her again? But he’s already shifting away, “I guess I should get you back to town then.”

Before she even has a chance to work out if he wants her to stay - if she wants herself to stay - he’s walking out of the stables and expecting her to follow.

It’s a different kind of awkward, this time, climbing in behind him on the bike. He doesn’t make any allusions to her motorcycle virginity - or lack thereof, at this point - but he drives even more slowly than before. Jane gives into the urge to rest her chin on his shoulder, and allows her hands to splay a little across his stomach. Guildford relaxes a little at the gesture and she knows she made the right choice. The rest of the ride is pleasant, and she’s thankful she asked him to drop her off at her sister and William’s slightly more modest flat in town - all the easier to pick up her car tomorrow, and fewer questions about coming home so late - rather than her family estate, which would have been a far shorter ride and led to a great deal more questions.  

Even still, they arrive at her door far too soon, before she’s managed to figure out if there’s a way to recreate the moment from earlier. She takes off her helmet, and is pleased to see him do the same - this makes it much easier, if she can work up the nerve to get closer. She starts to unzip his leather jacket where she’s still wearing it, but he halts her.

“You can give it back to me tomorrow,” he tells her, taking the pull from her hands and zipping the coat back up.

Jane's eyes flick between the ringed hand at her chest - so dangerously near, but not taking any ungentlemanly liberties - and his grinning face above. Apparently she didn’t need to put in any work at all to revive the tension between them, it’s been simmering there the whole time. But since Guildford made his move with the zipper, she figures it's her turn to be bold. 

She reaches up to grasp at those tempting curls and finally pulls his face down to hers, kissing him with a certainty she doesn’t one hundred percent feel right now. Guildford is quick to catch on at least, and returns her kiss with equal fervour, lips sliding warm and plush against her own. 

The kiss quickly turns heated. Guildford’s clever tongue slips between her parted lips and he groans into her mouth when her fingers tug at his hair. His own hands have slid down to where her sweater and his jacket have ridden up a little, and she shivers at the rasp of callused fingers and leather half gloves at the bare skin of her back. 

Jane breaks their kiss only to run her lips over his lightly stubbled jawline, making her way towards the little silver hoop in his ear that’s been driving her crazy since she first noticed it. She delights in the choked off little gasp that tugging it with her teeth draws out, and the full body shudder when she catches the lobe between her lips. She can’t hide the squeak she lets out when he reaches down to palm at her ass, and pulls her in even closer to his overheated body. 

Jane realises this kiss is getting a little out of control for standing out in a fully public street, but his lips have made it to her throat and this is exactly how kissing boys who drive motorbikes is supposed to be. But in a strange way it’s also so very sweet. One of his hands goes to protect the back of her head when he pushes her up against the doorway, and he keeps peppering in these softer kisses under her chin even as his teeth scrape against tendons of her throat. 

He steps in closer and she can feel the solid heat of his thigh as it parts her own, and she wants so much to wrap her legs around his waist and tear off that stupid cut off t-shirt. But this is all a bit much for standing outside on Park Lane, and there’s not much privacy to be gained upstairs either. She reluctantly presses him back, smiling a little at the slightly dazed look on his face, lips flushed and kiss-bitten and his hair sticking up in wild tufts from where she’s been tugging at it. She imagines she looks equally a mess, panting into the space between them. Guildford reaches up to brush back her hair into some semblance of order, apparently also realising things have gotten a little out of hand, but grinning at whatever state she seems to be in right now. She’s already considering whether she’ll need to hide the evidence on her neck from her mother and sister’s eagle eyes tomorrow.

“My sister and her fiance are upstairs,” Jane tries to come up with a nice way to say ‘I’d love for you to come up but I’m apparently a teenager again who can’t escape my nosy family being in my business’.

Guildford seems to catch on to her meaning though, stepping back and taking her hand to press one last kiss to the back of her wrist.

“Until tomorrow, then.”

And then he’s driving off again, leaving her with her med kit in hand and lips still tingling.

****

Guildford isn’t outside when she arrives the next afternoon, as she had expected him to be from his earlier text. His jacket is still tucked into the crook of her arm. She looks down at her mobile, hoping to find some answer there. She had realised earlier she never actually learned his last name, so she had filled in his contact as first name: Guildford last name:Shit band from the pub, but thought better of it and went with the slightly kinder moniker of Guildford/Horse guy. And Guildford Horse guy has apparently just messaged her that he's already inside.

She hurries in, not wanting to miss the look on her mother’s face when she sees him there. Her hopes are dashed when she spots him already talking to her. Only she doesn’t look the least bit upset, which probably has to do with the fact that he’s traded the ripped jeans and leather jacket for a cashmere sweater and pressed trousers, stubbled cheeks and wild hair for a clean shave and cherubic curls, and he’s handing a bottle of Poggio Antico with a bow around its neck to Katherine and William. Just who the hell was this stranger? He somehow transformed into a mother’s wet dream! Only the sight of his ever present necklaces in the v of the sweater and the earring nearly hidden behind his artfully tousled curls give any indication this was the same man from last night. 

Lady Grey signals her over with a pleased look, and Jane walks over as if to the guillotine. Her mother barely pauses the conversation as Jane nears them.

“I was just telling Guildford here how you work much too hard at that school of yours and it’s so difficult to find anyone of quality there. And it seems your date for the party never showed -”

Her mother’s eyes go to the empty space at her side and Jane tries to interrupt her, “but…”

“ - though I thought, isn't it just perfect that Lord Dudley’s son also happens to be here, and also happens to be single.”

Lady Grey is smiling back over Guildford and Jane finally understands just how spectacularly her plan has backfired on her. 

“There you are, my boy!” Lord Dudley wanders over to join the farce, patting Guildford on the shoulder. “I see you’ve finally met Jane Grey - and here I thought you weren’t listening to any of your voice mails.”

​​The look on Guildford’s face when he too realises they’ve done exactly what his parents wanted almost makes up for it. 

Jane can only hope he was kidding about his father already planning their wedding. 

[prima-materia-ttrpg]

Species Highlight - Koura

If there's one thing I know, it's that lobsters are cool. If there are two things I know, it's that they're immortal and one of these days a cult is going to help a lobster molt for over a hundred years until it takes up the space of an Olympic sized swimming pool and they worship it as a new god.

Anyways, here's a highlight from the depths of the oceans, the very playable Koura species.

The Koura, like the Ternaki, are functionally immortal. Adults usually grow to be around 7 feet tall and 20 feet long. During the course of their lives they never stop growing, but they do eventually get so big that they can't move anymore. This happens once a Koura starts getting to around 500 years old. Koura are amphibious and can breathe in both water and air, though many would rather stay in the oceans if only because it's easier to walk around.

This isn't to say that some Koura cultures don't incorporate land-based cities and such. Many sedentary Koura civilizations enjoy interacting with other species and their cultures on land.

Most Koura, however, are semi-nomadic; seasonally migrating between shallow, hot latitudes in the summer when they have children to deep waters of any latitude in the winter. The semi-nomadic Koura are organized in autocratic societies, with warrior-kings at the head of groups; generally relying on trusted friends or family to give them advice. They are concerned with survival and the continuation of their way of life, hunting large sea monsters and foraging for food. They preserve their stories through oral history and shell etchings, a Koura Lorekeeper has many generations of stories both memorized and etched into their shell.

One such legend is that of a Koura King who lead the charge on an existential threat to the world - when the hollow god deigned to fill itself with the flesh of every living thing and the substance of all that is, she stood in battle while alchemists used powerful alchemy to seal it at the bottom of the deepest trench in the whole of the world. This king survived and continued leading her people. Eventually, when she got too old to walk on her own, her people put her back near the trench and took care of her in her old age. Thus, the valley of the kings was born. Many Koura take pilgrimages to this place to offer food and supplies to the monks that are there, taking care of many kings who have grown too old to lead their people until they are ready to die. The king who fought the hollow god declines death, and has been in the valley for over two thousand years enjoying herself.

Tradition and Lorekeeping

Koura have a strong tradition of keeping stories alive. Every nomadic group has at least one Lorekeeper, and sedentary Koura cultures generally have orders dedicated to preserving history in one way or another, whether they be more academic in nature or closer to their Lorekeeper roots.

Lorekeepers hold a high place in Koura society, and often find themselves as confidants to community members seeking guidance for hard decisions thanks to their wealth of knowledge about the past and perceived wisdom.

Any Koura can become a Lorekeeper, but it is quite the undertaking and is steeped in religious tradition. A tribe's current Lorekeeper chooses one or more successors to train and mold into new Lorekeepers. They are taught the oral tradition of their tribe; religious and mythological legends, philosophy, and history. At some point, when the Lorekeeper thinks their apprentice is ready, they undergo a rite of transformation to become a Lorekeeper themselves. The rite of transformation involves the apprentice going into a cave to meditate in solitude for three months. Over this period, the apprentice challenges themselves mentally, and meditates on various stories and Lorekeeper traditions, forging their own views and philosophy with context from their oral tradition on what it means to be a Lorekeeper. Physically, the Koura's body undergoes changes as well, by the end of the three month period whether the apprentice was male or female the changes cause them to become a third sex able to take on the role of both. This form is religiously significant in many Koura cultures, and is an intentional part of the ritual.

After a Koura becomes a Lorekeeper, they choose their first story to be etched into their shell. New Lorekeepers continue to aid the elder Lorekeeper and learn from them, being an apprentice never truly stops as there are many stories to record and tell.

When a Lorekeeper molts, their shells are preserved and bound together as books, and new stories are etched into the new shell. Some of these books have been with Koura tribes for thousands of years.

Life among other species

A far cry from the waters of the ocean, some Koura do make their way onto land every now and then. Some are even permanent residents of land-based cities. Nomadic Koura tribes will often trade with land-based civilizations for nontarnishable metal goods. Sedentary Koura civilizations trade with their neighbors both on land and in the oceans, generally producing large quantities of food. In some places, Koura settle in the oceans directly next to land-based cultures and over time their cities and the cities on land become more intertwined, to the point of being a single city on some occasions.

The largest standalone Koura settlement, or group of settlements rather, that's on land is on the shores of Meridionalis. The Koura there have called the shores of Meridionalis home for thousands of years. Some Koura on Meridionalis tell stories of a time of co-existence with humans on the continent, but the human civilization there vanished long ago if it ever existed in the first place.

Koura that choose to live in land-based cultures will often find themselves doing jobs requiring strength. Labor jobs, hired muscle, and adventuring are all relatively easy jobs for Koura to get into. Some Koura are hired as farmers because their claws make for good plows, and they can move hay bales like they're nothing. This isn't to say that all Koura do physical labor jobs, of course, there are many accomplished alchemists, astronomers, chefs and all manner of other career-focused Koura in the world. One Koura, Robu, owns a wandering restaurant called "Nhànten Ebi" which is very popular along the West Coast of Atiyeret.

The Logistics of being a Sea Monster

Koura, as a playable species, are hard to figure out. They have hefty natural armor, hit like trucks, can't jump or climb, their language is unpronounceable to other species, and most characters will be around a ton or two. These things, realistically, should rip up or at least severely damage cobblestones when they walk on them. They can't even fit in most doorways. So how do I write them mechanically? How do I incorporate them into the land-based setting in a way that makes sense for players to interact with the world?

The narrative question is much easier than the mechanical one. Places that see a lot of Koura will have accommodations for them, and Koura wear rubber capped "shoes" in and near towns so they don't rip up the ground. Many Koura on land will have retainers that know their language and can translate for them. Other narrative questions about the Koura's unique physiology can be answered in similar ways.

Mechanically, it is hard to balance the Koura. Luckily, the species in Prima Materia are meant to be somewhat asymmetrical anyway, with skills and features being more closely balanced. However, I do need to make sure the Koura aren't too crazy while staying true to how I want to portray them as creatures. At the moment, they start with the best natural armor in the game, but not the best overall. It is above average. They can also use their claws as melee weapons, which only really make sense as the best blunt weapons in the game considering most other blunt weapons are much smaller and Force = Mass x Acceleration. There's quite a lot of mass in one of those claws (not to mention the sheer force of getting caught in one). The only other unique trait they currently have is "Exotic Body Plan," which lets them roll an extra die for checks involving Strength, and doesn't allow them to swim, jump, or climb.

As always, thank you for reading this far. This post took a while to write as I was forced to make the Koura interesting (actually worldbuild beyond "I like lobsters, I want lobsters in the setting"). If you want to make your own Koura and perhaps use it in play, here are the playtests for Prima Materia. Next week (or I suppose in half a week, because this post took so long) I will talk about Ranged Combat and some lessons in failing miserably.

And of course big thanks to @donutboxers for the art (it's taking commissions btw)