#I will NOT stop drawing women that haunt me

[denjidenjiji]

I’ve been thinking about women from different medias lately.

i just got out of an artblock…. Coloring is hard guys :(((

[mggslover]

Through thin walls

In which Spencer finds solace in the sounds of his new neighbor.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader Genre: smut (18+) Content warnings: perv!spence, mutual masturbation Word count: 1,7k A/n: i wanted to write a smut with a more sensual, almost poetic approach?? let me know what you think of it bc i truly don’t know how to feel about it… also tell me if you'd be interested in a part two where they would meet!

Spencer wasn’t one to find much solace in sleep.

Once, it had offered him comfort, a refuge where he could momentarily let go of his worries. But that was before his dreams started to haunt him. He was often praised for his eidetic memory, but what people failed to consider was that it also meant remembering your worst memories in precise, vivid detail. 

Of course Spencer was aware of how crucial sleep was, how sleep deprivation could wear a person down to the point of breaking them. But when sleep was the very thing that tore at him, what good was it? He did try to rest—clinging to the rare moments on the jet, where the hum of the engines and the presence of the team offered a shield against the nightmares that awaited him. But in the stillness of his own bed, the darkness pressed in, suffocating him until sleep became a burden he couldn’t bear.

When Spencer prepared for another attempt at sleep, he braced himself for the familiar routine: tossing and turning in tangled sheets, silently reciting The Parliament of Fowls in a desperate effort to reclaim the peace it once gave him—back when his mother would read it to him as a child. He’d pace to the kitchen for a warm glass of milk, anything to calm his restless mind, only for the alarm to blare the moment his head hit the pillow.

What he didn’t expect, though, was to hear a sound from the other side of the wall.

Soft at first, like it was testing the air—a breath, a hum, something faint but undeniably there. Spencer sat up against the headboard, his face turned toward the shared wall. The walls in his apartment were thin, but he hadn’t heard anything from next door in ages, not since his neighbor had moved out.

He waited patiently, listening, and then—there it was again. A faint gasp followed by a low moan. Spencer’s breath hitched as he made out that the sound came from a woman. He tensed, his mind immediately jumping to conclusions. Was she hurt? His pulse quickened. The moan was deeper this time, echoed by a soft, shaky exhale. 

He pressed his ear closer to the wall, straining to make out the sounds. A faint shuffle of movement reached him next, followed by a distant buzzing. Was someone else with her? His thoughts raced as he waited, not sure whether to jump to action. 

The sounds didn’t stop. In fact, they seemed to intensify, morphing into a rhythmic string of moans, sounding almost…sensual. 

Spencer sat frozen as the realization hit him. His stomach fluttered, a flush creeping up his neck and across his face as he struggled to grasp what was happening. He should turn away, should stop listening, but the sounds—her sounds—kept pulling him in. Her soft whimpers seemed to draw out something deep inside of him, an unfamiliar curiosity. 

Another moan sounded, higher pitched, followed by a low, drawn-out whine that made Spencer flinch. His eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to stop the flood of thoughts from rushing in, but it felt like his body was magnetized to the sound. There was nothing but that—the rasp of her breath, the unmistakable signs of pleasure seeping through the thin wall.

The sound of buzzing grew louder, and when a curse left the lips of the women next door, Spencer couldn’t help but let a deep groan escape from his throat. He quickly bit down on his lower lip, heart pounding in his chest. The sounds from the other side of the wall abruptly stopped, and for a moment, the silence was deafening. He held his breath, muscles tensed, every nerve on edge, waiting for what might come next. It felt like an eternity before the buzzing started again—this time softer, but still unmistakable. Spencer let out a long, shaky exhale, the weight in his chest lifting slightly.

Spencer was a firm believer of the mind having control over the body. He’s seen enough cases where people’s minds compelled them to commit horrific acts they wouldn’t have otherwise. In Spencer’s case he’d learned to ignore the nudges of his body, quickly pushing his desires aside as a mere biological function he shouldn’t linger on for too long. Maybe it was his lack of sleep, or the desperation for a change of routine—because this time around his body was getting the best of him. 

The tightness in his pants grew simultaneously with the pretty sounds next door. His hand clenched around the fabric of his sheets, but it didn’t stop the tension building inside of him. 

He tried to shift his focus back to something logical. Distracting himself by thinking back on his chemistry thesis on Dipole-Dipole forces, how simple the alignment of the polar molecules sounded, but how complex it actually is—how the bond isn’t as intense as with ions, but something that builds steadily over time, almost imperceptibly at first, until it becomes undeniable. 

As his mind went on thinking about the invisible, magnetic pull between the opposing charges, he couldn’t help but notice the similarities with the situation he was in. She, like a molecule with her own electric field, creating a captivating attraction, slowly drawing him in with every sweet sound that escaped her lips. He could only wonder what would happen the moment they would meet—if their charged particles aligned—how it could release something greater than either of them could anticipate.

He imagined the woman next door. He pictured her as a shadow first—a soft silhouette just beyond his reach, blurred by the apartment wall. But in his thoughts, the edges of her figure sharpened.

He wondered if she was touching herself, if her hands were trailing along her body in the same way he traced her in his mind. He wondered what her skin would feel like under his fingertips. Would it be soft, the kind that invited touch? Or would the gentle curve of her shoulders be warmer, more textured and defined? 

His hand moved without permission, fingers tracing his own jaw, his eyes fluttering close. His fingers brushed against his neck, leaving a trace of goosebumps in its wake. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to touch her there, to feel the pulse beneath her skin. 

Another moan slipped through the wall, soft and pleading. Would she react the same way if I touched her? The thought sent a jolt of heat through him. Spencer’s hand twitched as he unbuttoned the buttons of his shirt, his hand gliding over his bare chest. 

Each breath, each noise from her, felt like a thread pulling him closer to the edge, closer to her. His body moved on his own accord. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his pants, and he’s hit with the sensation of warmth and need. 

He wondered if she knew how beautiful she sounded. If she was even aware of how loud she was. Or maybe she simply didn’t care. Maybe she liked how much she affected him with her whimpers and gasps. 

He imagined the way her body would move, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the delicate arch of her back as she gave herself over to the sensation. He could almost feel it—like a phantom touch—her skin against his, the way she would shudder beneath him, lost in the same heat he was drowning in now.

His hand drifted lower, unable to stop. He pictured pressing her body into the sheets, hearing her moan against his ear as he would lean in and hide his face into the crook of her neck. He wondered whether she would surrender herself to the pleasure or try gaining more by wrapping her legs around him, pulling him closer. Whether she would like him to take it slow, savoring every touch, or if she would want him to be rough, to make her feel an ecstasy she hasn’t experienced before. 

Another sharp gasp came from the other side of the wall. Spencer stifled a groan as his hand moved more urgently, guided by his growing pleasure. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t focus. Fully consumed by the thought of her—so close, yet still so out of reach. 

Spencer wasn’t sure where his sounds began and where hers ended. He was swallowed by the overwhelming sensation, his mind too hazy to make out the border between reality and his imagination. His grip on himself tightened, spurred on by her sounds that seemed to match his own rhythm. 

She had slipped so deeply into his mind that he could feel her, in every breath, in every shiver of his skin. Spencer felt it in his chest, the way his breath quickened, the way the pressure built. She had become more than just the sounds next door, more than a figment of his imagination. She had become a need. And in this moment, he had no choice but to follow where it led.

Her moans became more frequent. Spencer’s body responded instantly. His hand moved faster, drawn by the pulse of her release, feeling the way it thrummed through him as though they were one. 

He could almost see her—her legs writhing, her eyes closed, her lips parted in that delicate, breathless moan. His mind painted the picture so clearly, it felt as though she were right in front of him. 

Her release ignited his, a wave of heat rolled through him, pulling him under. His breath caught, his body shaking as he followed her, their climaxes crashing together—separate, yet so intimately tied.

As his breath slowed, Spencer lay still, his mind buzzing with the aftershocks of what had just happened. He could still hear her lingering moans in his mind, like a melody he couldn’t shake. His heartbeat, once frantic and wild, slowed to a steady rhythm. The air in the room felt lighter, less suffocating, the weight of longing finally lifted from his chest. 

The exhaustion that pressed down on him was different from the nights before. It wasn’t the weariness of a restless mind, of memories from the past gnawing at him. It was the deep, almost tender exhaustion that followed from his release. 

Tonight, there were no nightmares waiting at the edge of his consciousness. Just quiet. Just calm. Just her.

PART TWO

[pitchsidestories]

birds of a feather II Arsenal Women x Teen!Reader

masterlist I word count: 1647

a/n: dear readers, the inspiration for the oneshot was this request here, we hope that we did the great idea justice.

warnings: contains coach abuse through a parental figure

“Come on move over, Viv!”, Jonas yelled before pushing Vivianne stronger than it would have been necessary.

Watching this scene unfold from the bench brought back memories which were engraved into your brain. But none of your teammates noticed your skin turn pale or the slight wobble of your underlip.

The harshness in your coaches’ voices and the physical aggressivity reminded you of your days in the youth team your stepfather had coached. Back in the day all you did was helplessly staying silent, eager to please, whatever he wanted from you to become what you wanted to be a professional footballer.

Unlike your child self the Dutch midfielder’s reaction wasn’t silence.

“What are you doing? You just said I should get ready!”, she shot back, visibly frustrated by his behaviour.

“You were too slow!”, the Swedish man replied angrily.

“You should have told me in time then! God!”, Vivianne shouted

Listening to their fight made you shrink a little bit more, every word they exchanged felt like a whiplash to you. Their sentences opened cuts you thought have long healed, but they turned out to be still open and you had a hard time to stay focused on the game in front of your eyes.

Flashes of the past returned to the forefront of your mind; you tried your best to ignore those, knowing fully well they would haunt you in your dreams tonight.

“Come on, guys, stop that nonsense.”, much to your relief the co-coach separated the two fighting parties.

“Can you believe that?!”, the forward asked you, sounding exasperated.

“Viv are you okay?!”, you whispered.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”, she assured you.

“Okay, good.”, you nodded. Although nothing was good. Not really, but you weren’t sure you could confide into her. You were still new to the team, and you didn’t want to bother her with things which laid in the past but had a way to resurface in the present.

After the game which resulted in a draw you were the last to be in the shower. Under the harsh waterjet you tried to scrub off what happened today, the skin turned already red, because of your strong rubbing against it.

“Hey, are you coming? You don’t want to miss the bus.”, Kim cleared her throat impatiently to get your attention.

“Yes, everyone is waiting for you.”, Leah added, standing right next to your team’s captain, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“I’m coming.”, you promised.

“Do you need help with anything?”, Lia asked concerned.

“No, I’m good, we can go.”, you waved her off while getting dressed, the clothes clinging to your skin and your hair was still wet when you left the changing room with your teammates.

You were quiet on your way back. You did not want to be that quiet. Everyone around you was talking and joking. But you just sat there, your thoughts spinning.

You barely even managed to say good bye to your teammates before going home.

Standing in front of the door of the small apartment, you could already hear your stepfathers voice.

He was yelling again.

For a moment you considered just leaving but then you thought better of it.

Carefully, you opened the door.

“Hi, I’m home.“, you announced yourself quietly.

Your stepdad immediately turned to you: “You played like shit today.“

You flinched as he stomped towards you: “But I…“

His hands wrapped around your upper arm. The sport bag dropped from your shoulder as he pushed you around in anger: “Whatever your coach said, he’s wrong! Remember who got you to where you are now?! Who coached you first and saw your potential!“

His face was so close to yours that you could smell the alcohol on his breath.

You could not get yourself to meet his eyes.

“I’m tired… I just want to go to bed.“, you said calmly, to not risk upsetting him even more.

He continued, pushing you backwards repeatedly until your back hit the wall with full force: “You better remember that! And you better work your ass off at the next game. I refuse to let you embarrass me again!“

There was so much you wanted to say. You wanted to shout how glad you were that he would never coach you again and how sorry you felt for the other kids. You wanted to scream that you owed him nothing, that you were the one who had built this career for yourself.

But you felt too drained to fight, so you just nodded and disappeared into your room without another word.

At training the next day, your stepfathers words reverberated in your head and you found yourself subconsciously pushing your body to its limit at every exercises.

This did not go unnoticed by your teammates.

“Woah, hey. Slow down, little one.“, Beth stopped you. She was smiling but there her eyebrows were knotted together in worry.

Steph appeared on your side as you caught your breath: “Yes, you don’t want to hurt yourself in training.“

“I won’t.“, you said plainly, hoping they would back off and would let you continue.

“Y/n…“, Beth started, the smile suddenly gone.

“Yes?“

“Relax a bit. This is almost as obsessive as Leah is with her training.“, she chuckled but you knew she was serious.

The blonde defender grimaced at her: “Excuse me?!“

Her voice went soft as she added: “But yes, something is off… Y/n, if you want to talk about it, you should know that we’re here for you.“

You could feel the tears well up in your eyes so you just shook your head.

“And if not to us, there’s also a psychologist here.“, Lia continued empathetically.

“It’s fine. Really. Just need to be better at the next game.”, you tried.to wave their worries off.

“You played like ten minutes. Not many players can make a difference in ten minutes.”, Katie argued.

“Yes, but it’s not good enough!”, you shouted, pushing the arm of the Irish woman which stretched out for a hug away.  

“Alright, calm down. Katie rolled her eyes annoyed at you, before turning her head to your other teammates who stood there equally clueless about your sudden emotional outbreak, sounds like she really does need to see our psychologist.”

You were close to shout at her, telling the older woman that she had no idea what was going on inside your brain, how unloving and dangerous your home felt. That family wasn’t always as perfect as the club painted it to be. But you decided to be quiet and continued to do your training.

It was after the next match day at home when Kim noticed that your stepdad was pushing you around.

” Girls, look.”, the captain nodded worried into your direction.

“We can’t just-“, Katie begun, already rolling up her sleeves, ready to fight against the taller man.

“Katie. He’s gone.”, Caitlin interrupted her girlfriend.

“Y/n?”, Kim was the first who was at your side, the rest of the team swiftly followed her.

“Kim? Katie?”, you blinked at them in surprise.

“Are you good? Is he bothering you.”, the Irish player wanted to know from you with deep concern in her voice.

“He’s my stepdad, he always acts like that.”, you looked down, ashamed that your home wasn’t as beautiful and wholesome as theirs.

“You know, I don’t think I like him an awful lot.”, Beth admitted.

“The next time he pushes you, I’ll push him back. Such an asshole!”, Katie cursed.

“No one’s pushing anyone here!”, Kim demanded in full captain mode. All she cared about was your well-being. The rest could be solved at a later stage.

“Right, and we need to get y/n out of this unhealthy situation at first.”, Lia added earnestly while brushing softly through your open hair with one hand to calm down her and your nerves.

“You really are the personification of Switzerland, Wally.”, Katie teased her, attempting to lighten up the depressive atmosphere.

“Someone has to find a reasonable solution.”, Lia defended herself.

“Maybe she could sleep at one of our places tonight until we have a plan?”, Kim suggested.

“Sounds good.”, Leah agreed seriously.

“She can stay with me and Viv.”, Beth announced, giving you a warm smile.

“Yes, she can stay as long as she wants. Plus, Myles will be so excited to see her again.”, the Dutch footballer grinned at the memory of their little puppy who loved you a lot.

“Thanks, girls.”, you mumbled gratefully.

Gently, Beth put her arm around your shoulders: “That’s what we’re here for.“

“Yes but all your families are so cute and then there’s mine… so I thought I never belonged.“, you admitted, not sure if you were making any sense.

Alessia shrugged, her gaze fixed on you: “Not everyone has a perfect family.“

“And family is not always blood-related.“, Beth added softly.

For a moment you were sure that you saw tears glistening in her blue eyes but you could not blame her. She had been through a lot.

“What do you mean?“, you asked.

“What Beth is trying to say is that we can be your family, y/n.“, Leah explained.

You looked up at her in surprise: “Really?“

“This is what this team is and always was.“, Kim nodded solemnly.

“A family…“, you said conclusively.

You looked at your teammates and were left speechless by the determination and empathy in their faces.

After years of suffering through the abuse in youth teams, your heart felt full with gratefulness and adoration for your teammates. But it simultaneously was also breaking for the children still having horrible coaches and being dismissed.

In that moment, you made a promise to yourself to make whatever team you would join a safe space and a family as well.

But for now, you were ready to let your guard down and let your Arsenal family take care of you.

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

4: UNDERCOVER MISSION

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter

The tension between you and Bucky builds during an undercover mission.

Word count: 4.2k

Warning: ongoing miscommunications, some dirty talk, Bucky Barnes being am awkward dumbass

The mission was simple, but you didn’t want to be the one taking part. It was an undercover op where you had to integrate yourself into a community of people who were high-ranking members of a terrorist organization. It was a challenge for the other Avengers to mask their infamy. So you and Bucky were the natural choice since Bucky was now unrecognizable from his appearance as the Winter Soldier. Also, times had progressed, and S.H.I.E.L.D. technology allowed him to disguise his vibranium arm with a hologram. The first time he had put it on, a look of sadness had crossed his handsome features. He had hidden it well from the scientists and engineers, but you could see it in his eyes, the hollow haunted glaze that made you long to throw your arms around his neck and hold him until he would smile and the small crinkles around his eyes would lengthen as this steel-blue orbs sparkled. But this wasn’t your place anymore.

"Jamie! Look how amazing you look!" Priya exclaimed. 

You rolled your eyes and scowled. Who had allowed her to attend the fitting in the first place? Glancing around, you couldn’t see anyone else who seemed to object to Priya’s presence. In fact, some of the men and women seemed to be more focussed on her appearance than they were interested in the success of Bucky’s holographic arm technology. 

"Yeah, it’s gotten better." Bucky flexed his bicep and opened and closed his fist, marveling at how realistic the skin looked. "Thanks," he nodded at the project lead.

"How does it feel, Jamie?"

 Bucky shrugged. "Can't feel anything."

"It looks so realistic! Will you wear it all the time?"

You were lost in tracing the contours of Bucky’s muscular back and shoulders when Priya’s words brought you back to reality. “He doesn't need to wear it all the time,” you snapped.

“No, of course not,” Priya replied calmly, as though you were one of her small patients throwing a temper tantrum. “But sometimes James doesn't like the attention his arm draws. It makes him uncomfortable. So it would be good to have an option for him to avoid people staring.”

She was right, it would be good for Bucky to be able to wear t-shirts without being stared at, or feeling ashamed or self conscious. You despised that Bucky had to hide who he was. He was a veteran and shouldn’t have to feel the need to hide the sacrifices he had made for his country. But his past as the Winter Soldier was well known, making him a target for drawing scrutiny. You gritted your teeth, trying to formulate a counter-argument but failing. It was excruciating watching Bucky put a loving arm around her, pulling her into his side. He used to do that to you, just never so publicly.

“Thanks, Doll. It’s good to have someone looking out for me.”

The urge to punch Bucky in the face was something you did your best to push away. “Yeah, you don’t really need me here.” You slipped off the table you were perched on and turned to walk away.

"Don’t you and Bucky have to pretend to be a couple?" Priya called after you. "For this mission?"

Her questions made you stop in your tracks. Had Bucky really shared the sensitive information regarding your mission with his girlfriend?

"Yeah?" you answered, cautiously.

“Shouldn’t you hang around and see how Bucky is in a relationship then?”

“Thanks Priya, but I don’t need instructions on how to act in a relationship.” Your tone was laced with the spite you felt.

"Cricket!" Bucky looked at you, angrily. 

You hated it. It hurt that he felt these emotions towards you. But you were desperate not to lose his friendship. In a way, you hated yourself for not having the courage to tell Bucky how you felt. And you knew that if you wanted to keep your friendship with him, you would be the one who needed to stay civil. It was harder that you’d originally thought. You were a good agent, you excelled at undercover work, but when it came to Bucky, you felt like you’d lost your mind. Your emotions were a rollercoaster ride and you often felt like you couldn’t hold back your screams any longer.

“I’m sorry, I-I-”

“It’s alright, Jamie.” Priya put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, that probably sounded really patronizing. I just want James… both of you to be safe.”

You nodded, a heat rising up your neck and reddening your cheeks. She knew. The pitying look on her face told you that she knew how you felt about Bucky. It was humiliating. This would have been the perfect time for the ground to open up and swallow you. But alas, of all the times you’d been surprised by the loss of integrity beneath your feet, this was the one time where the floor remained as sturdy as ever.

“Don’t worry, Cricket and I have been partners for a long time. We’ve got this. I’m sure she’ll take good care of me.” He turned to you and smiled softly. “She always does.”

You didn’t quite know how to interpret Bucky’s use of partners, he had always called you his friend. What had changed now? You returned his smile sadly. “I'll do my best.”

Bucky took the hologram off his arm and handed it back to its creator. “I'll come by tomorrow for this. Come on, Priya,” he put a hand on her back. “I'll take you home, I need to get an early night, we leave pretty early tomorrow.”

Priya smiled at him, “Sounds great, I can say goodbye properly there.”

With a heavy heart, you watched them leave before following at a distance where you wouldn’t have to hear their chatter. Bucky had never looked so animated before and jealousy burned inside you. So you decided to head back to your quarters where you could treat yourself to a comforting dinner and fall asleep to escape the pain and anxiety of what was to come.

*

Your alarm went off at 4.30am and you groaned, rolling out of bed. There was no time to lounge around, there was a mission to complete and you always set your alarm for the last minute. A quick bracing shower woke you sufficiently enough for you to dress in a light, comfortable travel outfit and grab some coffee in the kitchen at the end of your corridor. You finished making a coffee for yourself and were pouring the leftovers into a travel mug when a slightly disheveled Bucky made an appearance.

"Thanks," he grunted, taking the mug you offered him.

"I thought you were getting an early night?" you smirked at him.

"Always a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?" he replied, sarcastically. 

"What happened? Goodbye took longer than expected?"

It was Bucky’s turn to smirk. "Actually, we ended up having to say it several times."

His words made your face fall and your eyes twitch dangerously. It was time to retreat from this conversation. "We should get going."

Bucky nodded, falling instep beside you silently. He had noticed the change in your tone.

"Cricket?"

"Is everything okay between us?"

"Yeah! Why do you ask?" Your face remained impassive, but your soul was screaming with fear.

"Things have changed so much. I guess… I was just checking."

"You don’t think we can do this?" you asked, trying to deflect from the real issue at hand. But your question held more depth than you cared to admit.

"It just feels like we’re not as … in sync as we used to be."

"And why do you think that is, Bucky?"

Bucky stopped walking. "Ever since I introduced you to Priya, you’ve built this wall between us. I don’t understand what your problem is, Cricket. She’s been nothing but nice to you."

You took a deep breath, knowing you needed to choose your words very carefully or the truth would come spilling out and the embarrassment would be unbearable. "I don’t have a problem with Priya."

"Then what is it? What is your problem?"

You tried to think of an answer, but the only words that your brain screamed at you were "I LOVE YOU!"

"I don’t know," you whimpered. You bit down on your lower lip to stop it trembling, but nothing could stop the tears building up in your eyes. You dropped your head to hide your face but not soon enough for Bucky to catch sight of the water fall from your eyes.

Bucky wrapped his arm around you, sweeping you into a much needed hug. He smelled like home. You missed his warmth, the closeness you’d had. Bucky’s sturdiness made you want to melt into him, to break down, to confess your feelings to him. But the vibration of your phone brought you back to your sad lonely reality.

"Hello?" you answered the device.

Bucky wiped a stray tear from your face with his thumb as he listened to Steve’s voice asking where you were.

"We’re coming, Steve." Bucky raised his voice so Steve would be able to hear him through the phone in your hand, before reaching over and hanging up the phone. "You gonna be okay?"

You nodded, sadly.

"I'm worried about you, you know that, right?"

"I'll be fine, Bucky. I won't fuck this up."

"Not the mission. Fuck the mission. I'm worried about you."

"I'll be fine, Buck. But thank you… for caring."

The two of you reached the hangar bay where Steve was waiting impatiently with your mission packs. He handed them to you wordlessly, analyzing your faces for signs of concern. You avoided eye contact with him, hoping he wouldn't notice your slightly reddened eyes.

"This one's important. We all need this to work."

"We got this, Cap!" You saluted him with a grin plastered across your face.

Steve rolled his eyes at you and even Bucky couldn't help but smile as you led the way to the quinjet. Bucky was going to fly the two of you to a southern Italian resort where the conference was taking place. The conference was a cover for major arms dealers and Bucky would be posing as a representative to a S.H.I.E.L.D. fabricated 'bad guy’ named Zandor.

Bucky’s cover was James Road, Zandor’s right hand man and you were playing Sabrina Road, James's wife. You had been told to expect a high end affair at a deluxe resort where the various representatives would schmooze with each other, gathering intelligence and allies. You weren't worried about your safety, not with Bucky at your side, but you didn't want your cover blown or to fail to get what you needed.

Bucky had once told you that he had never felt like a ‘James’, Bucky was the only name he had really known. It always made you wonder why he never asked Priya to call him ‘Bucky’. You wondered how he would react to you calling him James for the next few days. 

"Penny for your thoughts?" Bucky interrupted your musings.

"Hmm?" You turned to face him, hoping he wouldn’t ask too many intrusive questions. For some reason, tears seemed too close to the surface for your liking these days.

Bucky set the quinjet’s controls to autopilot and swiveled his chair to face you. "Steve gave me something before we left. One of them is for you."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small velvet box. Inside it were a beautiful pair of matching wedding rings, made of a shiny rose gold. Bucky slipped one onto his finger and held his hand out, palm facing up. But the other ring wasn’t what he was offering. He was holding out his hand for you to take, so he could place the ring on your finger. What you wouldn’t give for that moment to be real!

"Here, hand it over." You snatched the ring unceremoniously out of the velvet box, your heart pounding. The metal was cool against your skin, and you marveled at the delicate craftsmanship. The rose gold glimmered in the soft light of the quinjet’s cabin, casting a warm glow.

Bucky’s eyes bore into yours, intense and searching. His fingers brushed against yours as he took the ring back from you. His touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine. For a moment, the world outside the quinjet ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, suspended in this charged atmosphere.

He held your hand gently, turning it so your palm faced down. The ring slid onto your finger smoothly, a perfect fit. He wanted nothing more than to hold on to you forever, lost in the comfort of your touch and your eyes.  You couldn’t tear your gaze away from him. His cerulean eyes held a mixture of vulnerability and determination. It was as if he was silently saying, this is real, even if it’s just for this mission.

"James," you whispered, testing out the name. It felt strange on your tongue, yet oddly right. He didn’t flinch or correct you. Instead, he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin.

"Sabrina," he murmured, his lips brushing your knuckles. The intimacy of the moment stole your breath away. You wondered if he could hear your heart racing.

The quinjet hummed around you, cocooning you both in its metal embrace. Outside, the world continued to spin, but here, in this stolen instant, time stood still. You wanted to believe that this wasn’t just part of the mission—that maybe, just maybe, there was something more between you and Bucky.

But reality crashed back in. The mission, the danger, the arms dealers—they all loomed ahead. You couldn’t afford distractions. Not now.

"Thank you," you said softly, meeting his gaze. "For this."

Bucky’s smile was bittersweet. "We’ll get through this, Cricket. Just like we always do."

And with that promise hanging in the air, you both returned to your roles—the undercover couple, James and Sabrina Road. But as the quinjet soared toward Italy, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this mission held more than just secrets and lies. Perhaps, hidden beneath it all, there was a chance for something real.

The rings on your fingers seemed to whisper their own silent vows, binding you together in this dangerous dance. And for now, that was enough. 

*

Bucky landed the quinjet in a small isolated airspace that had been predetermined to be safe by S.H.I.E.L.D.. Nat had scouted the area a few days previously and ensured an SUV was waiting for you. Both of you changed into casual holiday clothing.

Bucky’s transformation was nothing short of remarkable. The once stoic and battle-worn soldier now stood before you, bathed in sunlight, a vision of rugged charm. His light blue shirt clung to his broad chest, the top buttons undone, revealing a tantalizing hint of skin and chest hair. Beige slacks hung low on his hips, tailored to perfection. The aviators perched on his nose lent an air of mystery, shielding eyes that had seen too much. He was beautiful.

And then there was you. In a pink floral print summer dress, you were a burst of color against the backdrop of wilderness. The fabric swirled around your legs as you turned, catching the sunlight like a thousand petals. Bucky’s jaw dropped, mirroring your own reaction. His gaze traced the delicate curve of your collarbone, the soft slope of your shoulders. The air crackled with unspoken tension of the last few weeks.

The change in location seemed to have freed you from the burden of your emotions. There was a thrill of anticipation that bubbled inside you. Was it excitement or anxiety? You never could be certain, but you felt it at the start of every mission. It was you and Bucky against the world and there was no one else you'd trust more with your life. Steve and Nat had brainstormed a few ideas for James and Sabrina’s relationship but they left the details down to the two of you. They had decided that the couple you were playing would be newly weds, as Nat always said, people were uncomfortable with public displays of affection. They had even gone as far as securing the honeymoon suite for your stay. 

As the bellhop ushered you and Bucky into the honeymoon suite, the room unfolded before your eyes, a symphony of silk, candlelight, and rose petals. The air hung heavy with anticipation, like a secret whispered in the dark. The bed, a grand centerpiece, stretched out like an invitation, an intimate promise.

Yet, despite the plush surroundings and the illusion of newlywed bliss, unease settled in your chest. You stole a glance at Bucky, his features were etched in sunlight and his eyes, usually steely and guarded, now held a vulnerability you hadn’t seen in a long time. Perhaps it was the flickering glints of light between the net curtains or the soft strains of music playing in the background, but this charade felt more real than you’d anticipated.

The bed loomed large, its expanse inviting yet treacherous. It was a stage, and you were the actors, playing roles scripted by someone else. You remembered the nights when Bucky’s warmth had chased away your nightmares, the way his fingers traced constellations on your skin. But this bed wasn’t meant for whispered confessions or stolen kisses, it was but a prop, a cruel reminder of what you couldn’t have.

You glanced at Bucky again, wondering if he felt the same dissonance. His jaw was clenched, and his gaze lingered on the bed. Did he remember the nights in safe houses, huddled together for warmth? Or was this just another mission, another mask to wear?

"I guess this is a bit of a waste, huh?" Bucky commented, dismissing the tension.

You forced a laugh. "Let's get this over with."

Bucky followed you out of the suite, his awareness heightened by the people milling around. As you were about to mention their presence to him, his arm slid around your shoulder. You smiled up at him, perhaps the bond between you hadn’t completely faded. In the lobby, a lounge area beckoned, its bar opening onto a sunlit terrace and pool.

"What do you think, James? Too early for a drink?" you asked.

"It’s always happy hour somewhere, baby," Bucky replied with a charming smirk.

He ordered drinks for both of you, and you settled near Nadal, your target, who was downing mimosas as if his life depended on them. He was an older Latino man who was not only handsome, but impeccably groomed. He was dressed in casual clothing, but his attire radiated power nevertheless. Bucky placed your drink in front of you, sitting close, his arm around your waist.

"Time to put on a show?" Bucky inquired.

You smirked, sliding onto his lap. "Jameeeeeeees," you whined loudly. "I thought we were on holiday. Is this why you didn’t want to take me to Hawaii? You’re always working. What about me? I have needs too, you know!"

It worked—Nadal’s attention was now squarely on you.

Bucky chuckled, locking eyes with the target. "Women!"

"Can’t live with ‘em," Nadal drawled.

"Can't fuck anything else."

You stiffened with surprise with Bucky's language. You noticed he was more reserved about using foul language, you had always chalked it up to being Steve’s influence. Now that Bucky had Nadal’s attention, they chatted amicably and you took the opportunity to make the most of your surroundings; identifying security cameras, bodyguards and escape routes. You hadn’t noticed how much you had been squirming around on Bucky’s lap, because his grip on your thighs suddenly became very tight, holding you still.

His action didn’t go unnoticed by Nadal. "Save the action for the bedroom, kids!"

Bucky slapped your ass, salaciously and you gasped. You hadn’t expected it, neither had you expected the rush of desire between your legs. "James," you whined. It was clear that your role on this mission was mostly to cast suspicion away from your partner, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t play your part well. "You promised me you wouldn’t do that in public. You know what it does to me," you pouted.

"Better not let the little lady down, Road." Nadal winked, rising from his seat. "What room are you two in?"

"Managed to bag the honeymoon suite, for this one."

"Ahh, so it’s you I lost out to?" he chuckled. "Well my husband and I will be next door. Try and keep it down, your wife seems like a screamer." With that Nadal left you and Bucky alone in the bar feeling uncomfortable in more ways than one.

"Guess we’ll have to give them a show tonight," you grumbled, dropping out of Bucky’s lap.

"Yeah," Bucky replied, but from the way he was gazing off into the distance, you weren’t totally sure he was listening.

"What is it?"

"The competition."

"Great," you mumbled. "Guess we gotta get access to the intel before they do."

"What do you think our chances are if we play it by the book?" 

"Slim, they look like they mean business. And they probably have the funds to challenge our bid."

"Should we go back to the room? Nadal is probably expecting some… noise." Bucky looked uncomfortable as he spoke.

"And we’ll be better equipped to know if they leave their room."

It didn’t take long for the two of you to saunter back to the suite, Bucky’s hands were all over you and you couldn’t help but wish that it was voluntary rather than duty. You kept up a shrill giggle to make people around you look away. Once in the room, neither of you seemed to know how to proceed. Bucky had never been forthcoming with his feelings at the best of times, often switching them off when it came to work.

"So, umm… so what now?" you asked.

"He’s probably in there right now." Bucky put his ear to the wall as you waited silently for his assessment. "Someone's moving around, don't hear any talking."

"Set up a camera so we know when they leave?" You pulled a small device out of your bag, tossing it to Bucky. "There was a plant on the table outside."

Bucky didn't need to be told twice, he was out the door and back in under 30 seconds.

"Wait!" You whispered urgently. "Slam it shut."

Bucky complied with your request, with a confused frown. His eyes went from narrowed to goggle-like as you moaned loudly.

"Ohhhh James!"

Bucky gave you a horrified look before mouthing at you across the room. "What’re you doing?"

"James, I want you!" You delivered your line with as much lust as you could muster. Smirking at him, you dropped your voice. "Giving them the show they're after."

"Oh God, you make me so wet. I love when you push me up against the wall."

You motioned wildly at Bucky, who rolled his eyes and threw himself against the wall of the neighboring room for effect.

"I've been waiting for this all day. I want you so bad. Here, feel!"

Bucky closed his eyes, a deep flush darkening his face as you looked at him expectantly.

"God, you're so wet, baby." Bucky's voice was husky. And for a moment you wondered how he sounded in bed.

Focus! You told yourself.

"Only for you, baby. I can't get enough of you touching me. I want your fingers inside me." You continued, pressing your face against the wall.  "I can't wait until I get to rip these pants off of you."

"What do you want me to do to you?" Bucky eventually found words to contribute, having turned away from you.

You loudly moaned a few more times for effect. "Come on Mr Road, my badass arms dealer husband, you can do better than that!" you goaded him in a whisper.

"Are you serious?" he muttered.

"Tell me how much you want me," you cried.

Bucky thought for a moment, before choking out. "I want you so much, baby. I want to feel myself inside you and I want to fuck you so hard. Now get on the bed." Not once as he spoke did he make direct eye contact with you. 

Was it wrong that his words had your cunt clenching uncontrollably? You fanned your face before you noticed Bucky pointing at the bed. Oh right! You flung yourself on the luxurious mattress, making sure that it rocked against the wall. "Please James, I want you inside me." Your voice was suddenly breathless.

Bucky sat down on the other side of the bed, tugging at the crotch in his pants. They seemed to be tighter than they were before. He used his legs to rock the bed.

"Fuck me, James, fuck me harder." You crawled up to the headboard rattling it enthusiastically. "Whatever you do, don't stop."

Bucky moaned. It was a good thing he was facing away from you, he thought as he pressed his palm over his growing erection.

"That feels so good, B-James. Oh my god, I'm gonna come." You squeezed your legs together, trying to control the throbbing between your legs. Bucky’s name had almost slipped past your lips, and you hoped he hadn't noticed.

"I'm going to make you come so hard." 

"JAMES! OH YES!" you screamed.

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[kittenofdoomage]

Vessel

THIS WORK IS ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST OR COPY MY STORIES. 18+ CONTENT AHEAD.

Summary: The last night of a camping trip you weren’t really enjoying ends up with an accidental summoning.

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Eldritch Creature!Geralt x fem!reader

Word Count: 2872

Warnings: tentacles, please forgive my awful Latin, dubious consent but not really, triple penetration (anal/vaginal/oral), belly bulging, other dimensions, accidental blood offerings

The spot Laurie had chosen for the night was a frequently used site at the foot of the mountain, surrounded by trees and caves, and not too far from the parking lot so carrying everything wasn’t an issue. You had only come along on the trip when she had begged you too, even if camping wasn’t ordinarily your thing, and neither was her obsession with ghost hunting. The whole trip had been for her birthday, so you hadn’t felt right complaining about the activities when you were grateful to be included and this was the last night you would have to endure the uncomfortable sleeping roll and threadbare sleeping bag.

With a fire built, you sat around it with the other women, staring at the marshmallow on the stick you held as it melted into the fire. They chatted about their favorite parts of the trip so far, describing the supposedly haunted house that Laurie had insisted on visiting.

“I got something special for our last night,” she announced once all the s’mores were gone. “Do you guys remember me telling you about my grandpa’s library, all the weird creepy books he left when he died?”

A murmur of acknowledgement went around the group and she giggled, dragging a bag around the stump she was sitting on, opening it. From within, she pulled a thick tome, ancient-looking, bound in cracked brown leather. You couldn’t see the front of it clearly from where you were, only the raised edges of a serpent-like design on the cover.

One of the others sniffed, peering at the book curiously. “What is that? Some kind of occult thing?”

“I dunno,” Laurie shrugged, opening it in her lap. “It’s full of weird Latin and pictures of dicks.”

Missy, sitting directly beside her, leaned over to look. “I don’t think those are dicks,” she commented, pointing at something on the page. “Okay, maybe that one is.”

The conversation became centered on the pages of the book, all of them giggling as they looked at the various pornographic pictures inside. You continued to watch the fire, tired of being outdoors, but too polite to retreat to your tent. Missy called your name, and you looked up as she handed you the book.

“This one totally looks like you,” she giggled, thrusting the book into your lap. Your gaze fell on the only picture on the page, a depiction of a naked woman, bound and exposed, the crude drawing detailing her genitalia. You wrinkled your nose in distaste, not seeing the resemblance between yourself and the obscene image.

“Come on, it totally does,” Laurie laughed. “You could use a good ravishing like her.”

Your bottom lip jutted out. “Low blow,” you replied solemnly, lifting the book to offer it back to her. “Here, I’m - ow!” The pain was sharp, then instantly faded to a throb as blood welled out of the paper cut and dripped onto the book, staining the page red. “Oh my god, Laurie, I’m so sorry -”

“It’s fine,” she dismissed urgently, tossing the book back towards the bag, more concerned about the blood on your hand. “That’s bleeding pretty badly.”

The others gathered around, offering napkins and band aids, but you waved them off, sucking your finger into your mouth to clean it. “It’s just a papercut, it’ll heal,” you muttered, taking one of the offered tissues to wrap it around until it stopped bleeding. “I, uh, I think I’m gonna call it a night though.”

“I’m pretty beat too,” Missy yawned. “Can’t wait to sleep in my own bed tomorrow.”

You smiled, then took your leave, crawling awkwardly into your single sleeper tent, listening as the others all cleaned up and put the fire out. The noise tapered off into just the owls in the distance, and you wriggled out of most of your clothing, keeping only your t-shirt and panties on. Your finger had stopped bleeding, so you tossed the tissue into your rucksack with the rest of the trash you had collected since your last stop.

With silence outside, only broken by the odd hoot of an owl, you dozed off quickly, despite the lumpy ground underneath your bedroll. For a few hours, you slept, and then something woke you in the dead of the night, making you sit up. You opened the zip on the tent, poking your head out, seeing nothing but the other tents, a few fireflies, and the book, sitting on the stump by the remains of the fire.

It was strange that Laurie had left it there. You climbed out, moving towards it with the intention of putting it in your tent for the night so it didn’t get damaged, but when you picked it up, the flames in the center of your little camp suddenly came to life again. Surprise knocked you onto your ass, and you dropped the book; it landed open, right on the page that was still stained with the red of your blood. For some reason, your attention was drawn to it, and you read the Latin, wondering what it meant as you whispered it.

“Ubi in tenebris habitat, in vacuo ubi expectat, salutabo, ei me tradam, ut me tanquam vasculo suo benedicat et prodiat.”

The fire went out. You lifted your head as the wind whipped up, and then the ground underneath suddenly opened. Your shocked cry was cut off as the earth swallowed you, and you landed on solid ground with a thud, grunting as you impacted. Assuming you’d fallen through a sinkhole, you looked up to call out for the others, only to find a fathomless darkness above you, and all around you.

The air smelled damp. Hard ground bruised your knuckles as you forced yourself to your feet, keeping low before realizing there was nothing above you. You didn’t feel confined, and when you spoke, your voice was almost absorbed by the darkness around you. “Hello?” Taking a step forward, you leaned, repeating your question in a harsher tone. “Hello?!”

Somewhere in the void, something - someone - hummed. It sounded male, and you tried to pinpoint the source, searching with no success.

“Is someone there?”

The sound of something moving made you turn, and two human-shaped golden eyes appeared, focused on you. “I am the dweller in the dark,” a male voice said softly. “Who is it that greets me?”

You shivered, suddenly very aware of your undressed state, tugging the hem of your t-shirt down. “M-my name is Y/N,” you whispered. “Who - who are you?”

He, you assumed, laughed. “You summon me, yet ask who I am,” he chuckled. “Did you not understand the words you spoke? Was it not your blood given as a token of your offering?”

“No, I -,” you murmured then stopped, shaking your head. “What - what did I say?”

Another low rumble of laughter. “Even after all these centuries, humans remain foolish.”

You screwed up your face, indignant at his words. “Hey!” you snapped. “I’m not a fool, I just don’t know Latin!”

Your ire seemed to make him laugh harder, and you scowled, turning to walk away, even though it appeared there was nowhere to walk to. After a few meters, you threw your arms up in frustration, looking around to see the golden eyes right where they had been; you hadn’t moved at all. “What is this place?!” you cried.

“This is my realm,” he informed you. “I have been here for a millenia, waiting for someone to speak the words and offer themselves. Now you are here.”

“O-offer themselves?” you repeated as x-rated imaginings instantly flooded your mind. You squeezed your thighs together, ashamed of the heat you felt between them. “No, I -” He didn’t say anything, and you shook your head, clutching at your shirt. “What are you?”

His answer came as he emerged from the darkness. He was tall, broad, pale as snow with white hair that flowed past his shoulders, framing his handsome ethereal face. Your eyes swept over him, and when you realized he was naked, your face warmed, making you drop your gaze to the floor as your imagination got a little wilder. 

“I am ancient,” he murmured, with a ravenous look in his eyes. “I am what came before man was even a whisper.” He tilted his head, smiling salaciously at you. “But you may call me Geralt.”

You swallowed, trying not to look at him. “What do you want from me?”

He took a step closer. “Only what you offered,” he replied in a thicker voice, his desire clear as he closed the distance between you. “What I see in your mind.” Your lips parted as your breathing grew heavier, and then he was within touching distance. “And in return,” he continued softly, reaching to touch your cheek with just the tips of his fingers, “I offer my eternal devotion and protection.”

“Oh,” you inhaled sharply. Caught in the hypnotic shimmer of his eyes, you lean into his touch, feeling something like an electric charge go through you as his palm cradles your jaw, ending in a tingling right in your core. You shuddered, whispering as you kept staring, words falling from your lips without thinking. “I offer myself…”

His lips pressed against yours, and you melted into him, bracing your hands against his firm chest. A dull throb started in your cunt, growing stronger when his tongue slipped into your mouth, licking into you hungrily. When he broke away, his eyes were blazing, and he smiled, catching your bottom lip with his thumb. “I accept,” he murmured reverently.

Something brushed your ankle and you shook it off, realizing too late that it was wrapping around you, sliding up your calf. You looked down, eyes widening as you saw the tentacle, joined seconds later by others that wrapped around your legs. More emerged from the darkness, capturing your arms and forcing them behind your back, thrusting your chest out. They made quick work of destroying your clothing, leaving you bare and exposed as they lifted you from the ground, suspending you with your legs spread wide. Geralt watched, and as you fought to hold your head up, you saw that the flexible appendages were coming from him.

You knew you should have been panicking but something calmed you, and when two tentacles slithered around your breasts, using their tips to tease your nipples, you cried out in pleasure, clenching around nothing. Geralt moved closer, stopping between your knees, laying one hand over your sodden cunt.

“Such a perfect vessel,” he hummed, thumbing at your clit.

The tip of one tentacle flicked over the swell of your ass, slipping between your spread cheeks to tease at your tight rose. You gasped, eyes rolling back as it prodded into you, wriggling against the puckered entrance, and you mewled when you realized you wanted it inside you.

This is wrong, your mind protested, quickly silenced by your overwhelming arousal. “Please,” you begged, desperately for anything inside you.

Two more tentacles brushed against your cunt, pressing against your swollen petals until they were spread open, and Geralt practically purred, abandoning your clit to push two fingers into you. Just the width of them was more than you’d taken in a long time, and you cried out, clenching around him as your juices coated his skin.

“So wet,” he praised. “You want more?”

You nodded, feeling an almost physical pain in your need to cum. He smirked, withdrawing his fingers; a thick tentacle replaced them, pushing into you with little preamble, and you screamed as it abruptly started to fuck into you, filling you more and more with each stroke. Still, you craved more, and as if he sensed your need, the tentacle at your ass pushed against your tight hole, taking only seconds to break through and fill you.

Geralt bent down, sealing his mouth around your clit, and when you cried out this time, more tentacles surrounded you. One wrapped around your throat, tightening enough to hold you in place as another pressed between your lips, filling your mouth. You were paralyzed, subject to the creature’s whims, and the pleasure that flowed through you was almost as incapacitating as their grip. A powerful orgasm made your eyes roll back, and your cunt gushed, dripping down the tentacle pulsing inside.

It pulled free as Geralt dragged his mouth away, fisting his meaty cock before lining it up with your aching pussy. “Your gift is well received,” he rumbled, pushing forward slowly, letting you feel the tip first, just a hint of how he was going to ruin you. The tentacle in your mouth slithered away and its counterparts lifted your upper body enough for you to see what was about to happen. “Now accept mine,” he finished, sinking the entirety of his generous manhood deep inside you.

You couldn’t remember how to breathe. He was so deep that you were certain your lower body was bulging with him. Looking down only made you moan as you saw he was buried to the hilt, and he twitched inside you, making you aware of exactly where his tip was nestled, right against the mouth of your womb. The tentacle in your ass had stopped when he had filled you, but slowly, it began to move again, sliding back and forth, swelling as if it wanted to match the thickness in your cunt.

“Perfect,” he groaned, framing your belly with his large hands. “Let me see you, little one.”

He dragged you up, then back down again, watching your pussy as it struggled to accommodate him all over again. You were certain you would die from the intense pleasure, from the coil of apprehension making your cells feel like they were vibrating. The tentacle in your ass fucked deeper and deeper as Geralt got faster; the ones on your breasts were still tormenting your nipples, leaving them sore and aching.

Keeping your eyes open became a losing fight. You couldn’t tell where one orgasm ended or the next one began. The ecstasy left you drunk on his touch, like you’d been at his mercy for hours, and you had no problem with it. Whatever doubtful voice had spoken before was gone, obliterated by your otherworldly lover.

“You have been so good for me,” Geralt murmured, pressing his hand against your belly where you could feel his cock punching deep. “My gift is yours.”

There was a pulse of warmth in your ass, and the tentacle buried inside it thickened before spilling into you, just as his cock filled your cunt to overflowing with his seed. You cried out, feeling your stomach bulge with his offering, feeling your own orgasm rip away whatever dregs of energy you had left. Geralt didn’t move until he was finished, slowly withdrawing from both your holes.

His spend dripped out of you as the tentacles slowly lowered you to the ground and released you. The euphoria they had granted you dragged you towards unconsciousness, aided by the darkness around you. You didn’t know where Geralt had gone but couldn’t think on it further, dozing off on the hard floor with satisfaction settling deep in your bones.

You bolted awake, kicking out in your sleeping bag as you sat up, panting hard. It took a moment for you to realize that you were back in your tent, in your intact shirt and panties, though the latter were soaked through. It was daylight outside, and you could hear the others talking, so you moved to join them, wondering if they had noticed anything odd during the night but finding yourself too nervous to say anything about your encounter, which you were slowly believing to be a dream.

After eating breakfast in silence, you packed up your things, desperate to be home in your own space after a long week. None of the other women noticed anything about your anxious behavior, dropping you at your apartment hours later with promises of a meetup later in the month. You smiled, pretending everything was fine, waving them off before you darted inside and tossed all your camping stuff in the laundry basket.

It was getting dark outside, and your desire for your bed won out over everything else. You crawled underneath the sheets, reveling in the comfort as you stared at the ceiling, replaying what you were now assuming was a dream. The steady throb between your legs grew, and you reached down with one hand, rubbing a single finger against your clit through your panties.

Something familiar slipped over your ankle, twisting around your calf before creeping towards your center. You gasped, sitting upright as a second grabbed your other leg. “Geralt?” you asked warily, unsure if you were imagining it.

The room filled with darkness, and arms wrapped around you from behind, where your bed had disappeared. “I am here,” Geralt replied, replacing your hand on your pussy with his own as his tentacles spread you open. He filled you completely in one stroke, and you cried out, delirious with pleasure all over again. 

He chuckled, holding your back firm against his chest, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear. “You are my anchor now. I will always be with you…”

THANK YOU FOR READING, PLEASE CONSIDER REBLOGGING SO OTHERS CAN ENJOY IT 😁

[k-nayee]

Wife to the Winds Epic: The Musical | i

wc: 1.7k a/n: currently obsessed with anything Ancient Greek right now - ESPECIALLY Epic lol. it technically picks up after the song, but if ya wanna here's the animation to it!

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ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

You felt nauseas, sick with fear as you cautiously made your way through the stone corridors.

Distant clash of swords and muffled shouts of Greek soldiers rummaging the palace heightened your urgency. 

With every turn, the looming threat grows: facing an enemy and their weapon stained with the blood of those you've grown to know.

"Lord Apollo...Please...let me be there in time..."you prayed silently, the image of Astyanax's sleeping face urging you forward.

Thoughts racing almost as fast as your feet, you nearly miss a group of men around the corner.

"Imagine the glory we'll have after this!"

Too caught up in conversation, they miss the sight of you slipping into a dark alcove.

"Praise? Forget that! I'm claiming the prettiest whore out of the bunch. You seen all we captured? Deserve some softness after all this."

Hidden in the shadows you're able to take in the blood splatters and dirt on their passing frames.

"You got that right! One thing I'll admit about Troy, they have some nice women..."

You shiver at their crude remarks and wait until their laughter fades into the distance before moving once more.

After a few more dodges and turns, you find the narrow passage and squeeze through.

There, you travel the secret route you'd discovered months ago having spent years exploring every hidden nook and cranny.

The weight of the glass feeding bottle in your hand is a constant reminder of the innocence you're desperate to protect, even as the world around you crumbled. 'I'm on my way Astyanax...'

Inside the walls with only the sound of your heartbeat and the distant chaos; a haunting, pain-filled voice echoes through the air as you near the babe's chamber.

"...I'm just...a man..."

Compelled by the unexpected softness, you peek through a sliver of space at the ornately disguised door (its decorations masterfully concealing its true nature).

There, at the balcony, you're met with the view of Odysseus. And in his hands he drops—

Your heart stops.

No, it shatters.

The baby prince, your charge, your little Astyanax, is...

A heart-wrenching gasp escape your lips, the forgotten milk bottle slipping from your hands to shatter against the stone floor.

Odysseus's head snaps around.

The warrior within him awakened instantly, his eyes narrowing and scanning the shadows.

"Who's there?" he demands, voice sharp and commanding as it sliced through the quiet.

Hand already on the hilt of his dagger, he draws it with a sound that promised death and begins the search.

His feet echoes on the stone floor, each step feeling like a countdown to your end.

The air around you thickens with tension, you struggle to breath against the fear that threatens to overwhelm you.

In hopes of blending in the shadows you press your back harder against the cool wall.

'Be still...Be silent,' you chant even as your heart frantically beat against your ribcage.

Not even daring to breathe too loudly: your inhales and exhales are measured and deliberate despite the panic clawing at your throat.

Memories of Lady Andromache's warnings swirled through your mind—of men turned monsters in the heat of battle, their souls stained with the bloodlust of war.

"The taste of blood...changes a man." Dark brown eyes, somber and knowing, stare into your own. "Leaves him with a hunger for violence that's never fully sated..."

Her words, a distant and cautionary tale you never understood, now rang with terrifying clarity.

With Odysseus so close, the fear becomes so palpable it wraps around you.

Your eyes clamp shut when his footsteps nears, a feeble attempt to shield yourself from the impending horror.

Tears cascade silently down your cheeks in hot paths. There, you mourn not just for the young prince but for yourself and what may come of you.

Suddenly, the footsteps began to fade, leaving a silence so profound it feels like a scream in the void.

Minutes pass, each second an eternity spent in the clutches of fear. Then, there's a sound: the door closing—it cuts sharply through the stillness.

He left...

Relief washes over you, albeit tinged with the sorrow and shock of witnessing your charge's murder.

You wait. Counting each breath, allowing the minutes to stretch until it feels an eternity has passed.

No sound follows, no sign of his presence remains.

Emboldened by the silence and finally convinced, you allow yourself to move.

With cautious steps you emerge from your hiding spot and move toward the center of the room.

The need to escape, to distance yourself from this nightmare of death and close calls pushes you forward.

It's a relief short-lived.

Realizing the silence was a trick, it's already too late: arms encircle you.

The cold kiss of his dagger at your throat shatters any illusion of safety.

His body is pressed against your back, a wall of muscle and tension. You're acutely aware of him—the heat of his breath, the controlled movements, the slight shift as he adjusts his grip on the knife.

Your breath hitches from the terror and despair mingling in your throat, choking you.

"Not a sound," Odysseus whispers, his voice a lethal calm that contrasts the violent actions. "Now tell me: who are you?"

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Your life...choices...everything you had or could have depended on the mercy of the man who had just taken a child from the world.

Fear wars with desperation in your heart. 'Please...let this not be my end. I have so much left to live for...'

"P—please..." you stammer, the words barely escaping your lips. "I won't tell anyone, I swear it. Just let me go..."

"I said," he ignores your pleads, choosing to press the dagger closer for emphasis, "who are you?"

In a flash of desperation and unexpected courage, you act.

With a swift, practiced move born from hours of watching the palace guards train, you suddenly shift your weight.

Pivoting on your heel you wrench his arm away from your throat and use the momentum to twist his wrist; forcing him to drop and send the dagger clattering to the ground.

You jump back, chest heaving with exertion and the shock of your own audacity. You lock eyes with Odysseus who stares at you in stunned silence.

For a moment, he is visibly taken aback; eyes widening not just at the loss of his weapon but at the sight of you.

"By the Gods..." he murmurs, the edge of his battle-hardened demeanor softening as he truly sees you for the first time.

The fire of the torches cast a soft glow on your brown skin, making the stone of the palace around you seem even more dull.

Your hair is nothing he had seen before. There amidst the curls that frame your face, lays a bold streak of white that runs into the mass of hair.

However, it's your eyes that truly captivate him—they glimmer with an intensity of deep grief yet unwavering determination.

For a fleeting moment, the fierceness in his eyes dims as a cascade of thoughts sweep through.

Odysseus, a man who faced gods and monsters...

...a man who has navigated the treacherous whims of fate...

...finds himself lost in the mere mortal beauty before him.

In another life, he might have allowed himself to be drawn in; to explore your being and the depths of those violet eyes. 

The fantasy flickers through his mind of what could have been, momentary indulgence if you will.

Yet, as quickly as it arrived, it is quelled by his love and loyalty for Penelope. The memory of her steadfastness and unwavering faith in his return casts a shadow over any fleeting desire he might feel.

Taking advantage of his internal conflict, you find your voice and interject. "W-wait! I mean no harm nor am I an enemy! I was just trying to survive."

Curiosity piqued, Odysseus gestures for you to continue.

"I come from land that's oceans away, taken against my will. Here, I became a servant for Lady Andromache out of exotic curiosity," Your voice steadies as you speak, gaining strength from the truth of your words. "But then my purpose evolved and I became the caretaker for the prince—a child now dead, through no fault of my own."

The Greek king could only narrow his eyes at you in assessment, voice regaining some of its earlier edge. "And why should I spare you? You are, after all, of Troy."

"Not by choice!" you counter quickly, the words tumbling out, "I am no citizen of Troy, bound by loyalty nor blood. My life here was never of my choosing. My only wish is to live a life beyond wars, serving as a pawn in the games of Gods and Kings."

A smile wry of acknowledgment touches Odysseus' lips.

"You're clever," he admits as the tension in the room shifts, becoming less hostile.

"But why should I trust you?" he probes further, bending down to retrieve his dagger yet making no move to use it. "You, who managed to disarm me?"

Your gaze held a weariness it almost felt bone-deep,, "I have nothing left. The same ambush that brought me here as a servant...massacred my family. The only wish I have now is to live a life of medicine, as my mother was and hers before her. My hands are meant for healing, not for war. Let me serve in your kingdom, and I promise, my loyalty will be yours."

Silence hangs between you two, thick with possibilities.

Then, slowly, a smile begins to form on Odysseus's lips; the first genuine smile he's probably shown in years.

"A barter, then. You propose your freedom for my journey home?"

"Yes!" your voice is firmer now, pushed by his response. "I have skills, knowledge that can aid you. Take me with you, and I swear to devote myself in ensuring your safe return to Ithaca without further misfortune."

Odysseus studies you for a long moment, weighing your words and the sincerity in your eyes. "You truly believe you can ensure my safe passage home? After everything?"

You keeping eye contact with him, the intensity of your gaze unwavering. "With all my heart..."

The quiet that follows is heavy with contemplation, with the unspoken thoughts that flicker behind his eyes.

Finally, he nods, a decision made.

"Very well. But know this," he adds, his tone leaving no room for doubt, "any betrayal, and it will be the last thing you do."

[fyeahaudiodrama]

Happy @podcastgirlsweek to all who celebrate! While I haven't had the time to properly work on fics (and probably won't this week because oops, hurt my hands yesterday) I still wanted to take the time to highlight some favorite podcast girlies along with everyone else!

The prompt for Monday is highlighting podcasts with women in the leading roles, so here's a few of mine (and hopefully, some new ones of yours if you don't know them yet):

Back Again, Back Again: Ilyaas, you absolutely fantastic disaster of a fantasy ace, never stop trying.

Breathing Space: While the show is anthology with a rotating cast, some of my favorites from across its run include:

Evie Yuriskin

Amity Archer

Any characters who were introduced one episode and then started referring to each other as "my wife" by the end or by their next appearance

Camlann: Some apocalypse survivors interpret dangerous dreams about dark magic to cope. Some knit sweaters. Both are valid and should kiss.

City of Ghosts: Featuring the grungy, disgruntled, tormented-by-visions LADY detective of your dreams.

Desperado: Take note - give your ladies knives. And god powers. And witchcraft. And a sniper rifle, for good measure.

Do You Copy?: I think [REDACTED] deserves three weeks of paid vacation

Fawx & Stallion: Madge Stallion is THE moment. She's six feet tall. She can't stop making innuendos. She's not your fucking Mrs. Hudson (although, she is - no, I shan't say).

Hi Nay: Mari & Laura are my everything - the loving and self-sacrificing hero and the newfound friend who chooses to stand by her side (fire axe and all).

Inn Between: Oh, my Inn Between girlies, where do I start? Fina and Betty, the OGs and life partners that even death couldn't stall? Rosie and Zara, the new best pals who chose to stay together? Phoebe, just one step at a time learning what she deserves and what she doesn't? All impeccable, A+.

It Makes A Sound: Any show focused on music is going to be a slam dunk for me, but Deirdre's quest to reclaim her memories as well as those that tied her to her mother is so damn real and compelling.

The Kingmaker Histories: No female character in this show has ever done anything wrong. Colette gets a migraine pass. Ariadne can turn people inside out. Daphne is owed this for working in a theme park.

Life With LEO(h): Janiiiiiine, so messy and smart and dedicated and she cares so much, I love yoooooou.

Me and AU: Kate's worries and desires and doubts are some of the realest out of any audio drama so when do I find an Ella too

Palimpsest: My faaaaavorite gothic horror anthology, each one fresh with a different brand of haunted, tormented, secret-keeping (and quite frequently gay) gothic protagonist

The Pasithea Powder: Jane and Sophie. Sophie and Jane. What more could you need? <3

The Silt Verses: Women who start cults/leave cults/seek an end to the endless cycle of meaningless sacrifice as so valid. For all your wet cat(fish) woman needs.

Second Star to the Left: Because I always love a good Ishani performance. Hi Gwen, please tell Boots I love them.

Small Victories: You want sad wet cat women? How about one that literally can't stop self-sabotaging (but at least manages to draw the line at sabotaging others...occasionally). She even gets stabbed!

Starfall: I mean, kind of a given, but anyway, Leona definitely exists because she's the kind of action protagonist woman I always wanted - one that could be unapologetically powerful, but still full of flaws and desires (especially ones that weren't about falling in love and minimizing her own strengths). She's even autistic!

Stories From Ylelmore: Keryth! Keryth, Keryth, Keryth! She reminds me so much of the kinds of characters I would make up when I was younger - I love her and her small magic so dearly.

The Strange Case of Starship Iris: Hi queer space pirates <3

Unseen: Another anthology show, but Harry Winters and Never-Ending Circles remains one of the most perfect premiere episodes I've ever heard in audio drama.

The Way We Haunt Now: Get your podcast ladies here, dead or alive!

We Fix Space Junk: My favorite type of repairman is a woman who could kick my ass.

Wolf 359: I don't think I need say much more here - y'all know and love 'em just as much as I do.

[witchezandwonderz]

Shadows of the Past

Pairing: Finan x Reader

Request: 18 from the prompt list with Finan pls

Prompt request quote: “Every glance you give me makes it hard to breathe, let alone think."

Likes, reblogs and comments are unbelievably appreciated :)

The mead tasted sour on Finan’s tongue, or maybe it was the day weighing heavy on his chest. The fires crackled around the camp, and laughter filled the air as Uhtred and the others shared stories of their latest raid. He should have been laughing too, but his mood had soured hours ago, and he couldn’t put his finger on why.

That was when Uhtred appeared, he had been gone for hours and Finan has started to wonder where he had got too. He knew not to worry though, for the camp was swamped with hundreds of their men, and women. Uhtred seemed more chipper than usual, which is strange for him on such a late, cold night. Finan assumed that it was due to the excitement from their successes, but asked anyway.

“You look happy lord.” He commented, letting out a large belch before taking yet another sip of the harsh liquid he gripped in his hand. Uhtred smiled. “I am happy indeed, I have found another great warrior and have convinced her to join us.”

Finan let out a laugh. “Her, aye? Is she pretty?”

Uhtred rolled his eyes in amusement. “Yes, she is very pretty but more importantly, she is the best female warrior I think I have ever witnessed.” He gushed, also taking a large swig from the cup in front of him before continuing. “Her name is Y/N.”

Finan smiled at the name, he knew a Y/N once. He loved a Y/N once. Well, he never stopped loving her. In his slightly drunken haze, he shook his head in an attempt to stop his thoughts, as if that would work. He shifted in his seat by the fire, shaking his head as if the motion alone could shake her from his mind. Foolish. Nothing ever could. Not the years, not the battles, not the bottle. She lingered like a ghost, haunting the edges of his thoughts when he was too tired—or too drunk—to hold her at bay.

There was no way it would be her, after all, Y/N is just a name- quite a common one at that. He sniffled, before raising his cup in the hair and muttering to himself. “To ghosts.” Before gulping down the remainder.

Uhtred looked at Finan, concern in his eyes, wanting to ask him what the hell that was all about, but he could see the woman in question approaching them, so decided to focus his attention on her instead.

“Here she is, Finan, this is Y/N, Y/N, this is Finan.”

Finan looked up, although it was dark, he could make out her features. He looked at her, then looked away at the fire, focusing on the flames for a brief moment. With a sharp intake of breath, he pushed himself to his feet, the sudden movement drawing a few curious glances from the others. He squinted, almost comically, as if that would change what he saw. As if it would erase her.

“Y/N?” he said, his voice cracking slightly.

Her expression, which had been calm and composed was now altered. For her mouth opened and her breath hitched. The two stared at each other, neither of them knowing what to say, both as shocked as the other.

Sihtric nudged his good friend, Finan, and whispered. “You look like you have seen a ghost.” Finan turned his attention from her and whispered back to Sihtric. “I have.”

“Finan.” Y/N murmured, taking a sharp breath in and then exhaling, in an obvious attempt to calm her nerves.

“Is this a dream, or am I drunker than I thought?” Finan said, his voice shaking. Y/N rolled her eyes at him. “Well, if it were a dream, I can imagine I would be a lot kinder to you right now.” Her words escaped her mouth in an icy tone, which is absolutely how she had intended.

Her words stung more than he cared to admit, and his face hardened. “Aye, sounds about right.”

The two retorted back to staring at one another, the difference being that before, they were surprised, and now, they appeared to be extremely angry.

Uhtred finally broke the tension. “Ok, there is clearly something going on here that I am sure in time you can tell me about. I do not care for your History. You will fight alongside each other and that is that.” He reasoned.

Both Finan and Y/Ns gaze remained on each other. “Fine by me.” Finan muttered. Y/N nodded. “It is not me you need to worry about lord. Finan is the one who makes a habit of promising and then leaving without a word.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t let it show. His jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened, but he said nothing.

The camp fell silent, every pair of eyes darting between them. Even Uhtred, who was usually quick to intervene, seemed caught off guard by the venom in her voice.

Y/N didn’t wait for a response. She turned sharply on her heel, and stormed off into the shadows. She was truly heartbroken, still to this day, he is the only man she has ever loved. Deeply. Well and truly.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, letting out a low, frustrated sigh. She had every right to hate him, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. He thought back, back to a time where her eyes sparkled from looking at him, before it was pure hatred that solidified within them.

Sihtric shot Finan an awkward look, and then raised his hand, giving him a strong pat on the shoulder. “It will be alright, brother. You both need to sleep.”

Finan nodded at him, not being able to focus on his words as he was too focused on his own thoughts and memories- they clouded his brain.

The next day, Uhtred woke Finan, ordering him to meet him outside as soon as possible. Finan, who had only had a mere hours sleep, squinted at Uhtred through tired eyes, muttering a quick “yes, lord.”

Finan stumbled his way outside, and wished that he had not. In front of him stood Y/N. She was just as beautiful as he had remembered, in fact she was even more beautiful than before. Her hair was no longer in a tight braid, but down and loose, just how he remembered. She was no longer covered by the darkness; the sun exposed every feature, every freckle, every crease. His eyes softened as he saw her smiling and laughing, but his soft expression quickly faded when he saw that she was laughing with Osferth.

Finan stood frozen for a moment, watching the scene play out before him. Every laugh Y/N shared with Osferth sent another jab straight to his chest. He’d had enough. His legs moved before his brain caught up, and before he knew it, he was standing just a few feet away from them.

“What’s this about then?” Finan snarled, gesturing his hands between the two of them. Osferth immediately and instinctively stepped back from Y/N, but Y/N stood fixed in her spot, glaring at Finan.

“What?” She spat, her face screwed up in confusion as to why he was so angry.

Finan took a long, deep breath and tried to relax himself. He placed one hand on his sword and the other on the back of his head.

“You two, flirting and laughing like we don’t have work to be doing.”

Y/N laughed. “And what work should I be doing then? Go on boss, tell me.” She stepped closer to him, so close that their faces were a mere inches apart. “Don’t you dare come over here and speak to ME like that. Not ever.” Her voice remained calm and steady, despite her growing anger.

Finan couldn’t help but stare at her lips while she spoke, he kept telling himself to look in her eyes but he could not resist.

“Don’t tell me how to speak to you. You think just because someone taught you how to fight now you’re a big man? Well you’re not Y/N.” His eyes flickered to her lips once again. “Don’t think you can flirt with other men in front of me, I don’t care what has happened. You do not.” He seethed, using a finger to point towards Osferth.

Y/N let out a sarcastic, slightly erratic laugh. “Wow, wow, wow, wow. I can’t believe you. This is typical you, you leave without a word, you break my heart and then think that you can still tell me what to do?”

Nearby, groups of people stopped to watch the interaction. Osferth had now joined both Sihtric and Uhtred, who both erupted into laughter when Osferth said, very innocently, “it’s almost like they are arguing so that they can stop themselves from kissing each other.”

Enough,” Uhtred said, striding over with an exasperated look. “If you two are going to tear into each other, do it properly.”

They both turned to him, confusion flickering across their faces.

“What do you mean, Lord?” Y/N asked, her tone suspicious.

“I mean fight,” Uhtred said simply. “Take it to the ring. Spar it out. Gods know, I’m tired of the bickering.”

Finan’s brows furrowed. “Lord, I can’t fight her. I will hurt her!”

“Finan, when was the last time you saw Y/N fight?” Uhtred asked, an amused smile playing on his face. Y/N stood with her arms crossed, looking like a toddler who had lost their toy.

Finan shrugged. “I don’t know, years ago, when I last saw her.”

Uhtred’s smile became wider. “Well then. There will be no more discussion, you will fight. Now.” He replied, his tone leaving no room for any arguments.

Y/N shrugged off her cloak, rolling her shoulders as she unsheathed her blade. Finan did the same, his grip tight around his hilt.

“First one to yield,” Uhtred called out, his voice ringing over the crowd.

Y/N moved first, her strikes fast and precise, forcing Finan to stay on the defensive. She was quick—quicker than he remembered—and every blow she landed made his frustration grow.

“You’ve gotten better,” he grunted, blocking her blade with his own.

“I’ve had plenty of practice,” she replied smoothly, ducking under his swing and landing a sharp kick to his side that sent him stumbling.

Finan jumped to his feet, attempting to completely ignore the soaring pain that travelled through him. “Trained by who?” He asked as they danced around each other once again. Y/N ignored his question, in turn landing another jab, but this time to his leg. Finan growled with anger. “I asked who?” He shouted.

“No one that you know.” She responded, moving out of the way just in time as he attempted to strike her.

“A man?” He asked. Y/N smirked, “perhaps.” Finan lost focus in that moment, for all he could think about was her tumbling around with another man. Y/N took advantage of this moment to finally disarm him with a well-placed strike and knocked him flat on his back, the crowd erupted in cheers.

Y/N stood over him, her blade pointed at his chest, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips. “Yield.”

Finan glared up at her, his chest heaving, his pride battered and bruised. But gods help him, she looked incredible—strong, confident, every bit the warrior she claimed to be.

“I forgot how flexible you were.” Finan muttered, not really intending her to hear him. But, she had. “Oh I didn’t think you would ever be able to forget that.” She winked, and then laughed and walked away, leaving him sat on the floor dumb founded, and slightly turned on.

Later on that evening, everyone sat plotted around the camp searching for warmth, for this winter had been particularly cruel. Y/N sat huddled by the fire, every so often putting her hands as close as she could to the flame before she got burned. There was only one thing on her mind, Finan. She was used to this, though; she had thought about him daily and nightly, ever since he had left her.

Lost in her own thoughts, she sighed. She couldn’t feel sorry for herself forever. But if she didn’t then who would?

She felt someone sit next to her, it shocked her how close the person had decided to sit. Turning her head, her eyes widened when she saw that it was Finan. His hair was longer now, a little wilder, the firelight catching the streaks of gold in his dark locks. That scar on his cheek, the one she remembered tracing with her fingertips in softer times, was more pronounced in the flickering light. He looked the same, and yet entirely different—hardened, wearied, and still maddeningly familiar.

“Y/N.” He breathed, exasperated. “I don’t want to argue, please, can we talk?” She pondered his question, she didn’t want to argue either but she was still so unbelievably angry with him. She nodded. “We can talk Finan, but you need to think before you speak.”

Finan glared his eyes slightly, and then looked at her. For the first time since they have met again, he really looked at her, in her eyes.

“Every glance you give me makes it hard to breathe, let alone think."

Y/N was shocked by his words, she wanted to reply but she seemed to not be able too. Finan took a deep breath before continuing.

“I can’t stand how angry you are with me.” His words came out quieter than he had intended. Y/N rubbed her face in frustration, she wanted to cry but fought back her tears.

“Finan. You didn’t even try to come back for me. The fact is, if I never came here, you never would have spoke to me again.” He couldn’t help but smile, not at her words but her tone. This was the first time that she had spoken to him normally, sweetly-herself.

“That’s not true, love, I wanted too. It’s all I have thought about, but I thought you would have built another life now.” He admitted, staring at the side of her face. She could not look him, her eyes lay intensely at the fire in front of them.

“Look at me.” He touched her shoulder. Once the words left his mouth, Y/N immediately burst into tears, not being able to hold them back any longer.

Instinctively, Finan leapt closer towards her, embracing her in a hug that they had both been longing for since he had left.

“How could I build a life? I waited for you. Day and night I waited,” she paused, her words muffled from the embrace. “But you never came.”

His heart broke in that instant, he thought it couldn’t have been broken further, for it had been time after time- whenever he thought of her, whenever he looked at her. But hearing her say that, hearing that she waited for him, smashed his heart into a million pieces.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He kissed her head, over and over again.

“Why did you leave me, Finan?” Her words were more coherent now that she looked up at him, removing her mouth from his clothing.

Finan sighed. “I had too. I was captured, and then by the time I escaped, I didn’t want to ruin what you had going on by coming back.” He tightened his grip around her, his hands remembering how he used to hold her.

He met her gaze, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I loved you then, and I will always love you. No matter where I go, no matter what happens, it’s you, Y/N. It’s always been you.”

Her heart twisted and soared at his words- she had been longing to hear them for years. She had convinced herself that there would never be an opportunity for forgiveness, or even an opportunity to see him again. But fate had brought them here.

“Finan,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He reached up, his calloused hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. His touch was so gentle, so familiar, that it sent a shiver down her spine. “I know I hurt you,” he said softly. “And I’ll carry that with me for the rest of my life. But if you’ll let me, I want to make it right. I want to fight for you, for us. I should’ve done it before, and I’m sorry I didn’t.”

Y/N leaned up, tugging his bottom lip with hers. Almost shyly, like she was asking his permission- which she most definitely did not need. Finan froze for a heartbeat, his eyes fluttering shut as though savoring the sensation. She pulled away just enough to be able to look into his eyes.

“If you want me show me.”

That was all he needed. Gone was the hesitation, the doubt that had held him back for so long. His lips captured hers with a sudden urgency, his kiss filled with all the love, longing, and regret he’d carried for years. Not breaking the kiss even once, he lifted her up and set her on his lap.

Her hands slid up to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic as she let herself fall into him, into the warmth and familiarity of his embrace. His lips were rough but tender, moving against hers like he was rediscovering something precious.

When they finally pulled apart, Finan rested his forehead against hers. “I will never leave you, ever again.”

[sincerely-sofie]

What are some ideas you've wanted to draw/write but haven't?

Oh man. I've got so many. A handful of ideas include:

A semi-animated series titled "My Pal the Paladin" about a kidnapped princess and the final boss who join forces to track down the legendary hero who's failed to slay even a single mook months after the plot kicking off and yell at him for taking so long. It's based on my oldest original characters and has a lot of sentimental worth to me as a result. Idris, Pal, and Katherine are my babies. I've considered making it similar in production to Dingo Doodle's Fool's Gold series, but I haven't actually made it because I'm really nervous about it turning out poorly ^^; I'd love to post a pitch bible for it someday!

A gothic picture book tentatively titled "Cover the Mirrors" about a woman killing a monster that has haunted her since girlhood, and inheriting the curse that turned the monster from a normal man into his current twisted looks. It would end with the monster's appearance going from being seen as a Boogeyman figure that stalks kids who play outside after sundown while the original monster was around, to a vengeful beast that hunts people who prey on children once the woman inherits the curse. It would play with the idea of trauma giving you unique abilities to help those who have gone through similar terrors, while also warping you into something you can't recognize and find inherently repulsive. I haven't made it because I don't know how to render the painterly style I envision for it.

A mixed media visual novel titled "Cradlehead" about a woman who finds herself serving as the unwilling vessel for an eldritch entity that will destroy her mind when it finishes germinating within and exits her body. She has to escape the pocket dimension it trapped her in to develop within the optimal conditions in order to save herself. The visuals would incorporate clay, digital art, traditional art, 3D models, pixel art, and photography. The game would center around the woman's desperation as she tries to escape while her ability to perceive the new world around her decays more and more over time. I haven't made it because I doubt my artistic abilities to make something like I have in my head come to life.

An untitled magical girl webcomic about an unwilling magical girl with a giant bee familiar named Queenie and issues controlling her powers because of her insecurities. She feels bad about being a not very girly individual while surrounded by hyper-feminine young women who have a handle on their powers she could never dream of. It revolves around her character arc where she eventually stops worrying about meeting the arbitrary standards she imposes on herself to be "girly enough" and decides to just be herself, whoever that is, unlocking her true powers and entering her ultimate form during a climactic battle— taking on a design less like a queen holding a scepter like she'd been dreading, and more like a princely knight holding a stinger-like spear. Her rejection of others' expectations as well as her own helps the world-ending threat, a shapeshifting eldritch being that absorbs people into itself so it can become someone other than itself but is never satisfied with the new faces it obtains, to accept itself and stop trying to steal people's souls in order to find one that would make it love itself. I haven't made it because I worry if it would come across weirdly to the average viewer, as it deals with gender dysphoria as a subject in a very atypical manner.

[beanghostprincess]

AU in which Usopp is a storyteller who keeps telling fairytales to kids in the village, and one of his most famous stories is about a lost prince who escaped from home because of how badly his family was treating him. It has drama and death and love and everything. The prince just wanted to be a simple cook, but his past still haunted him even after escaping his fate. And so Usopp keeps drawing him over and over again, both in his sketchbook and also making sculptures of him. It's not that he's, like, obsessed. But it is his favorite fairytale.

And then he meets Sanji.

It's weird, yes. He looks oddly similar to his Sanji (the one of the fairytale) but it doesn't have to do anything with it. It- It doesn't have to be the same guy. Maybe it's just a coincidence and his drawings weren't as original as he thought they were. Besides, Sanji isn't a lost prince.

But he is exactly how Usopp had imagined him. A sweet, caring cook with a strong personality who fights only using his legs to avoid hurting his hands. A cook who feeds whoever's hungry and is fond of rats and small, wild animals without anything to eat. Blond, blue eyes and so, so many scars that he refuses to talk about. A soft spot for women, because of course there has to be romance. A gentleman. Somebody who could save Usopp if needed but would trust him with anything too. He isn't- Usopp is not in love with his Sanji. But maybe this one- Maybe this one is someone he can fall in love with because it's not his creation, right?

And then WCI happens. It would technically make everything make sense, but it doesn't. It just makes Usopp even more confused. Because he's sure it sounds exactly the same as his story. So he keeps wondering if Sanji is real or if he truly was a product of his imagination. Or maybe- Maybe he can see the future. Usopp isn't sure about it and doesn't even have time to think because he's more worried about Sanji's well-being after WCI and Wano than how Sanji was made.

Sanji says it's a destiny thing, maybe, when he sees Usopp's sketchbook for the first time. It's scary too, he also mentions when seeing the little annotations about Sanji's backstory (the one of Usopp's story) being exactly like his past. Usopp is kind of panicking, but for some reason, Sanji isn't.

"Maybe you can see the future, ever thought about that?" Sanji laughs while running his hands through a very accurate portrait of him, that's quite obviously years older than their friendship.

Usopp pouts. "Don't laugh at me! It's scary!"

But Sanji just shrugs and takes a drag of his cigarette, so calmly in comparison it makes Usopp feel like he's taking this too well. "Is it, though?" The sniper hadn't seen Sanji smile so peacefully. Not ever since they got separated. It makes him feel all warm, and he has the need to draw him. "Wouldn't it be nice?"

Usopp tilts his head to the side, frowning and fighting the urge to take the sketchbook off Sanji's hands. "What do you mean?"

"Have you ever..." Sanji stares down at the ashes falling on the deck, brushing his thumb over the corner of one of the pages. His words are carefully chosen, but he doesn't hesitate when pronouncing them. "Have you ever thought about fate?"

The sniper can just chuckle and roll his eyes at that. "You're just trying to make it romantic."

"Maybe I am." And Usopp's heart stops at the sound of Sanji's dreamy voice as if he is asking for Usopp to grant him a wish. "Maybe you made me." He moves his free hand to link his fingers between Usopp's, right on top of the grass tickling their skin. Usopp lets him, even if he feels his heart is right in his throat. "Maybe you saw me before even knowing me." Sanji speaks softer now. Quieter. Even if there's nobody around to see them right now. As if it was just their secret. Usopp closes his hand around Sanji's and lets their shoulders bump against each other, taking in a painful breath. Sanji is too close. "Or maybe it was all by chance. Coincidences happen." Sanji shrugs and goes back to staring at the sketchbook one more time. He rests the cigarette between his lips so he can turn to another page, one where a little boy who looks too much like him dreams of sea creatures, oceans, and freedom. Sanji smiles in a nostalgic, achingly way that can only be described as appreciation. "But I like to think you saved me, somehow. You gave me- Him. Freedom. A family."

Usopp feels a pang in his chest at his words. "That wasn't me, though."

The cook rests his back on the wall behind them, turning his head around to look at Usopp with the brightest, softest of grins. "But wouldn't it be nice to think your heart knew me before meeting me? I think it's..." He sighs, resting his head on Usopp's shoulder. The sniper can only squeeze his hand back and lean his head on top of his. "Maybe my heart knew you too, back then. Somehow. I've always liked shitty, cliché fairytales like this, you know?"

"But-"

"Let me have this." A please goes unsaid. "Even if you didn't save me back then, you did now. So who cares if I want to say you've always been with me?"

Usopp grits his teeth and holds back a frustrated noise. He's aware his hands are shaking, remembering everything he has drawn and everything Sanji has gone through. "I wish I met you sooner. Maybe that way you wouldn't have-"

"You can't change what's already happened, love." Sanji presses a small kiss on his shoulder, which somehow melts every bone in Usopp's body. "But you can keep drawing our future, right?"

The sniper thinks of bright blues and soft yellows and a lot- No. A ton of drawings of Sanji's grins, because he refuses to portray his sadness in one of his drawings ever again. He dreams of a blank canvas filled with Sanji's eyes, hopes, and dreams.

"Right." He kisses his head back. "I can do that."

Usopp knows his hearts are linked together. Whether it's fate. Coincidence. His drawings. Because if thinking so saves Sanji once again, he won't hesitate to capture his happiness in different shades of blue for as long as it takes.

[thedreadgoose]

I really liked Nadia Carcosa? She was the best thing about Vows and Vengeance, for me. And OK, maybe I have a soft spot for mouthy women with a lightning fast fight reflex, but I found her arc to be extremely satisfying.

Also, I thought V&V tied in nicely with some of the themes present in Tevinter Nights (which I'm currently half way through). We're seeing more spirits, with new names, and their names matter a lot. In Callback, for example, we're reminded, 'It was crucial to know what kind [the demon] was to know how to counter it. To know who could counter it.'

I'm a big fan of spirits/demons as vehicles of narrative. What draws a spirit to a particular mortal? Why are some people better suited to fight off certain demons than others? Sutherland was the perfect foil for Regret, because he had absolutely none when it came to joining the Inquisition. (Love that for him.) But Nadia's demon had been with her since she was a child.

My understanding is that Maeror was a manifestation of Pain. We hear it put emphasis on the word, and it seems to take particular pleasure in speaking it. When it brings Nadia to the catacombs, it tells her that she needs to confront her memories if she wants them to stop: it encourages her to 'feel all the pain and hurt you've been running from.'

And I love this, because it's such a real story. People who have traumatic childhoods often take great efforts to avoid Pain--by running from it, by thinking small, or by hardening their hearts altogether--and they end up unwittingly inviting it into their lives, regardless. Pain is a shadow that hangs over your shoulder no matter how hard you run. It repeats and repeats, until we notice the pattern.

'You were the thing that followed me in the dark. [...] You led me deeper and depeer into the maze. It was you that didn't want me to be found.'

Ooft. Relatable, much?

I loved Nadia. She was prickly as fuck, full of avoidance and suspicion and bad decisions, and she still got duped by the demon at the end, because she wanted so much to believe that this time--this once--it could be different. She was haunted by her pain, but in the end, she faced it. And she recovered.

Elio's eulogy was a poignant conclusion, a hopeful message of life after trauma, and the rewards that come from feeling our feelings and healing our damage. Pain can be overcome, and the results are worth it.

I've always loved Dragon Age for the themes, and if this story was a taster of what to expect in Veilguard, I'm looking forward to it more than ever. Here's to you, Nadia Carcosa.

[waklman]

Of Course He Loves Me

summary: your past comes back to haunt you, and your roomate jake is there to witness it.

pairing: jake seresin x female reader

warnings: hurt/comfort. talks of past exploitive experiences, bad treatment of women, negative self talk, and allusions to sex. 18+ blog.

a/n: inspired by rhiannon mcgavin qoute shown above bc it reminds me of jake :)

word count: 3.6k.

“Do we want chocolate chips in our pancakes?” Jake asks, solemnly, waiting for you to make the executive decision.

“I think we do,” you confirm, matching his serious tone—twisting your middle to grab the said bag of sweets. The plastic crinkles when he takes it from you, with a pleased hum. 

Jake sets it down, then quickly scans the spread in front of him. His eyebrows pinch together, realizing he’s missing just one item. “Pancake mix..” he lowly mutters to himself. 

You scoot forward, aiming to hop off the counter to fetch it, but Jake stops you–pinning the hem of your sleep shirt down against the countertop with his hand, wordlessly telling you to stay put with a shake of his head. He doesn’t spare you a second to object–already guiding himself across the kitchen in search of the box of dry ingredients himself.

A defeated sigh slips your lips, looking ahead as he trudges off with heavy footsteps.

The towhead blond has yet to tame his bed head–there’s two pieces of hair sticking out each side of his head resembling ears, making him look like a newborn kitten. 

While he slowly sifts through the cabinets, the sunlight filtering through the apartment reflects off something on his finger, drawing your attention away from the state of his hair. You softly smile to yourself, seeing the ring you had on last night, now sitting safely on his pinky finger. It was a drunken habit of yours—you somehow always lost track of your personal belongings on nights out. Knowing this, Jake made sure to keep your things under his care when you had too much to drink.

Your chest tightens in appreciation for him, there was no one who looked out for you the way he did. 

“Whoever gets to marry you, has to be the luckiest girl in the world,” you announce quietly, looking down at your legs, bringing them to a slow stop–no longer unconsciously swinging them. You blink in recognition, seeing that at some point last night–he pulled a pair of fluffy socks onto your feet. You wiggle your toes, as all the events—previously muddled by alcohol, start to come back to you. 

“Marriage? Darling, I thought we’d be roommates for life,” he quips with a light laugh, carrying the acquired box back over to join you and the rest of the ingredients. 

“I’m serious, not everyone is lucky enough to have someone like you,” you try to laugh, but it falls short—now aware of the reason why you drank so much in the first place. Fuck.

In an attempt to distract yourself, you look past your own feet, searching for something to steady yourself on–and your eyes land right onto Jake’s feet. He has on a pair of your fluffy socks too, but they’re an older set, with matted tufts of cotton and elastic fibers scutching in on itself. 

Jake sets down the box, putting a pause on breakfast for now, troubled by your abrupt silence. He can see from the corner of his eye that you’re just vacantly staring at the floor. Something about the shift in demeanor ticks off a warning signal in his head. 

Then, it clicks. You got wasted last night, throwing back shots like it was nothing. When he tried to probe, you drunkenly told him you just wanted to try something new. And a part of Jake found it off-putting—you had an affinity for sweet drinks, so why the need for change? 

A knowing concern coats his thoughts immediately. 

“Did he text you again?” He asks, face unafraid. But deep in his gut, Jake feels the anxiety anchoring him down from where he stands, locking his knees in place. He wills himself to look away from the box mix in front of him, finally lifting his head up to look at you. 

From your peripheral, you can see Jake’s eyes set on the side of your face, patiently waiting for a response. In no way does he rush you, but you feel hurried to give him an answer. Yet you can’t. The walls of your throat have already swelled thick, pressing together at the center, preventing you from speaking.

Jake swallows grimly, eyes dropping down to see you gripping onto the granite counter for dear life, knuckles tight and veins about to burst from excessive strain. After a beat of silence, he calmly moves around you, flipping on the sink beside you. 

The panic that takes hold of you doesn’t allow you to see him test the temperature of the water, nor does it let you feel the way he carefully pries your hand from the counter, easing each finger off the cold ledge. You’re brought back once you feel a warm liquid run over your hand. It slips through your fingers and soothingly traces the skin of your wrist, that’s held by him–you can feel everything again. 

Jake slowly takes in a breath, allowing you to mimic him. His eyes are still locked on you, and a brush of relief briefly sweeps his heart when he notices you taking languid breaths with him. Though, your gaze is still lowered, eyes focused on the lining of his socks. 

After a few more steady exhales, you attempt to reply to Jake’s question again–but embarrassment enters your system, holding you back. You chose to slowly nod instead, knowing he’ll understand. “Okay, I see,” Jake answers cautiously, keeping his voice low. 

He’s still holding your hand under the running water, with both of you acutely aware of the deja vu that washes over this familiar exchange of words. It’s almost a pitiful routine that you two fall into every year–all starting with a text from your ex-boyfriend each time. 

It’s as though you could never get rid of him—the older guy you met working part time back in highschool always made yearly appearances in your life again, like it’s some twisted occasion he must attend to. 

He’d tie you down, under the false promise that “he’s changed”—convincing you to meet up with him. And you’d go, fully expecting to receive an apology—chasing that closure you deserved. But everytime, without fail, your old wound would be mercissley torn right open by him, raw and bloody for the world to see—for him to see. 

And it was ruthless, the way he’d ripped you apart, belittling you, reminding you how gullible and worthless you are—throwing it in your face for his own sadistic pleasure. No one will ever love you if you’re this pathetic, crawlin’ back to me like some fucking puppy. It made him satisfied with himself, knowing you’d always be there for him to gain a sense of control again. He chased that high each year, renewing himself with it—tossing you aside like garbage, after he got what he wanted, until he needed you again next time. 

And everytime, Jake was there for you after shit hit the fan—holding back his anger, while he consoled you–trying his hardest to sweetly smile at you while you weakly combat your heartache. Jake hated how useless he felt—his efforts were always futile. Because, truly there was nothing he could do to stop the hurt that laid inside of you.

But there was one thing Jake could do, and that was making sure to never express his disdain for your decision to see your ex, because he knew how you felt when everyone else in your life did. It made you feel small and stupid—the two things Jake never wanted you to feel about yourself. To him, you were nothing but forgiving and sweet, just stuck in a harmful cycle. This was not your fault, it never was. 

Back when you two were teenagers, Jake had been somewhat alarmed by your relationship with the guy, because what did a man of his age want with you? But Jake held his tongue and trusted you, holding back his concerns when you told him about your new boyfriend, because you glowed like you never had before. So, seventeen year old Jake did what he thought was best—he kept his mouth shut—because what kind of best friend would he be if he stood in the way of your happiness? 

But, if he knew then, what he knew now, Jake would have done anything in his power to stop you from ever meeting him. Because that jerk shouldn’t have ever been interested in someone so much younger than he was, in the first place. It took Jake years of maturing, reaching his very age today to come to that realization because now you two are no longer kids.

“And he wants to see you again?” he asks, jaw clenched, already knowing the answer.

You swallow. “I’m seeing him next week.”

“Jake?” 

“Yes?” Jake answers before he can even think, already peeking over the back of the couch in search of you. 

He looks in the direction of the wall by the end of the hallway, patiently waiting for your footsteps to finally reach there. 

You come out, holding up the front of your dress and Jake doesn’t know what to feel. “Can you help me zip this up?” you ask, embarrassed you couldn’t get your dress on fully. Your hands had been trembling all day, knowing who you’ll be seeing tonight. 

Jake immediately rushes to get up at your request—not letting you take another step towards him. You lightly smile, not surprised by his behavior at all. He’d been like this since you met, programmed to never let you take the extra mile to reach him.

“I shared my location with you,” you whisper, back facing towards him now. You shiver, feeling his knuckle brush against the exposed skin there, gently holding the small zipper between his fingers. 

“Why? I trust you.” He pretends to be unaware of the situation, trying to convince himself that his gut feeling isn’t true—that you’re not seeing him tonight. 

“I’m seeing him in a bit, and I just—I want you to have my location.” Jake finally zips up your dress, feeling like he sealed your fate—you’re destined for a dreadful night, and he can’t do anything about it. 

He reaches for your waist, but doesn’t have to do much to get you to turn around, because you’re already spinning around to face him. 

Jake swallows hard. You look almost unreal under him—too pretty for his brain to even comprehend. And a part of Jake hates that he won’t be the only one who gets to see you like this, especially not tonight.

“Okay,” he stares down at you, expression unreadable. 

You look up at him, wanting him to give you a reason to stay instead—but he doesn’t see the thought begging to be seen in your head, too distracted by the sick feeling pooling in his stomach. 

“Be safe, and remember to text me, please,” he whispers, pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead—as if he’s implanting his reminder there. 

The light pressure of his lips makes your heart melt in your chest. With his hands still on your waist, Jake lightly pulls you into him, not sure if it’s to comfort you—or himself. He just knows that he needs to hold you. You instinctively lean into his touch as he begins to wrap his arms around you securely. “Will you come pick me up after?” you mumble, against his shirt. 

“I’ll be there the moment you tell me to.” He assures you, meaning it fully. 

Jake feels restless, swerving into the acceleration lane, slamming his foot on the gas. The rain harshly slamming down against his windows just spurs him on even further, bringing him past the speed limit. 

It’s already well past midnight, and you called him not long ago, barely able to get out a word, too choked up even speak—having to hang up and text him instead. 

Leading up to this, Jake had been shamelessly checking your location. With every second that passed with no update from you, his leg bounced harder against the wooden floor, prompting the downstairs neighbor to smack their ceiling, warning him to knock it off for the fifth time. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Jake had practically lunged at his phone when you finally called, heart sinking when he painfully listened to you whimper–the only coherent word that left your mouth was his name.

He already knew your location, rushing to meet you there now. It’s a ten minute drive from here, Jake made sure to check—but he’s already nearing you in under three minutes. 

It’s not long until he spots you in the empty parking lot. He practically throws himself out the car, ignoring the fact that his door is still slung open.

The sight of you sitting on the wet pavement, knees protectively pulled against your chest, and face buried into your hands makes him sick to his stomach. It takes everything in him to maintain his composure, finally reaching you as he lowers himself to your level. 

All the weight of his worries pit against him now, making it hard to breathe—it’s suffocating almost. 

With careful hands, he wraps his fingers around your cold ankles, attempting to regulate your body temperature, sweetly swiping the skin there. Jake swallows unsurely, feeling you shake like a leaf under him. 

In the palms of your hands, you’re biting back the viscous cry threatening to spill over. Jake’s chest caves in, weak from seeing like this. “It’s okay, let it out.” he permits, leaning in to whisper the words against your ear–drowning out the sound of the rain completely. 

It’s okay, let it out. Those five words mean more to you than you could take, especially coming from Jake. 

Before you can even realize it, the honeyed reassurance opens the flood gates to everything you’ve been suppressing. The horrible insults you pathetically took in the past hour, the sickly feeling of his hands on you from earlier, and the stabbing memories from years ago all bubble to the surface. And you finally break. 

You lamely fall forward, with Jake catching you immediately, in his arms–as the sound of your cry finally echoes into the air. It hurts–the way it thrashes against the walls of your throat, and mercilessly sears through your lungs. It hurts so much, but you can’t hold it in anymore–instead, you force yourself to take on the painful feeling as the cry empties out of you. 

Jake screws his eyes shut at the withering sound, promising to himself that this is the last time he’ll have to hear you like this. He will never let you feel this way again. 

Trying to keep his voice from trembling, Jake forces himself to smile, sweetly whispering to you, once again. “Let’s head home, Darling.”

You haven't said a word since you two got back, too ashamed to speak of tonight’s events. 

But Jake doesn’t show you any sign of judgment, as he pulls out your skincare bottles from the drawer with pursed lips. He came into the bathroom, after waiting outside for you to finish your shower, helping you prep for bed now. 

“Toner pads first,” he declares softly, screwing open the container. 

You tiredly look through him, unable to tear the sad expression off your face. But he softly smiles at you anyway, carefully swiping the cotton pads against your skin. 

It’s like this for the next few minutes—with you lost in your thoughts, sitting on the sink while Jake does his best to correctly go through each step of your routine. 

“I’m so naive,” you weakly profess out of nowhere, starting to sniffle. 

Jake stills, putting down your moisturizer, remaining quiet to let you continue.

“I was—I am, so stupid Jake,” you correct yourself. “I can’t even be mad that everyone looks at me like I’m—like I'm dumb,” you spit out. “I deserve to feel like an idiot, because I just am.” Your voice begins to tremble, but you keep going anyway. “Of course, I had to throw myself at the first person who gave me an ounce of attention, because I knew no one else would, but look where that got me.” You pause, harshly wiping away the rogue tear that slips down your cheek. “He’s right Jake, I’m damaged goods, no one can love me when I’m like this.”  Jake breathes heavily, dissecting the way you talk about yourself. You couldn’t be more wrong.

“Stop it.” he says sternly, no longer smiling. 

His tone catches you by surprise, and you’re scared to keep looking at him. He looks so tired of you—so done with you. Anyone else would’ve given up on you by now, it comes as no surprise that he’s taken the chance to do so.

You lock your eyes on the limp hands in your lap instead, ready for him to admit defeat, like he should. Instead, Jake catches your discernment and reaches out to grab your hands. 

“Look at me,” he says more softly this time. 

Tentatively, you lift your head to look at him again, ignoring the tears blurring your vision.

He takes a deep breath, before speaking again. 

“You’re not naive. You're not stupid. You're not dumb. You’re not an idiot. You’re not damaged goods,” he says firmly, addressing all the hurtful terms you called yourself. “And you’re not incapable of being loved.” You feel your bottom lip quiver at the final statement.

“If any of that was true, I wouldn’t be able to care for you so much, but I do. I care about you so fucking much,” he says, face contorted in pain, seeing the disbelieving look on your face. “You’re everything he’s not. Every bad thing he says to you, is not about you at all. It’s about him. He’s naive, he’s stupid, he’s dumb, he’s the idiot, and he's the damaged one.” You finally allow the tears to drip down to your neck—completely soaking the neckline of your shirt. 

Your eyes snap shut, shaking your head at him, denying what he says. “I mean everything I said.” Jake affirms again, gently swiping away your salty tears. You still don't believe him.

“How do—how do you not hate me, as much as I hate myself?” The choked out sentence punches him right in the heart. This hurts Jake most of all. 

You turn your head away from him, eyes still screwed shut. But he’s already pulling his hands from your lap, to cradle your head in his hands instead. 

“I can never hate you,” he says, voice strung in hurt. He doesn’t know what was the worst part of your question. How could you possibly hate yourself? How could he possibly hate you? And how can you possibly hate something, he loved so dearly. 

You open your eyes, ready to spit out something—anything that’s hurtful enough to get rid of him. He doesn’t deserve to deal with you anymore. But the words die on your tongue, because he’s looking at you with so much concern, with so much love. 

And it’s as if your body has a mind of its own, because now you lurch forward, capturing his lips in a kiss. 

Your head spins when kisses you back in an instant, purposefully slotting his lips against yours, like he has the ability to suck out the hurt living inside you. But it feels like he does, because it's healing, the way he kisses you.

Your heart bursts under your ribs, feeling him slowly drop his hands to your waist, thumbs swiping over the fabric of your shirt, with no urge to take it off you. Yet he’s still able to pull a noise from you, swallowing it down his throat as it leaves you.

His tongue slips into your open mouth next, curling against your own wet muscle—its almost euphoric. The entire room blurs around you, your mind can’t process anything—but him. 

Yet, you pull away first, shocked by the unfamiliar feeling that started brewing in your tummy. You blink shyly at him, he’s fully pressed against you now. “I can never hate you,” he whispers the affirmation again, planting a kiss on your forehead. He stamps the declaration there, hoping it never leaves your mind. 

“I know,” you answer him, believing him this time. Jake swallows, seeing you stare up at him, trusting him fully.

Without a thought, Jake leans back down to peck your lips, drawn in by the way it’s wet with his saliva. It’s meant to be short, because his lips are already drifting from yours—but you chase after the feeling in your stomach again, feeling it growing stronger. Jake hands trail down to your hips, squeezing them in surprise, kissing you back. 

He feels your hands already reaching for his pajama pants, fingers digging into the band, and he stops you, moving his hands to coax yours away from there. 

You retract your mouth from his, feeling regretful. “Shit, I’m sorry Jake I—”

“It's not that.” He assures you. Your brows furrow at his reply, until you understand the apologetic look he’s now giving you—and you know exactly what it means. I love you, but not tonight.

You nod.  

Jake kisses the corner of your mouth, withdrawing his hands to dig out something from his pocket. You smile at what he pulls out from there. It’s a pair of mismatched fluffy socks, one blue and one pink. 

You both look down at his own feet, and he lets out an embarrassed laugh. He’s wearing the matching pair for each sock in his hand. His left foot has a blue sock on it while the other has the pink sock. 

A warm feeling pins you down—Jake is wearing your socks.

note: this one is very special to me, so thank you for reading. as always, reblogs are very greatly appreciated!

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[studentinpursuitofclouds]

ideas you wanted ideas I deliver

that heart event where Lance is like, "wanna accompany me while I work in the Badlands?" But instead of the farmer, he asks Isaac because he needs someone to "watch his back", he really doesn't, he just wants Isaac to spend a day off work but the man refuses to take any vacation

I think Lance was talking about it in Highlands, not Crimson Baldlans. On the other hand, why not describe Badlands too?

Thank you for this fluff idea and enjoy!☺️🫰

"Right behind you"

________________________________________

"Such amazing landscapes... put me in a dreamy thoughts."

Isaac didn't understand what kind of "dreamy thoughts" could be set by the crimson horizon and endless sandstorm, where monsters from the darkest depths were swarming. Maybe, for example, mighty snow-capped mountains, or a calm peaceful green meadow covered with flowers of different shapes and colors - he can see the beauty and greatness in something like this. But here? This view at the Crimson Baldlans post is just sad and depressing. But Lance apparently knew better.

"And what do you dream about? About busty women and where to get drunk?"

The scarred adventurer's comment made Lance chuckle a little. But it wasn't mostly because of Isaac's rather peculiar sense of humor, but the fact that, having been a couple for about a year now, he hadn't stopped hiding his soft spot behind a crude mask of indifference and cold-bloodedness even in front of Lance.

"My oh my," Lance hummed, turning his violet eyes straight into a pair of Isaac's dark, anthracite eyes. "I don't recall you being the jealous type."

In the past, Isaac would have furrowed his eyebrows at his pink-haired lover's attempt to tease him, but it had become such a routine for them that now Isaac just rolled his eyes. In another exchange of barbs, it was a draw for these two.

"While such a view may, and deservedly so, be repulsive, I find Crimson Baldlans mesmerising in its own way." Lance once again directed his gaze to the horizon, watching the infernal sun slowly fade into the sunset.

"I've seen enough of that already. And..." Isaac's voice became half a tone quieter and his dark eyes filled with sadness, "when I look at the Badlands, all I see are their faces..."

Lance looked at him sympathetically. Seeing Isaac so vulnerable and grief stricken was painful. The ghosts of his fallen comrades still haunted him, and he still berated himself for failing to protect them. Well, Lance can't afford for his partner to go back to being in pain, can he? And it's better to start with a change of scenery.

"Well, then I suggest you enjoy some other, equally breathtaking view. Besides, I was going to ask for your help on my patrol anyway."

"How is it that the great second-in-command of the First Slash Clan and hero of noble bloods can't handle a couple of slimes in the woods?" Anything to take his mind off the intrusive thoughts and faces of dead adventurers, anything, get him out of here, this is unbearable, anything...

"I wouldn't call them an inconsequential problem. The monsters there are quite a threat, they are stronger and more ferocious than their counterparts in the Mines. There's a one particular monster at the top of Highlands that we've called 'The Bully'. And if you're interested, you can come with me and find out why."

Both men stood silent for half a minute before Isaac finally said: "Alright. Let's go." Lance smiled softly.

"Take my hand. And no need to make that face, dear," the gallant adventurer laughed slightly as his dark-haired lover rolled his eyes again.

It was one thing to teleport yourself to the right place with a totem, and quite another to feel the threads of someone else's magic surrounding you for a moment.

Lance was right - the forest area in the Highlands was truly mesmerising and alive.

"Ah, now that's a view..." Lance took a deep breath of fresh air, enjoying the light breeze of the spring wind.

"...Yeah, really beautiful." Isaac's gaze, though, was directed at Lance himself, who was distracted by considering the terrain.

"I meant the scenery, my dear."

Or not so distracted.

Isaac immediately decided to change the subject, feeling his cheeks flush slightly at the realisation that Lance had caught his gaze. "So are we going after your 'Bully' or not?"

"This way," the pink-haired man's smile grew even bigger, and he strode forward down the familiar path while Isaac walked behind him.

Whoever this Bully is, he wouldn't dare touch Lance, Isaac thought, keeping up with his lover and occasionally grumbling at the thick bushes that were always snagging his already battered cloak.

[chelseeebe]

i’ll know.

lil epilogue for pick a side or i’ll pick you both. thought it worked best a separate little thing rather than being shoved on the end. this is like five or so years after part two.

part one. | part two.

hawkin’s was a long lost memory. the things you did. the people you knew. they were gone.

it was for the best.

you’d tried your hardest to forget it all. put it all behind and start again somewhere else. somewhere no one knew you. where you could be anyone you wanted to be.

and it worked, for a while at least. a new name, a degree, a job, new boyfriend. even new hair. a completely fresh beginning.

until one awful day at work made everything you’d built for yourself came crashing down.

you’d taken a part time job in a coffee shop, something to pay the bills while you got your masters degree. it was easy. damn sometimes it was even fun.

a regular day, making coffee for inpatient business men and stuffy women who carried purses worth more than your apartment.

‘hiya, what can i get for-,’ you look up at the man on the other side of the counter and your heart stops.

the same shaggy haircut, though now it was actually styled, not so scruffy. same eye bags with accompanying narrowed brown eyes. a mirror image of his high school self bar the light stubble now occupying his face.

‘i’ll take a black coffee, large,’ he nods, eyeing your name tag, ‘thanks tara,’ it sounds almost venomous coming from his mouth.

the bile rises, burning in your throat. you’re stuck in the same position until your coworker bumps your arm, jolting you back into reality.

‘y-yeah.. that’ll be.. uh, three dollars,’ you manage to get out, punching the numbers into the register, not entirely understanding what was going on.

‘keep the change,’ he says, offering over a handful of notes from his pocket.

your fingers brush against his hand and you want to throw up. you’d never quite been able to shake that haunting look he’d given you at the lunch table so many years ago.

like he just knew. like he could see inside of you. see all of the horrific things you’d done. how you’d murdered his girlfriend in cold blood and laughed about it.

you blink, the bright overhead lights burning your corneas and stuff the notes into the draw, slamming it shut.

absent minded you push past your coworker and out of the back door into the alleyway behind the shop. you can’t stop the acid from rising, vomiting all over the stones, splashing against the wall.

you attempt to gain some control, breathing in and out, just at least so you won’t throw up again.

pressing your back against the brick wall, counting to ten, again and again. just as your therapist had instructed.

someone joins you, leaning against the wall next to you. but doesn’t speak.

you look up to find jonathan byers perched against the wall, unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

‘what do you want?’ you speak up, running a hand over your clammy face. flushing even though you were shivering, the chill running through your bones.

‘i just thought i’d say hi to an old friend.. what’s wrong with that?’ he replies, sparking the cigarette.

you shake your head, looking up at the moody grey sky, ‘how’d you find me?’

‘ahh.. that’d be telling.’

you scoff, totally bewildered by his presence. the fact he’d come out all this way to.. what? to taunt you? finally expose what you’d done? expose your murderous past?

‘y’know.. i always thought something was off with you.. you were always cold, always just slightly not there,’ he presses, gesturing to his head.

‘why are you here? i’ve moved on.. i don’t want to think about.. hawkins anymore,’ you sniff, spitting on to the floor, trying to rid your mouth of the disgusting taste.

‘well i haven’t,’ he purses his lips, ‘you can change your hair, change your fucking name.. but i remember. i know,’ he exhales the cloud of smoke in your face, ‘and i’m not gonna let you forget it.’

he pushes himself off of the wall, stubbing his cigarette out and flicking it somewhere in the alley.

he begins to walk off but stops a few paces down the small path, speaking over his shoulder, ‘y’know steve’s in the city.. i’ll let him know about this place, great coffee by the way,’ shaking the cardboard cup as he disappears.

you turn to the wall, once again regurgitating the contents of your stomach. writhing as nancy wheeler’s once forgotten face appears in your head.

[skyholly]

The best kept secret

Summary: What if Moiraine had a baby daughter she and Siuan were forced to leave to Anvaere to raise as her own?

moiraine/siuan

Chapter 1 here!

Chapter 2 here!

Chapter 3 here!

Chapter 4 here!

Chapter 5 here!

****************

Chapter 6. Guinevere

Guinevere slammed her hands against the floor, clenching them into fists. The coolness of tiles bit into her palms as she struggled to draw air into her lungs. Rand sat on her side, his body and face void of any emotions, whereas she was about to collapse due to the sheer abundance of them. She felt as if she were breathing through a sponge, panic sinking like a rock down her stomach.

“No!” Guinevere cursed herself. “You can’t fall apart now!” She was an Aes Sedai of the Yellow Ajah, she never lost her composure, she never let her emotions take control of her; she was efficient, she was methodical and logical, her mind an atheneum of organised files she could access at any time. Panicking wasn’t in her nature; she couldn’t afford to let it be. Only in her nightmares did she allow such emotion to pay her a visit, when it could harm no one but herself. 

And yet there she was, kneeling beside Rand, desperately pulling on every weave she could think of, trying to break the Amyrlin’s shield off —but remained unsuccessful in doing so. She’d never been in that position before, and it felt like torture. Healing had always come so naturally to her; she instinctively knew which weaves to pull on, whatever the disease, whatever the damage; however, at that moment, she found herself utterly at a loss, flattened under Siuan’s vastly superior power. 

You’re too weak, you’ve always been so. You turned your mother into an overbearing figure because of it; you took your brother’s youth away so he could help take care of you; you, a sister from the Yellow Ajah, couldn’t save your own father from his illness, he died due to your weakness—

Guinevere felt tears start to roll through her cheeks, as she was still panting over Rand’s body, her hands hovering all over his chest, when all of the sudden a man forced him onto his feet, dragging him away from her, leading him out of the room, onto the forbidding hallways of the castle.

“Stop it!” She exclaimed, hurriedly standing up, following the brigade of both women and men that had so seamlessly surrounded the boy without her noticing. “Let go of him!” She screamed, her voice cracking with desperation as she seized the back of one man's tunic, attempting to shove him away. The man turned, his face a mask of emotionless indifference, and with a swift, methodical punch to her face, slammed her into the ground, leaving her gasping for air. She closed her eyes, in an attempt to seek safety, to seek her void, and shove the pain away, but all she received in return was a torrent of memories from the nightmares she had endured the night before.

************

Tel'aran'rhiod 

Guinevere pressed her hands against her ears, eyes closed so tightly they were almost buried under her cheeks. She let herself fall down, knees hitting the floor so forcefully they would most likely break, weren’t she in a dream. The same one that had haunted her most of her life. Three little kids screaming for dear life, their shrieks piercing through her eardrums despite her attempts to block the noise. 

“Mama!” They always screeched in terror, seeking for her, but Guinevere could do nothing to help them. “I’m not your mother,” she thought in despair, “why are you calling for me? Whose dream is this? Who am I here?” 

But she was already used to the nightmare, she had learnt how to deal with it. She always dropped into the ground, while attempting to block all of her senses away, until the floor beneath her eventually broke down, and she fell through the excruciating abyss, causing her to wake up. But that night the abyss never came, no matter how long she waited.

It felt as if hours had passed, when Guinevere finally opened her eyes in bewilderment, finding herself in the all too familiar circular room, red banners hung all around the luminous chamber. She noticed the three kids running towards her, and she instinctively opened her arms, letting all three of them plunge into her body. The children’s whimpers rippled throughout her whole body, their tears staining the skirts of her dress. There were two young boys, hair as dark as the ocean at night, and a little girl, hair as auburn as a winter sunset. 

“Shh,” she tried to console them, brushing on each of their heads, “it’s alright, it’s alright.” The little girl looked up towards her, and Guinevere almost choked at the sight of her eyes. As blue as the midnight sky. She picked the toddler in her arms, as the two boys gripped on her legs. “It’s alright, everything will be fine,” she kept on repeating, but she knew it was a lie. The world around them kept precariously shaking, walls and ceilings falling apart, the floor trembling beneath her feet. 

Suddenly, she heard someone laugh, and she drew her gaze away from the children, eyes following the source of such noise, until they stumbled upon a man, standing in the middle of the room. Guinevere felt her heart drop into her stomach. Rand. Only it wasn’t Rand, but a middle aged man, with dark hair and bronze skin, a smile on his face that had once been as gentle and sweet as a spring breeze, but was now contorted into a maniac grin. The man started to approach them, his mien erratically switching from wild laughter to desperate sobbing, his cheeks wet by tears of both amusement and grief. Guinevere automatically raised what little she could her hands, reaching for the Source, but she couldn’t find it. I can’t channel. Who am I here? The question kept on haunting her. 

“Fight it, Lews, please,” she heard herself beg the man, holding onto her children, hot tears burning down her cheeks, as words she did not recognise started pouring out of her mouth, “please. Not the children.” 

But the man didn’t stop, and each second he was a step closer to her, the children’s shrieks of terror piercing into her brain like needles laced with poison, when suddenly, everything shifted. It felt as if she were being plunged from that dream into another, falling down an endless hole, until eventually she dropped into a bed, her surroundings yet another very familiar room. Ample and dimly lit, with high ceilings; walls decorated in midnight blue wallpapers, a variety of books and trinkets scattered around the room’s multiple desks and chairs. 

This is Moiraine’s room. 

She gazed around in astonishment, until her eyes stumbled across her aunt’s. Guinevere was sitting on her lap, her small back against Moiraine’s bent legs, her little hands grasping onto the woman’s nightgown. She couldn’t be more than five years old at the time. But something seemed off about the dream. The last one had been eerily disturbing, numbness spread throughout her body, her brain foggy; but this new dream in which she had fallen into… everything was so clear, every detail in her aunt’s room, every sound, even the flowery smell emanating from Moiraine’s hair. She tried raising her arm to grab a strand of it, but couldn’t, as a matter of fact, she couldn’t control anything about it. This isn’t a dream, Guinevere abruptly realised, this is a memory. And she was nothing but a spectator to it. 

“And then what?” She heard her little voice ask, eyes wide open in astonishment. 

“Lews Therin Telamon and the Hundred Companions used all of their power to seal the Dark One’s prison, once and for all, keeping the world out of his reach for all time.” Moiraine finished the story, pulling the girl’s little hands against her chest. 

“But what if that seal is broken?” The toddler asked, head tilting in confusion. 

Moiraine’s eyes flickered in concern for one second, before briskly turning her lips into a warm smile, eyes softening at the sight of her scared little face. “That won’t happen.” She assured her. 

“But what if it does?” The toddler insisted, terror taking over her, plunging her body into her aunt’s chest. 

Moiraine placed her hand on her small back, tenderly brushing it, as her other hand softly caressed her cheek. “Then your mother will be here to protect you. Always.” 

************

Guinevere felt her head go numb, as she struggled to get on her feet, feeling her heartbeat drumming on her ears, both of her arms resting scratched against the floor. Guinevere heard Rand’s muffled yelling, his head desperately searching for her, and noticed Moiraine scurrying past her, following the boy, when two strong arms grabbed her by the armpits and lifted her up. The girl stumbled on her feet, still dazed from the punch and haunted by the memory of those strange nightmares. Had she felt troubled, and confused by such dreams, she didn’t let them drill into her mind, she’d have plenty of time to ruminate on them once she was back at home. And so she pushed the thoughts aside, her hand clinically reaching for her cheek, where the man’s blow had hit, and felt tearing on her skin, a thin stream of blood running down her neck. 

“Come with me.” The man that had helped her commanded. She turned around, head hurting so much she thought it was about to burst, stomach feeling queasy, and noticed it was Lan, her aunt’s nerve-racking Warder. “Here,” he added, offering her a white piece of cloth. 

Guinevere nervously took it from his hands, swiftly placing it over her injured cheek. “B-but what about Rand—”

“He’ll be fine,” he explained, gently grasping on her forearm, forcing her to follow his steps, away from the castle, “for now, at least, Moiraine will be with him.”

“But—”

“If you really want to help the boy, then follow me.” Lan insisted, his expression softening the slightest, but still not slowing down on his pace. “I have a plan.”

“Which is?”

“You’ll know when we get there.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” She snapped. “You clearly went behind Moiraine’s wishes, you abandoned her side, you forced her against the Amyrlin—”

Lan froze so abruptly on his spot that Guinevere would’ve fallen into the ground, weren’t for his strong —yet incredibly tender— grip on her shoulder. “I’m Moiraine’s Warder.” He asserted, unwavering solemnity showing on his face. “And that I shall be until my last breath. And you are Moiraine’s… I would never hurt you, Guinevere. As I will never let any harm come your way. That, I promise.” He said so honestly, Guinevere couldn’t help but to believe him. 

She had two options in front of her: one, run towards the Amyrlin, inform her there was yet another plan in motion she ought to put a stop to. Two, she followed Lan, towards what he had promised it would be in Rand’s best interest. It wasn’t a very difficult choice to make.

“Then lead the way.” She affirmed, pursing her lips, nodding to herself, hurrying after the man. 

Luckily for her, Lan wasn’t a man of many words, and so that allowed her to put her thoughts in order, all the new information she had come across buzzing in her mind, pieces of an impossibly intricate puzzle trying to tie together. 

Moiraine and the Armyrlin were working together, as she had suspected. Not only that, each of them had very specific tasks to their mission, a mission that had been in motion for years. It seemed as if Lan were the only one aware of such an arrangement, but she couldn’t know for sure. Leane… No, the Amyrlin wouldn’t have asked her to leave the room if she knew. 

Guinevere couldn’t get out of her mind the way Moiraine had addressed the Amyrlin, how naturally the name ‘Siuan’ fit on her lips. And how tragic expressions the two women had shared with each other, the anger and sorrow in their voices after learning they had both been withholding information from each other, the two of them resentfully speaking words that they already knew would hurt the other one the most… No, that’s impossible. The Amyrlin shall have no love of her own. Guinevere shook her head, I am becoming crazy. She had known the two women had been friends since their days as Novices, so it made sense for them to feel betrayed by each other. She was reading into things where there was nothing written.

Guinevere couldn’t help but sigh, she had learned so much from being in the room with the two women, yet she felt as if she had ended up with more questions than answers. How did they know exactly they ought to look for the Dragon Reborn?  That riddle remained her biggest concern. It couldn't have been mere instinct; one doesn’t just embark on a lifelong journey to search for something whose existence isn't assured.

The two of them kept on walking through the city, Lan leading the way and Guinevere lost in her own thoughts, until eventually they reached a big, tall building, its stone walls weathered by time and the elements. Ivy clung to the ancient masonry, creeping up towards its narrow, iron-barred windows. The Sanitarium.

“What are we doing here?” Guinevere asked, confused. 

“We’re here to help Moiraine.” Lan briefly explained, before walking past the heavy wooden doors, towards a hallway. 

“I thought we were here to help Rand.”

“In order to help Rand, we’ll need to help Moiraine first.” The man instructed, as he turned on a corner into a small waiting room, where two people were expecting him. 

A woman stood there, dressed in a deep green gown, beautiful brown curls cascading down her back, her eyes big and alluring. Guinevere knew who she was. 

“Alanna Sedai,” she said, bowing her head. Next to her, in a chair, sat a man, most probably her Warder. One of her warders, she reminded herself. 

The woman looked at her with a cautious expression on her face, her gaze darting in anger between the young girl and the brooding Warder. “It’s fine,” Lan rushed to say, “she knows.” 

Guinevere stood still in her place, silently organising files of information. Alanna knows, her warders as well. Who else knows? Why wasn’t the Tower buzzing with all of this information if so many Aes Sedai were apparently aware? Unless they weren’t, until Lan, or the Amyrlin decided they ought to. That would explain why Moiraine had so abruptly appeared on Cairhien, frantically searching for Rand. Now too many people know about the Dragon Reborn, and all of them are standing on either side of too profound an abyss. But Guinevere knew where she stood, her feet firm on the ground, she had taken her stance, and wouldn’t back out of it. But what if you’re on the wrong side? 

Guinevere was taken out of her stupor by a man’s voice. “Through there,” Alanna’s Warder sighed, pointing towards a tall, blue door. The girl’s eyes widened in recognition. Logain’s chambers. What had Logain to do with any of this? Guinevere felt more perplexed by the second. She followed Lan into an ample room, a lush garden in its centre, a privilege most patients wouldn’t have access to, especially a gentled man that had tried murdering over a dozen Aes Sedai. Guinevere froze on the spot. Moiraine had him brought here, but why?  Her eyes scanned the place, until they landed on the Fake Dragon, sitting by a table, playing a game of stones. The man appeared worse than when she had last seen him: his skin waxy, eyes devoid of any will—a rare sight for a gentled man. It wasn’t his unkempt appearance that shocked her, but the stark reality that he was still alive.

Logain looked at the two of them, and smirked. “I would offer you a match, but stones is a gentleman’s game.” He said, resentfully glaring at Lan. “Tell your master that I’m still waiting for her to keep her promise.” Promise? What promise? And when had Moiraine visited Logain? “Or you can just run me through with your blade now, save her the trouble.” Oh. Death, that’d been her promise, Guinevere guessed. Everyone knew there was no sweeter fate for people that were cut off from the Source. Guinevere shuddered at the thought of Moiraine being haunted by the same thoughts.

Lan slowly approached the man. “I can do better than that,” he said, taking a key from his pouch and leaving it on the table. Guinevere’s eyes broadened in consternation, Logain was a highly dangerous patient, surely he couldn’t be left on his own. She knew she ought to stop Lan, but something within her prevented her from doing so. It was unwise, and egotistical, it went against every oath she’d taken as a healer, but she wanted to know what Lan was after, what he was seeking from the man. What can he possibly get from a gentled man? “You can see male weaves,” Lan suggested, “what do you see when you look at Moiraine?”

Oh. Guinevere’s eyes brightened, wide as plates, hands anxiously gripping on the fabric of her dress, her heartbeat steadily going up, as another piece of the puzzle fell into its place. A male channeler stilled Moiraine. But why would Logain see anything? She was cut off from the Source, nothing remained afterwards. Unless… unless she hadn’t been stilled at all, unless it was something else. That would explain why Guinevere hadn’t realised she couldn’t reach for the One Power the moment she saw her, that would explain why she felt an electric buzz every time she got close to her. Moiraine hadn’t been stilled, something else had been performed on her, something Guinevere couldn’t have noticed because it had been the work of saidin, not saidar. She shivered at the thought of a male channeler who could yield so much power, his name immediately coming to her mind, Ishamael, but she brushed the thought away. She would have to worry about that some other time. Guinevere expectantly glared at Logain, eyes furrowed in anticipation, awaiting for his answer. 

“A desperate, lonely woman, who had given her life to a cause… beyond her understanding.” Logain replied, chuckling. 

Lan took a deep breath, a frown folding his eyebrows. “A half a year in an Asylum, and you’re a madman still.”

“Madness is expecting a straight answer from the man you helped lock away.” He snarled, shakily standing up, measuring up against Lan. The Warder pursed his lips in frustration, as he hastily grabbed the key from the table, turning away. 

Guinevere watched the man start to walk away from the room, knowing he was expecting her to follow him, but instead she did the opposite. She slowly approached Logain, softly grabbing his hands, letting her power flow onto them, warming spreading through his arms. This is what he misses the most. The man eased on her touch, weaves invisible to him twisting around his body, a gentle smile taking over his face. 

“I know what you’re doing to me.” He said, peacefully, a knowing smirk on his face.

“But does it feel bad?” She asked, her lips turning into a soft smile, slowly starting to draw her hands away. 

The man remained quiet, abruptly gripping on her hands for dear life, bringing them closer to him, pushing them against his chest, eager for any kind of touch from the One Power. His gaze reached her eyes, and then the words came flooding in. “There are weaves on her,” he explained, “from a man. Thousands of strands pulled together, held in place, but nothing being channelled into them.”

“How is that possible?” Lan asked, reaching their side once again.

“I don’t know, it’s just like…” Logain started to contort his hands, his legs, his body, resembling a ball of wool. Guinevere’s eyes widened in realisation. I know what’s been done to Moiraine. 

Suddenly, screaming and turmoil could be heard from outside the building, as Alanna entered the gardens, agitated. “There’s a fire,” she explained, “in the Forgate.”

Guinevere searched for Lan’s eyes, unsure on what to do, but he was walking away already. 

“The key,” Logain demanded.

Lan turned around, his body swelling with anger, and he approached Logain. “You think I’ve forgotten what you did to Kerene and Stepin? You will get this key when they take you back to the White Tower. There are two Brown Sisters that are desperate to study a man who can channel.” He sneered, before he sprinted away. 

Guinevere sent a pitiful look towards Logain, and rushed to follow Lan. “Wait!” She screamed, once they’d left the building. Lan turned around, and faced her. “Why did you bring me here?” She asked, a clever grin on her face, arrogance suits me, she thought, amused, but quickly flattened it down, recalling her mother’s teachings. There's no harvest from the seeds of smugness.

“I thought he would be able to tell us what had been done to Moiraine, and how to undone it. And that you could then teach Rand how to do so but... I still don’t know what’s wrong with her.” Lan admitted, defeated. 

Guinevere straightened her posture, and folded her arms over her chest. “I know.” She confessed, raising her chin. “I’ve read about it in old books, I know what has been done to her, and I can guide Rand into undoing it.” 

Lan’s smile spread slowly across his face, tentative yet genuine, as if it were the first time such a gesture had graced his features. “Then come with me,” he grinned, but Guinevere stayed in her place. 

“It was Ishamael who did that to her, wasn’t it?” She muttered. Lan remained eerily quiet. “So Lanfear isn’t the only Forsaken around,” she whispered, mostly to herself. Guinevere stood firmly on her ground, looking at Lan with a fierce look on her face. “I will go with you and help Moiraine under one condition: you tell me everything. And I mean everything. Everything that happened from the second you arrived at the Two Rivers to what happened in the Eye of the World; what your next plan is, what you believe Moiraine’s plan to be. I want every single detail, or else I’ll join the Amyrlin now.”

Lan hesitated, before lowering his head, lips turning into a begrudging smile. “You resemble Moiraine too much for your own good, you know that?” Guinevere grinned. “I’ve been told so.” 

Guinevere followed Lan and Alanna into the Sun Castle’s wide entrance, amidst fire and screaming, the city at the mercy of Lanfear’s rage. She spotted Rand first, next to Moiraine and Verin Sedai, and another man, Verin’s Warder, she supposed. She locked her eyes into Rand’s and the two of them remained still for a second, before the boy ran towards her, embracing her in a tight hug. She flinched at his touch, her mind still plagued by the nightmare he had somehow strangely starred in, but she brushed her fears aside, easing into his embrace. I can breathe again. He took a step back, brushing her injured cheek with his thumb. 

“I apologise for pulling you into this mess—

“Don’t,” Guinevere answered, firmly, nodding, both to herself and to the redheaded boy. 

He placed his hands over her shoulders, biting on his lips, a regretful look on his face, “I’m sorry for accusing you of—

“Don’t,” Guinevere repeated. 

“Blood and ashes!” Rand cursed, biting down a smile, “won’t you just let me apologise to you?” The boy laughed. 

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Guinevere confessed, a guilty pout on her lips, “it was wrong of me to use my… Talent to force Egwene to tell me those things, and it’s not your fault I’ve become involved in this. It is my choice to help, to help you, Rand. Whatever comes next.” She affirmed herself, more assured of her choices than ever before, now that she held all the pieces to the puzzle.

Guinevere noticed Moiraine direct a strange look towards her Warder, as Lan stared anxiously at the pair. He turned around, and faced the rest of the group. “Good work,” he addressed them, “we’ll take him from here to the Waygate. Just make sure we’re not followed.” 

“What about the Amyrlin—” Guinevere began to ask, but was interrupted. “She’s been taken care of,” Verin explained, “she’ll be occupied for some time, but you’ll still need to hurry.” 

“You’re not alone in this any longer, sister.” Alanna addressed Moiraine, still panting for air. “But you need to hurry, this city is not safe.” Moiraine nodded, her eyes immediately searching for Lan’s. “I hope you’re worth this, boy.” Alanna sighed, fiercely glaring at Rand. The boy straightened his posture, in an attempt to reassure her. 

“Light be with you,” Verin’s Warder blessed them, as he handed a lightened torch to Lan, who turned around towards her. “You’re the only one who knows where the Waygate is, Guinevere,” he said, staring intensely into the girl’s eyes, “lead the way and we’ll follow.”

Guinevere obediently started running away from the castle, rushing through the city’s narrow streets, before Rand could start to complain about her accompanying them. She heard the group’s steady footsteps following her, until they eventually reached her. 

“You’re not coming with us to Falme.” Rand told her, arriving at her side. 

“Of course I’m not,” Guinevere assured him, already out of breath, “I’m just leading you all to the Waygate. There will be much damage to repair after Lanfear’s little spectacle, I’ll be needed here.” She further explained, heavily breathing without slowing down her pace. 

“How do you even know where it is?” The boy asked her, surprised. 

Guinevere shrugged her shoulders, turning on a corner, avoiding crashing with its wedge by nothing but inches. “My dad and I liked to study maps together, I know this city like the palm of my hand, I grew up here. This is my home.”

Moiraine sent a pitiful look her way, before quickly regaining her composure. She’s been acting so weird ever since the audience with the Amyrlin. She had refused to speak to her when they had left the room after Rand was called upon by the Amyrlin, she wouldn’t even meet her eyes.

Guinevere kept on leading the three of them, until they eventually reached an empty building, surrounded by high brick walls but no ceiling, an enormous stone archway standing imposingly on the back, illuminated under the moon’s glow. “There,” she sighed, bending down on her stomach, trying to catch her breath. 

Moiraine wasted no seconds to get by her side. “You’ll have to channel into it.” She commanded her. “And then you leave this place, and rush towards the Sun Castle, search for Siuan—”

“No,” Lan interrupted her, staring at Moiraine deep into her eyes, “you’re going to open it.” 

Moiraine looked at him with a vicious look on her face, angry at the man’s apparent mockery. “Just do it.” She ordered the young girl, ignoring the Warder. 

But Lan walked towards Rand’s side, the torch on his hand illuminating the young boy’s face, and pointed towards Moiraine. “Look at Moiraine. With the Source—”

“Lan,” Moiraine sighed, turning her face away in embarrassment.

“Not just your eyes,” he kept on explaining, “what do you see?” 

“Don’t,” Moiraine insisted, avoiding everyone’s gaze, as she felt a veil of shame falling upon her. 

Guinevere saw Rand staring at the woman, and she mirrored his actions, but she couldn’t see anything. She couldn’t see anything past the lonely, withered down woman, reeking with vulnerability; but she sensed it, something… like a million butterflies fluttering their wings within her. 

“It looks like a knot tied together,” the redhead boy finally said, lips opening in bewilderment. 

“Just like Logain said,” Guinevere mumbled.

“That’s im… It’s impossible.” Moiraine replied, eyebrows frowned in confusion.

“No, it’s not,” Guinevere said, frantically searching for her aunt’s eyes, “there’s a story from the Age of Legends, about the Forsakens’ powers, a skill that’s been lost for thousands of years, to tie off weaves and leave them in place. I- I didn’t even think about it, until Lan took me to see Logain.”

“It never made sense to me, Moiraine.” The Warder confessed, eagerly striding to her side. “What you’re feeling? Ishamael didn’t still you. Not even a Forsaken could do that alone. It is a shield that he’s tied off, which means…”

“It can be removed,” Moiraine whispered, her voice quivering in both anticipation and apprehension. If this doesn’t work out…

“Yes,” Lan nodded. 

Rand immediately searched for Guinevere’s hands. “Please, help her.” 

“I-I can’t,” the girl explained, “only saidin can undo it. But I can help you remove it, if you trust me.”

Rand stared at her for a handful of seconds, until he nodded. “What do I need to do?”

“You don’t have the skills to untie the knots, and it would take me far too long to teach you,” she sighed, “you’ll have to cut through it, I’ll guide you.” She added, staring intensely into his eyes, before drawing her gaze away, towards Moiraine, as he did the same, the young couple silently asking for the woman’s permission. 

“I trust you,” she nodded. Guinevere pursed her lips, and circled Rand, gently gripping on his arms from behind, as if he were a puppet and she the puppeteer. “Go on, search for it.” She indicated. Guinevere sensed Rand’s body tensing up, focusing on pulling on weaves she could not see, but she could feel. His body started to heat up, warmness that spread onto her, his skin buzzing with power, about to ignite. He can’t control it. He could hurt Moiraine if I don’t make the right decisions. Guinevere tightened her grip on the boy’s arms, her palms almost burning at his touch, drawing energy away from him. “Good,” she whispered, leaning closer to him, “now imagine a blade, sharp and precise. You’re going to cut through the threads, not too deep, just enough to sever the weave.” She guided his hands, feeling his muscles twitch as he attempted to follow her instructions.

“Go on,” Moiraine instructed, straightening her posture, making herself ready for whatever the outcome was. 

Rand's breathing grew ragged, and Guinevere could sense his hesitation. She felt Rand struggling to control his power, and so she started to draw as much energy as she could from him, lightening his burden. “Steady,” she said softly, her voice a calm anchor. “Focus on the weave, let the Source guide you… That’s it,” she muttered, as she felt him easing into the Power, his hands moving in almost intuitive motions. “I see it,” Rand finally said, his voice barely more than a breath. “I see the weave.”

Moiraine stood still, her eyes closed, her face a mask of apprehension. The air in the room thickened with tension, each second stretching into an eternity.

“Good,” Guinevere encouraged. “Now, cut it.”

With a final, deep breath, Rand moved. Guinevere felt the surge of power, a hot, searing energy that pulsed through her as Rand severed the invisible threads. For a moment, everything seemed to hang in the balance, the room filled with a tense, expectant silence.

Then, Moiraine gasped, her eyes flying open. She staggered, and Lan was immediately at her side, supporting her. The room seemed to breathe again, the oppressive weight lifting as the weave fell apart.

Moiraine looked around, her eyes bright with a mix of disbelief and relief. “I feel it,” she whispered. “I feel it.”

Guinevere let out a breath she hadn’t realised she had been holding, stepping back from Rand. “It worked,” she said, her voice filled with wonder.

Moiraine approached her side. “Thank you,” she exhaled, reaching for Guinevere’s hand, pressing on it, gratitude all over her face. 

Guinevere felt it, the rush of emotions coming her way, and she felt tears accumulating on her eyes. It must’ve felt like torture. “I’m glad I could be of help.” She gulped. The woman abruptly placed a hand over her cheek, caressing on it with her thumb, overwhelmed by emotions. “You’ve always been so much more than just help, Winnie.” She confessed, smiling at her. She tenderly brushed her thumb against her cheek for one last time, before turning around towards Lan. 

“Thank you,” she said, softly. 

“I’m sorry it took me so long to do my duty.” He apologised, solemnly. Moiraine gently chuckled at his comment, as she turned around towards the Waygate, staring to pull on intricate, almost blinding weaves. Guinevere made sure Rand felt alright, before walking beside her, eager to see all of Barthane’s stories come true, and they did not disappoint. She is majestic, Guinevere thought to herself, staring in awe at the brightness her aunt was able to create, golden weaves forcing the invisible gate open, until there was a dangerously alluring black void where the archway once stood. 

The four were standing still in front of it, overwhelmed at the thought of having to go through it, when Guinevere felt something in the air shift. She turned around, as a tangle of weaves shaped like a spiderweb fell onto Rand, pushing him feet away from the archway, his body violently crushing against the floor. 

Guinevere’s eyes immediately searched for the perpetrator, and she freezed on the spot when she saw her. The Amyrlin, she has found us. 

“Stop!” Lan began to say, running towards her, but she swiftly brushed him to his side, a force invisible to him forcing him sideways, and he grunted as he violently hit the brick walls. 

Moiraine stood in shock in the middle of it, eyes flickering between the two men, until they finally settled on the woman before her. 

“Close the Waygate, Moiraine.” Siuan ordered her. “Now!” She added, noticing the woman’s hesitation. “You lied to me about being stilled—”

“No,” Moiraine sighed, hurt evident in her voice, eyes narrowed in disbelief, as she approached the woman in the golden attire, “I cannot. I’ve been more truthful with you than anyone else.”

“We failed, Moiraine,” Siuan complained, “at the Eye of the World you failed!” Moiraine started backing away from her, invisible knives embedding on her chest. “The stakes are too high to fail again. Close the Waygate.” She instructed her. 

Moiraine simply stared back at her, a wearisome expression on her face, and sighed. “No,”

“I don’t want to force you,” the Amyrlin threatened her. “You swore to obey me on the Oath Rod. An unbreakable oath, bound by the One Power.”

“Siuan…” Moiraine whispered, her face shrunk in sorrow, and betrayal.

“Close it!” Siuan demanded, once again, the words slurring out of her mouth. 

“Siuan…”

“Moiraine Damodred…—” The Amyrlin began to instruct, as tears started to accumulate on her eyes. 

“No, if you’ve ever loved me, please don’t do this,” Moiraine begged, tears beginning to streak down her cheeks.

So that’s what Lan kept away from me, Guinevere realised in astonishment. She had been right. There was something else to Moiraine and Siuan’s apparent alliance, or rather had been, since they now seemed to stand on opposite sides to the same cause, a void so wide between the two Guinevere doubted any of them would ever reach the other side. They were lovers. 

“I command you,” Siuan continued, turning a deaf ear to Moiraine’s words, “to close the Waygate.”

Guinevere took a deep breath as the woman spoke her final words, only then realising she had been holding her breath until that moment. She saw silver weaves twisting across Moiraine, forcing her to turn around, as agonising moans started to escape from her lips, her hands reluctantly rising to her chest, golden weaves radiating from them, and the Waygate started to shut close.

Moiraine stared at the brick wall with sadness, hands pressed tightly to her chest, panting in exhaustion. She turned around, and met Siuan’s eyes, taking a step back, as her eyebrows furrowed in disgust, eyes narrowing in betrayal, lips pouting in sorrow. 

Guinevere drew her gaze away from her aunt, and looked at the Amyrlin, who seemed no better than the other woman. Her breathing unsteady, the shine of unshed tears in her eyes, they were looking at each other as if they were strangers. But Guinevere felt it, their hearts beating one same rhythm, mirroring each flutter, all of their misery. 

Guinevere shut her eyes, her mind racing with thoughts, each one crazier than the one before. Maybe I can fix it, maybe, if she got close enough to the Amyrlin, she could sneakily grab on her arm, ease her mind into Moiraine’s plan, make her follow along—

Suddenly, a figure appeared from within the shadows. The woman was gorgeous in a way Guinevere didn’t think it possible; she had black, lush hair that fell in graceful waves down to her waist, her eyes clear as a summer sky, her slender figure dressed in an impeccable silver attire. 

Moiraine abruptly took a few steps back, towards Guinevere, her face furrowing in fear. “Lanfear,” she whispered. 

The woman giggled at the Amyrlin’s fierce attitude, who stood ready to fight her, fully believing herself capable of beating her if it ever came to that. Lanfear simply stared at her, with an amused expression on her face. 

“She’s too strong Siuan,” Moiraine warned her, still getting closer to Guinevere, “don’t.”

But Siuan paid no mind to her words, and swiftly reached for the Source, her body surrounded by golden weaves shaped as spikes pointing to the Forsaken’s heart. And yet, with a simple flicker on her fingers, Lanfear violently shoved her away, and Siuan crashed against the floor, her body gone still. Guinevere gasped, holding her breath, finally letting air leave her lungs after sensing the woman’s heartbeat. She hasn’t killed her. Yet. 

Rand’s shield on him vanished in an instant. Rising swiftly, he positioned himself between Lanfear and Moiraine, a shiver running down his spine as he sensed the woman’s unsettling gaze now fixed on them, recalling the Forsaken’s vicious warnings regarding Moiraine.  “Don’t,” he warned the woman with a defiant expression on his face.

But it wasn’t Moiraine that Lanfear was glaring at with murder in her eyes, Guinevere realised, too late. Before anyone could move, Lanfear flickered her fingers again, and Guinevere flew towards the wall, later smashing onto the floor, savage lacerations tearing her skin open all over her body, as blood slowly started pooling under her, and she knew she was going to die. 

Guinevere heard an agonising wail tear through the sky before everything went black. 

************

Tel'aran'rhiod 

Guinevere stood calm on her feet, as beams of sunshine warmed her skin, a soft breeze whirling the hem of her dress, a flowery scent putting her mind at ease. She was staring at the scene before her with a peaceful expression on her face. 

Moiraine was picking on flowers from her garden back at home, a little girl by her side, who she recognised as herself many, many years ago. The older woman reached for the higher blooms, plucking them at Guinevere’s request, softly placing them on the basket the little girl was holding, sweetly beeping on her nose every time she did so, earning a giggle from the toddler each time, laughter that Moiraine herself couldn’t help but mimic. The little girl sprinted into her arms, her small figure fitting almost too perfectly in Moiraine’s embrace, as if the Wheel itself had decided it shall be that way. 

She thought about all the memories she had been recalling lately. And in each one of them, it had been so plain to the eye. 

How didn’t I realise before?

************

Guinevere’s eyes snapped open, lungs gasping for air, her mind a blur. The last thing she recalled was Lanfear casting an excruciating net of weaves around her, and then nothing but darkness.

¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨¨

Author's note: Hello there! I'm sorry if this chapter turned out a bit messy, I haven't had time to proofread it, and I'm going on a weekly trip tomorrow so either I updated it today or next week, and I'd rather just publish it now, and edit it later if needed. I'll probably do some heavy editing in the whole story once it's finished (there's only three chapters left —that is until season 3 airs, of course). Anyway, let me know what you think! If there are any incoherences or mistakes, I shall edit them once I get back. As always, thanking you so much for reading and commenting! I appreciate it a lot.

Chapter 7 here!

[oddduckthatgirl]

Summary: Is it hot in here?

Pairing: Deamon Targaryen x Lannister!oc

A/N: This is the fourth installment in my AU story. You can read Chapter 1, Chapter 2, and Chapter 3 here. I appreciate all that likes, reblogs and comments. Thank you for reading and interacting!

Jaylon hurriedly made her way back to her chambers. She tried to shake the feeling of the Prince’s gaze on her. 

Perhaps the lady just needs a firm hand to guide her.

Warmth spreads all over her body, like she was riding, only it moves lower and she gasps in shock as she opens the door to her chambers. She asks her maid if she can draw her a bath, preferably with cool water. She claims to be overheated from the ride. She couldn’t bring herself to say the eyes of the dragon had ignited a flame under her skin.

I will say it until you believe it, Jaylon.

He thought she was a rare beauty. Looking in her mirror, she struggled to find what he saw. She had always found her features to be less appealing than that of her sister. In Jaylon’s mind, Jasline had more womanly looks and she was nothing more than a little girl in comparison. She often wished her eyes looked more like her sisters, that her hair could be a more golden color. Instead she stares back at the pale haired girl in the mirror. She can see the sadness in the pale eyes reflected back at her and she looked away.

Would he really defy her father’s wishes? He’s a prince, he can do as he pleases. She doesn’t have long to muse on what Daemon will do. Her maid comes back and begins to fill her bath. The two discuss that she doesn’t know what she will wear for dinner this evening. Her maid excitedly offers to pull some choices from her dressing room while she bathes. She agrees but asks that she have some privacy after the choices are pulled.

She regards what her maid has chosen for her options for the evening. There is a gold dress with red trim, a green dress with lacing along the sleeves, and a red dress that cinches at the waist. 

Her maid takes her leave. Jaylon undresses and sinks into the cool water of her bath. The thoughts of his eyes on her are still ever present but she at least doesn’t feel as if her blood is on fire. She hears the door open and close, “I’m not nearly finished.”

“Well good then we have time to discuss your afternoon sister,” Jasline drags a chair in front of the tub.

“Have I not deserved a moment of peace?”

“Absolutely not, especially not after talking with his Highness,” she sits with her hands folded in her lap, “so?”

Sighing in defeat she speaks,”He’s an attractive enough man.”

“Just attractive enough?”

“What is it you wish me to say? That I’m haunted by his gaze?”

“Are you?”

Jaylon’s cheeks color and she sinks further into the water.

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of, sister. That means he couldn’t take his eyes from you. So you were able to hold his attention.”

Jaylon swallows, “it’s like I can still feel his eyes on me.”

“And how does that feel to you?”

She had to find the words, “like my very blood was on fire.”

“Oh sister,” Jasline reaches for her sister's hand, “considering the coolness of your bath water I should say you are still under the influence. You must tell me everything.”

Jaylon retells her conversation in detail, making sure to not allow herself to be interrupted. She fears if she stops speaking that she couldn't  start again. Once she’s finished, she moves to get out of the tub. To Jasline’s credit, she didn’t interrupt the retelling. She even waited patiently while Jaylon dried herself and slipped her dressing gown on.

“He called you a rare beauty,” Jasline sighs, “you must have made quite the impression.”

“I’m more than sure he has called many women a rare beauty.”

“He did not call me as such. Am I not,” before Jaylon speaks she answers, “the point is dear sister is he was finding the words for what he feels. I doubt Prince Daemon wastes his words.”

Sighing in defeat, “I suppose not. I just don’t see what is so rare.”

“I’m sure his Highness will have no difficulty showing you in time,” giggling at her private joke.

Jaylon’s cheeks burned, “Jasline please , I’m already so confused as to what I feel. Don’t make it uncomfortable.”

“Did the cool bath help?”

“Not entirely” Jaylon shrugged, “I’ve never felt this before. Not with any other Lord.”

“Tell me about what you felt.”

“When he took Cercsi by the lead, it stole my breath as he pulled her forward. Then his eyes were on me again and I wanted….more. When he touched my hair, I could feel his breath against my skin and I wanted to feel more. I wanted his lips on mine, to breathe as one. To feel his hands on me. I wanted all of it.”

“Dear little sister, that is desire. Lust.”

Jaylon falls back onto her bed, “But I can’t desire him. It would just be an arrangement.”

Jasline begins looking at the dresses, “But you do. And from what you say, he also desires you. It’s not such a terrible thing. The man you are to wed desires you.”

Covering her face she groans, “He will have power over me.”

“You forget. That means you will also have power over him,” she pulls her upright, “for now let’s get you dressed for dinner. So you may steal his very breath. Show him the Princess you were born to be.”

Jaylon knows it’s just a matter of words before her fate will be sealed. To wed the heir to the Iron Throne, Prince Daemon Targaryen and spend her days in King’s Landing as his Princess and wife, mother to his children.

….gods, why did it sound so wonderful?

She looked over the selections that her maid had chosen. Both she and Jasline looked at the green dress and laughed, “I fear that dress will never be worn again. Green is not a color I can wear in front of him.”

“Now why is that,” Jasline asked, clearly testing her.

“Green represents the Hightowers. It is no secret his Highness has no love for the Hightowers in any capacity. The color alone would probably anger him.”

“Well, perhaps you keep it in your dressing rooms Princess. Wear it and see how quickly your Prince seeks to change your dress.”

“Jasline!”

“Apologies sister,” she touched the gold one, “not this one either I think.”

“I would agree,” Jaylon holds the red dress to her body, “This one is new. The red is not the red of our house. I honestly cannot say what possessed me to have it made in this color.”

Jasline smiled, “perhaps your heart knew what you mind couldn’t accept just yet. You were born to stand with the Targaryens. In their colors, proudly.”

“It is a tight fit,” Jaylon muses, “it makes me look even more shapely. Displays more cleavage than I usually would.”

“Then it is perfect.”

A few hours have passed by and the Lannister brothers are in the courtyard as their wives have already opted to visit with their good mother. James, the elder brother, leaned comfortably against the walls of the courtyard while Jonathon, the younger, paced nervously.

“Come now brother,” James muttered, “you are beginning to make me feel ill at ease.”

“It’s not every day a Prince of the realm is to marry your sister.”

“Decidedly not,” James holds the hilt of his sword firmly, “do you think Father locked Jaylon in her chambers?”

Jonathon laughed, “He most certainly would have tried. Could you imagine what the Prince would say seeing her? Especially if she had been riding?”

“Imagine what Father would say!”

The brothers laughed together until they saw their sisters approach. Jasline looked every bit the proper lady but their laughter was silent when they saw Jaylon. 

“Yes brothers, “Jaylon glared at them, “what would Father have said?”

“Jaylon,” James stubbled over his words, “you look radiant this evening. But…”

“But what James,” Jasline added, “this isn’t Father’s wish. I love another.”

“Baratheon brute,” Jonathon scoffs.

“Perhaps but no one judged you for loving a Frey. So your opinion means little to me.”

“Father will never,” James began.

Jaylon cut his sentence off, “He will have no choice against the will of a Prince. Even he cannot resist that will.”

“Even so,” James looks over his youngest sibling silently, “how is it even possible?”

“Simple. I knew Father would hide Jaylon away today, both of us did. So I decided that I would use the opportunity to convince his Highness that my younger sister would be more to his liking. I also told him I was in love with another man. I saw to it they could speak, and he assured me he would tell Father to wed me to Thomas.”

Jonathon raised a brow, “You proposed a debt, to a Targaryen no less.”

“An exchange,” Jasline boasted with pride, “my sister for my chance at happiness. More than fair I would say. Now brothers if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to see my good sisters and my little nephew and nieces.”

Jasline takes her leave and her brothers shake their heads.

Jaylon begins to look through the rack of wooden swords, “He did see me in the stables today. In my riding gear. He still called me a rare beauty.”

“Is that all he said,”James questioned.

Perhaps the lady just needs a firm hand to guide her.

Jaylon considered telling her brothers more but thought better of it. They were some of her most fierce protectors, “He was the consummate gentleman I assure you. He was very kind to me.”

“I’m sure he was most complimentary,” Jonathon wiggled his eyebrows, “when did my little brat of a sister become a woman grown?”

“Perhaps you were too distracted while trying to beat me in combat to notice,” Jaylon teased. 

“Impossible,” he bellowed. 

“Indeed brother. One would have to possess a thought to become distracted.”

James laughed as he watched his siblings exchange verbal jabs. In truth, he found himself lost in his own thoughts. Seeing Jaylon now, he recalls the few memories of his mother. Jaylon is very visage of her before him. He blinks away the tears and interrupts, “how about a better way to settle these disputes?”

He nods to the training swords. The three of them smile. Jaylon speaks first, “James. I am in a corset and dress.”

“Well,” flashing her a brilliant smile, “it might be a fair match, little sister.”

“Doubtful,” Jonathon hands out the weapons, “she doesn’t do anything fairly.”

“Good sir. I am a high born lady,” Jaylon shrieks and they begin to spar. 

The trio was unaware that from above the courtyard, Daemon had found a shadowy place to observe. He wanted to know more than just rumors and legend about the Lannisters. 

James was rumored to be a good man. Kind to his lady wife and proud father of his children. Judging by how easily he parried his sister's swipes, the legend of his fighting prowess must be true. Jonathon appeared to be the lesser, but just as intelligent. He also had ties to the North through the family of his lady wife. Important to know and even more so to keep them aligned with the crown. 

Try as Daemon wanted, he couldn’t take his eyes from Jaylon. Watching her move and strike, he saw the skills from her lessons. She clearly had been diligent with her footwork. 

James appeared to have her back to a wall, when her eyes went soft but only for a moment. In the second, as James stopped his advances, she ducked his next strike and was able to capture his neck with her wooden blade. It was all Daemon could do to not applaud his lady. 

“I yield, dear sister,” James tapped her arm. She dropped her hold, “the Prince will indeed be the most blessed man in the Realm. You are a formidable woman.”

“Thank you brother,” her cheeks flushed and matched the color of her dress. 

Jonathon takes the training swords and returns them to their storage, “just know if he ever wrongs you, you need only to send word.”

Jaylon giggles, “for you to do what exactly? Am I to believe you would fight him for my honor?”

“You are our sister. We are charged with ensuring your well being,” James puffs his chest proudly, “if I have to give my life to defend your honor then I would do it.”

“And leave your lady wife a widow? No brother,” she pats his arm, “I believe I could handle my own affairs.”

“Jaylon,” he lowers his voice, “you know what they say about him?”

“I am no fool James. Even if it were true, what they say, I am no plain girl from the Vale. I am not something to toss aside. I am a treasure. I am a Lannister.”

Her brothers only lasted a matter of seconds before their laughter boomed into the courtyard. 

She pouted as Jonathon wiped a tear from his eye. 

“Am I a joke? Was that not convincing?”

“You will need to work on it,” Jonathon smirks, “make it sound like a roar from your very bones.”

James wrapped his sister in his arms, “you are a Lannister. My sister, you have always been a princess to us. All you were missing was some formal title.”

She returns his hug and settles into his chest, “you are too kind James. Thank you.”

“All any of the three of us want is your happiness,” he softly pressed a kiss to her forehead, “be happy Jaylon.”

She nods and blinks away tears as she pulls away, “now that we’ve played like children I hope my dress is still intact.”

Jonathon looks over the hem of the dress and ensures that the dust is batted away and the hem falls back perfectly. James brushes stray hairs from her face and back into place. They both smile softly at her and then exchange a glance. 

“What is that about,” Jaylon wrings her hands, “am I not presentable?”

“It’s not that,” Jonathon shuffles his feet, “you look so much like mother.”

“Exactly how we remember her,” James adds, “it’s a wonderful thing sister. She was a beauty. And a kind woman. “

Jaylon wondered if what they said was true. If so, she then thought if the sight of her made her Father think of his lost love. It would certainly explain the standard he holds her to. 

“I should look in on my lady wife,” Jonathon turns to leave, “she is big with child and she needs extra hands with the little ones. Try to behave at this dinner or I will hand you the babe.”

She laughs as her younger brother takes his leave. She and James stand in silence. They had similar temperaments so they often sought each other out when the world had become loud. 

“I’m frightened James,” she whispered, “what if he doesn't like me or cannot love me?”

He gently takes her hands in his, “To know you is to love you Jaylon Lannister. I know this. I have loved you since the moment I held you as a babe.”

Tears welled in her gray eyes. She loved her brother dearly, “you’ve never spoken that to me before.”

“A failure of mine, I admit. Know you always have your brother’s love. Even when I must bow to you, Princess.”

Rolling her eyes as she dabs the tears from her cheeks, “oh stop that.”

“But my Lady,” he bows deeply, “I cannot expect favor.”

She pushes him playfully. 

“I had hoped you would defy Father. Find a way to meet the Prince yourself. Hearing that even Jasline in all her naïveté knew you were best suited for him gives me some relief.”

“You think I am best for him?”

“He speaks the truth. You are a rare beauty with intelligence and cunning to match. You will challenge him. What’s more, you are young. Plenty of time to give him an heir or two.”

She swallows thickly. She hadn’t spared herself a moment to even consider that piece more than just an idea. 

“Come along sister. Let us join our family and get to this happy event,” he offers his arm which she takes and they disappear into the hall. 

Daemon, after ensuring he could no longer hear their voices, comes down into the courtyard. Jaylon’s scent still lingered there. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be lost in her. The oils that were on her skin left their scent in the air. His mind wandered to thoughts of her in her chambers, applying the oil. 

He forces himself to not think too deeply on that matter. He will save those dark thoughts for when he returns to King's Landing. For now, it’s time to endure this meal and claim what is his.