#and do something with why she rather quite resembles one

[besiegedhunter]

You mentioned Lappland being "lone wolf", but it's interesting how in the end of Siracusana it said that she's no longer can be called one, and that makes me think about that contradiction in her character where she's the representation of wilderness, but in the same time the thing she despise the most is mafia aka wild part of Siracusa.

Also that part in the end with "Never again will Siracusa have a place for her" makes even wonder if she actually will be in next Siracusa event or if she suddenly will appear in some other plotline.

Oooh. Honestly I didn't remember that but yeah, it's quite interesting and I honestly really like how it plays into her character. Like, she despises Siracusa and everything about it because of how her Father showed her no affection and cruelly raised her to become the next Don of the Saluzzos, which he succeeds in.

I'll have to reread Il Siracusano again as well as her files etc to see how this impacts her character but I think that Lappland seeing Siracusa as a swamp and Texas telling her that she needn't be leashed to Siracusa herself and then Lappland going to her Dad for the last time is due to this.

She is the "perfect Siracusan" because her Dad seared Siracusa into her very being. She couldn't escape Siracusa because she is Siracusa. This makes her integrally tied to her family which doesn't want her, making her a Lone Wolf defined by being apart from her Pack and why she goes to her Dad to cut ties for good she's no longer a "lone wolf."

Which is just a thought I've not ironed out.

One thing though is she seems to be following Texas's steps exactly. Her in IS-ST-4 is the period of time where Texas left Siracusa and was alone in Columbia till Emperor met her, which perhaps Zaaro meeting Lappland is meant to mirror.

Idk. Tis but another thought lol but I am curious, cause translate this into the civilization vs wilderness allegory and yeah. Lappland hates the mafia, the wilderness and is herself the wilderness, an overgrowth in Zaaro's words but is finding herself in the pure, unfiltered wilderness now at the end of IS-ST-4 so who knows what they're doing with that. Unless Lappland's heading towards an acceptance moment like Texas finds in Il Siracusano, if we continue that.

Also on the second part, I am of two minds. Like I think it'd be really interesting to see Lappland doing things in another place like Higashi but on the other hand I kinda don't think that they'll do it.

Like, she could find her own PenLog but I feel there's so much history and tightly knit bonds in PenLog that'd be hard to just recreate in an event and it feels like they wouldn't try to make a new group for Lappland to fit into when she already has an established connection to PenLog and most notably Texas.

Also perhaps more importantly is the themes of Siracusa, Lappland, Texas and Zaaro's presence. Take her from Siracusa and she loses so much themes. Texas despite being exhausted of the mafia and resentful like Lappland returns and accepts Siracusa. And Zaaro, while interesting if he is taken elsewhere I feel that a lot of things significant about him and that he'd have an opinion on would be lost.

Buuuut to go back to "Lappland following in Texas's footsteps" they could do something hilarious: Zaaro following in Emperor's. Him leaving Siracusa and learning more of the world, opening his eyes to new opportunities and putting the swamp that is Siracusa and the Signore dei Lupi's rigid game behind him would be interesting.

And it's not like they wouldn't have a 6* foreign to the setting. Prime example is Ideal City. Will we get Durin operators? We'll get one and instead, the six stars will be from Sargon and Ursus lmao. So it's certainly possible.

I also would love to see a Lappland in Higashi event but only time will tell where she goes.

[ichorai]

i'm not made by design ; part two ; jaime lannister.

part one | part three

pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)

synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

words ; 9.0k

themes ; heavy angst, action, fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn

warnings / includes ; war/murder/injury, this part covers a few events from a feast for crows, politicking, mentions of incest/rape, foul language, animal cruelty, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, lots of dreams, jaime is a morally grey delight in this part yes, they are being HAUNTED by each other!

a/n ; wow, it's been a long time coming! ok i know this part is quite short and doesn't yet get to where you guys probably want to be, but tumblr has a max limit of 1k text blocks per post now (boo everyone throw tomatoes) so i'll be posting the rest of the story in smaller chunks! expect the third part to be coming soon, and i promise part three will start off exactly where you guys want it to be :) also if any of you can spot any sort of parallels in this part i will kiss you on the Mouth .

main masterlist. read on ao3!

The wintry breeze tousled the two young Stark girls’ hair, whispering frost into their ears. The horse the two were riding whickered as it galloped through the snow. Lyanna was exclaiming something, something lost to the wind, and you only held all the tighter to her from behind. 

“Lyanna, I want to get off!” you yelled, tugging at the furs draped over her. “Lyanna, let me off!”

Your older sister laughed some more. Not wickedly, but more out of fond amusement. She slowed the horse down to a languid canter, then to a trot, and led the stallion towards the shade of a tree. There was snow blanketing the branches and the grass which crunched beneath her weight as she swung down. She looked up at you with her large grey eyes, crinkled at the corners as she grinned boyishly. “Were you frightened?” 

You held your arms out for your sister to help you down. Only at eight years of age, you were still of short stature, and Lyanna had picked a rather tall horse. She had always been a voracious rider, even more so than all your brothers.

“I wasn’t frightened,” you indignantly replied as she wrapped her arms about your waist and pulled you down onto the ground. 

“Right.” She began to stroke the stallion’s mane, his hooves pawing at the snow. “Do you not trust me, then? Did you think I would ride us right off the edge of a cliff?”

“No,” you replied, scuffing your boots against the snow. “I don’t like riding from behind. I can’t see anything from back there.”

There was a moment of silence before Lyanna reached over to ruffle your hair—an action that both she and Benjen often did. Eddard and Brandon often spared you from such irritations, but being the youngest of the family, you were always doted on and hovered over and babied.

“I don’t trust you riding a horse as big as this, so I suppose we can walk back. It’s not too far.”

“Why can’t I just sit in front of you?”

Your sister stuck her tongue out at you. “We’ve got something in common, you know. What makes you think I like sitting behind?” When you glowered at her, she went on, “Let’s get a move on. Ned will complain that I’m stealing you away—especially since he’s just returned. He misses you. Your letters grow briefer and briefer, he tells me.”

You were none too happy about trudging through the snow, but you voiced no complaint and walked alongside your sister, who tugged at the horse’s reins to follow along. 

“He’s always going back and forth,” you said, a small frown marring your features. “I wish he would just stay home. The Eyrie couldn’t possibly compare to Winterfell.”

“You know him.” Lyanna’s dark hair was speckled with snowflakes as she turned to you. “Studious and dutiful as ever.” Her voice went an octave deeper and she pulled a mockingly somber expression in a startling resemblance to Ned. You let out a small laugh at that.

“Last time he visited, you were betrothed,” you said, your voice shrinking to a whisper.

The amusement died away from her eyes, turning stony. “Yes. Though I doubt it will be a fruitful union.”

There were a few more seconds of silence as you considered her words, not entirely sure why she would think so. Robert was loud and robust the few times you’ve met him, but you knew little else of Ned’s friend. 

“Do you think he’ll bring a wedding proposal for me this time?”

Lyanna’s features contorted with surprise. “Why? Do you want to be married?”

Your cheeks flushed with heat, despite the frost settling over your skin. “Well—if Father says I have to, then I will.”

“I didn’t ask about Father,” replied Lyanna. It was hard for her to believe that you were only eight sometimes. You always tried to act older than you actually were. “I asked about you.”

Winterfell grew larger and larger as the two of you drew nearer to the castle gates. Home.

“I don’t think I’d mind getting married,” you told your sister, eyes downcast and brows pulled together in thought. “As long as I get to stay in Winterfell. I never want to leave.”

Lyanna smiled, all teeth and cheek. “Wouldn’t that be a dream?” she sighed. 

The rest of the short journey was made in relative silence, and you left your sister and the tall stallion by the stables (not without her ruffling your hair one last time), and you dashed up to the castle chambers where you knew Ned would be.

He carried no proposals, only a few books he thought you would enjoy and a warm hug.

You awoke with a startled gasp, kicking at the thin blanket that laid over your form. It took you several moments to realize where you were. A boat. Rocking steadily, back and forth and back and forth. You rubbed at your sleepy eyes whilst drawing your knees up to your chest, still blinking away remnants of your dream.

Lyanna. Ned. Still young, still practically children. 

One of the tongueless little birds stood in the doorway. It was an ominous sight. Her eyes were large and unblinking, glinting like glass balls within her small head. In her hands was a wooden bowl, full of what looked to be a poultice of sorts. She drew nearer, and the heavy scent of honey and flowers reached your nose. 

“What is it?” you asked the child, a coil of pity winding in the pit of your stomach. You knew they couldn’t respond—Varys had stolen not only their youth, but their voices, too. “Is this food?”

A foreign delicacy of sorts, maybe? An Essosi dessert you weren’t familiar with, perhaps. It looked quite unappetizing, though you knew you had no room to complain.

The girl shook her head, then pointed to your hair, which was pulled back into a braid. You understood from just that, and nodded your thanks while accepting the bowl from her. This was hair dye, made from a blend of flowers and other substances you couldn’t name. You supposed it was a necessary precaution—you had an unmistakable Northern look to you, and would surely stick out like a sore thumb here down South. Dyeing your hair and cutting it short would help to somewhat conceal your identity. Short enough, and perhaps you could even be mistaken for a man, at least at a first quick glance. 

The little girl left a dagger and a small, rusty, hand-held mirror by your legs and disappeared from your cabin in complete silence, as if she was never there in the first place. They were like ghosts, this crew of children. Everything was so quiet all the time, with only your thoughts and the ocean waves to accompany you.

You unbraided your hair and shook it loose. Hair carried memories. Memories of Catelyn showing you how hair was done in the Riverlands, memories of Benjen tugging at your hair to tease you, memories of Jaime commenting on how your hair was a lovely shade of animal waste. That had been grumpily remarked earlier on, when you and Brienne were escorting him to King’s Landing. Before Locke and Roose Bolton and… Robb. 

You propped up the rust-spotted mirror against the wall and scooped up the dagger. The reflection that met you was only barely recognizable. You looked so tired. With a resigned sigh, you began to slice off your hair with the sharp blade. Handfuls fell to the ground. You sliced and sliced until your head felt light and your neck was bare. It’s never been this short before. If Benjen were here, you knew he would surely laugh at you. Brandon would comment that he never knew he had another brother. 

Yes, you thought. I can surely pass as a man if I wanted to. Though you certainly shared many features with your sister, you hadn’t the wild beauty Lyanna had. No, you were far plainer than her, colder and sharper than she was. Nothing worthy to note—though your father, quiet as a man he was, once told you that you looked the most like your mother out of all your siblings. That had made you feel more beautiful than anything. 

Plain was good, though. Plain meant no eyes would be drawn to you. 

You weren’t too sure what color your hair would turn with this dye. You lathered the thick paste over your newly-cut strands, massaging it into your scalp. Your nose twitched from the strong odor—not entirely unpleasant, but also wasn’t a delight breathing in.

As you rinsed your hands of the dye, your skin was left with a slight copperish stain. You stared at the color with sad eyes—would your hair turn out red like Cat’s? Like all your nephews and Sansa?

And, like a fool, you wondered if Jaime would like short, red hair. He wouldn’t care much, you found yourself thinking, perhaps wishfully so. Did you want him to care?

Two children brought you food—rations of dried meat and crusty bread. You wolfed half of it down and handed them the other half. Though they couldn’t speak, the children made for pleasant company. Or perhaps you were just lonely. It was hard to tell.

After eating, you rinsed out the hair dye and wrung the water out with a cloth over the edge of the ship. The cloth came away stained bright red. You retreated back into the cabin to look at the mirror. 

It was a shock to see your hair resemble Catelyn’s. It was darker than hers had been, but the auburn, orange-red sheen to your head was unmistakable. You looked like a Tully! You nearly laughed with amazement, but any sort of joy was short-lived, and you lapsed into more silence.

You laid on the rickety bed, thinking of Winterfell and your now-scattered family. Robb and Ned and Cat and the younglings Bran and Rickon might have been taken from you, but… you still had family left. Sansa and Arya could very well be scattered somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, alive and breathing. Jon, at the Wall, as well. At least, you hoped. It’d been so long since your time sending letters to the young boy. Was he hurt that you stopped sending them so suddenly?

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes, and you drew your knees to your chest, willing yourself into a restless slumber.

Days came and went. The little children were growing more agitated, fluttering about the boat with wide eyes and quick feet. They tossed nets overboard into the water—masquerading the boat as a fishing vessel, you assumed. There were many ships out and about Blackwater Bay. Some carried banners of houses loyal to the crown, and others were bannerless. Pirates or fishermen, you couldn’t tell. 

So far, all other ships have passed by quietly. But the risk grew with each day. You knew Tywin and Cersei would likely order more fleets to be sent after you, Sansa, and Tyrion. The chances of you being found on water would grow each day—and you couldn’t risk becoming a prisoner again. Jaime wouldn’t be able to help you escape a second time, not with Cersei around.

At least on foot… you had somewhere to run. Being on sea left you nothing but water for miles on end. 

And so you told the silent children to let you off at the nearest fishing port. Some part of you wondered if they would object, but they stared at you with round, moon eyes and nodded. You didn’t know whether to thank or damn Varys. 

The ship docked in the dead of night, half a mile from Duskendale. One of the little children handed you a map and tapped at where they’d leave you. A pouch full of food rations, more dye, and other necessities was left on your cot. You thanked the child endlessly, who seemed not to hear your gratitude and scuttled away. You grabbed the pouch, the dagger, the bow and quiver full of arrows Varys had presumably left you, and slipped into a large cloak. 

Land felt like it was lurching beneath your feet once you stepped onto the pier. Your body was used to the swaying motions of the waters, and would take some time to adjust. You gingerly shook one of your booted feet. The children watched you disembark on wobbly legs, but you dared not wave back at them. 

Despite it being nighttime, the docks were busier than ever. Fishermen and merchants littered all over the shore, some selling products and entertainment and others working hard to gather more to sell before day broke. You steeled yourself with a deep breath, and made your way through the busy crowd. 

You began trekking your way North towards the Eyrie, the hood of your cloak pulled over your short, red hair.

It took nearly three weeks for you to reach the Crossroads. Nightfall was nearing when you strode in front of the inn, the sky a mirage of bleeding reds from the setting sun and moody greys from the rainclouds. The air smelled of mud and rusted metal. It was certainly no grand castle, but a modest bed was better than sleeping on the cold dirt you’ve been curled up on the past several days. There was a young girl and a dark-haired boy by the front that looked somewhat like your memory of Robert Baratheon twenty-some years ago. At first, the boy denied your request for shelter, but reluctantly clammed up once you offered him some gold, worth more than it ever could in times of war. The two let you pass with not a word more.

Greeting you inside was a ruckus of loud children. Parentless, you realized, as there were none to be seen within the inn’s walls. An inn full of orphans, you thought with a touch of sadness. In that regard you supposed you shared a similarity with all of them. 

Just as you slipped onto one of the creaking wooden stools to momentarily rest your weary feet, you overheard a voice. A familiar voice. Low and raspy and unmistakably—

Brienne, you thought, wide-eyed. But she wasn’t alone. A young boy was by her side, yes, that was Podrick, and an older man—a knight, by the looks of his armor, and an even older septon with grey hair and a hunched back. What a queer party Brienne was leading. She was supping on porridge and salted cod. 

The impulsive part of you wanted to call out for her and rush to her side, ask if she had found any sign of Sansa, or if she had made any progress on her quest. Instead, you drew in a deep breath, and stood from your stool to take a seat across from Podrick whilst Brienne was busy speaking to the knight. The young squire made a half-gasping, half-choking noise once his eyes raised from the cup he was draining to your cold eyes, recognizing you immediately. You discreetly lifted a finger to your lips to silence him. His eyes went moon-round and he nodded once. 

Brienne ignored the knight’s constant jabbering about lips and marriage and castles full of children, and turned to look at her squire in mild concern of him choking on a fish bone. But her eyes landed on you, and her mouth dropped open.

She was very near to bowing her head and saying, “My lady.” But she didn’t, knowing it would draw far too much attention, and stared at you with utter confusion plain over her features.

“Hello,” you said to her. “It has been a while, Brienne.”

“Do you know each other?” the knight bumped in. He spooned some porridge into his mouth.

“Brienne and I were childhood friends on Tarth,” you lied. “I was the son of a cook. A nobody in truth, but Brienne was kind enough to befriend me.”

Brienne was no good at lying, you knew this, but she nodded along to your story. 

The knight looked you over. “A little runt boy and a grand beast of a girl. The two of you must have been a sight.”

You could only offer him half a shrug at that.

“What brings you here?” Brienne carefully asked you. 

“Someone helped me leave,” you responded with equal caution. Avoiding the knight’s curious eyes, you leaned closer to Brienne. “Is there a place for us to speak with fewer naked children milling about?”

Being around Varys’ little birds for long enough taught you that children were oft smarter than they looked. Somewhere to your right, you saw one of the little orphan boys stick a nut inside his nostril. 

Brienne nodded and led you just outside, away from prying ears and eyes. There, you told her everything. From Tyrion’s trial, to Oberyn’s death, to Cersei demanding you to be locked up or killed (whichever suited her taste that day), to Jaime helping you escape, to the birds on the boat, to your journey here. In turn, Brienne told you of her lengthy journey and what she had found on the way. Mostly nothing, lots of war and skirmishes. Sandor Clegane was dead, but Arya had been with him soon before that… not Sansa. The thought of Arya somewhere out there alive, sparked dangerous hope within your chest.

“Varys says Sansa is in the Eyrie, masquerading as Baelish’s bastard daughter.” The thought revolted you. “But I do wonder if the Eyrie is a trap of sorts. I cannot trust Varys. He certainly is no friend of the Lannisters, but neither is he their enemy. For all I know, he may be conspiring with dragons and grumpkins.”

“Sansa would be safe with her Aunt Lysa there, right?” Brienne asked, though even she sounded doubtful of her own question.

“I can’t quite say,” you said, brows furrowed. “Lysa is an unpredictable woman. Frightened and secluded is never a good combination of characteristics. Even so, I doubt Sansa would make her way home up North without being intercepted. It wouldn’t hurt to check the Vale first.”

Brienne nodded solemnly. “We can make our way first thing in the morning. For now, you must rest, my lady. You must be exhausted.”

The sudden reminder of the limitations of your body made your knees wobble. The past few days had you running on little else than adrenaline, fear, and meager portions of salted foods. 

“I missed you, Brienne,” you whispered, looking up at her. “I fear trusted friends are few and far in between in these times.” Not that you ever had many friends to begin with. Everyone had always been so afraid of you—something Brienne could relate to.

 The term friend dusted pink over Brienne’s large, crooked nose and broad, freckled cheekbones. She was certainly not pretty, not by a long shot, but that was of no matter to you. She was the most beautiful blessing you could have possibly encountered—your chances of survival and finding Sansa were far better with Brienne by your side.

“I missed you, as well,” Brienne managed to choke out after many moments of stunned silence. She had never been good with niceties. “Podrick has been company enough, but the boy is young and easily frightened.”

“I’m frightened, too,” you admitted. “One would be a fool not to be, with enemies at every turn. Young, however, is a trait I have long outgrown.”

Brienne looked up at the night sky. “Youth was a curse on me. I always looked older than I was.”

“Me, as well,” you mused with a thoughtful hum. Memories of the lords and ladies living at Winterfell’s court whispering behind your back… sending you strange looks of distant pity… veering far out of your way in fear of you… it weighed heavy on you, especially in your younger years. “My anger has aged me a decade, I think.”

Before Brienne could respond, there came a commotion of noise. Men on horses, their hooves schlocking through mud and puddles. Instinctively, you drew the cowl of your hood up over your head. They are armed, these men, you thought with grim unease. And there were many of them, just above half a dozen. Far too many for you and Brienne to take alone.

Brienne drew in a sharp breath at the sight of them and unsheathed Oathkeeper. She stepped in front of you before you could even begin to react. The biggest man of the party was so hefty that his beaten horse buckled and shook beneath the sheer force of his weight. His pale face was torn and wept with pus and blood. But Brienne’s eyes were drawn to his snarling helm—with its dull metal nose and sharp teeth of steel. It was the Hound’s property but the man wearing it was certainly no Hound.

The sky grew darker and the storm clouds thundered up above. The young girl that had greeted you into the inn had slammed the door open, now holding a crossbow. Whatever she was screaming was lost to the rain and thunder. 

“Loose a quarrel at me and I’ll shove that crossbow up your cunt and fuck you with it. Then I’ll pop your fucking eyes out and make you eat them,” raged the man, his voice nearly as loud as the booming in the sky. Your chest rose and fell in silence as you slowly reached behind you to unsling your bow. 

“Leave her be,” called out Brienne, drawing their attention. “If you want to rape someone, try me.”

The outlaws laughed and chortled at that. One japed about fucking horses before fucking her. The rest of their words were unintelligible to you as you focused on drawing an arrow without pulling too much attention to yourself. It proved to be a difficult task when there were seven pairs of eyes trained on Brienne, and, consequently, you, as well.

Brienne said something you couldn’t catch, leaving the man with the helm fuming. He charged forward through the mud. Brienne shuffled away from you—she needed the man to come to her, but not to get too close to you. You were her priority now.

A song of steel screeched through the rain-torn wind as their swords clashed. Brienne managed to cut through the rags of his tunic and slash a gaping hole in his cheap chainmail just before she just barely evaded his swinging axe. The man was screaming expletives at her—whore, bitch, freak. 

You nocked the arrow with not a second thought.

Then the drawstring was split in two and you were left with a useless bow. One of the outlaws had made his way to you whilst you were concentrating on the man with the helm—and broke your favored weapon. 

“Shhh,” he crooned as he laid the cold, wet blade of the knife he used to cut your bow against your throat. “Enjoy and watch the show, boy.” He must have thought you were one of the orphans that lived here—and not much of a threat, considering he pulled the knife away from you and made a show of pointing it towards Brienne and her attacker. “It’s not every day you see a woman like her battle a man like him.”

You nodded, playing along. You still had the dagger you used to cut your hair tucked against your hip. It was a touch too dull for your liking, but it would have to do for now. You had no other choice. With the man’s eyes drawn back to their messy duel, you drew its blade and drove it forth, straight into throat. His arms flailed for a second before clawing at your face and chest. Pain bloomed over your skin. If you were bleeding, you couldn’t feel it—not with all the rain pouring over you. You savagely tore the dagger out from his throat and drove it through his chest again and again and again. From your peripheral vision, you could see Brienne parry over and over, stab this way and that—and finally skewer her longsword straight through him until its pointy end protruded out his back.

You continued stabbing the man until he fell to the ground in a limp, bloodied heap. Even then you didn’t stop—straddling his waist and bringing the dagger down in furious strokes. It occurred to you that the other men would be upon Brienne a second too late—when you swung around, she was swarmed by the rest of them. 

“Eddard!” she called, immediately halting you in your assault on the long-dead outlaw. It took you a moment to realize that she was addressing you, not wanting to call out your actual name. “Run! Run, now!”

Two of the outlaws were coming towards you.

“Brienne!” you yelled just as one of them sliced a cut through her shoulder she couldn’t properly roll away from. The rest of your protests caught in your throat when you watched one of them—one with wild eyes that had irises too small and teeth filed sharp—dive forward onto Brienne, sending her crashing to the ground. He bit a chunk of her face right off. 

More men surrounded her. Punching, kicking, and slicing at your friend. No, you couldn’t see her anymore, where is she? Get up, Brienne, get up…

“GO!” you could hear her muffled voice scream. “NED, GO!”

No, no, no…

But if you stayed, you would be dead, as well. One of the outlaws made a grab for you, but you danced back. If not for the two slipping on the watery mud the very next second, you would have been dead.

With your heart beating in your throat, you turned on your heel and fled.

What was a kingsguard without his king? Jaime hadn’t been happy to be sent off to the Riverlands again—his place was beside Tommen. The boy-king with a golden crown sitting atop his golden curls. Cersei had insisted on him leaving, however. She’d grown more restless, more paranoid, more snappy since their father’s death. Lancel, his fool of a cousin, was now a religious fanatic who seemed to be intent on fasting until he passed from starvation, and had confessed his sins of lying with Cersei. Apparently he was not the only one. The Kettleblack brothers, the court fools, and hells, even serving girls, if word of mouth was to be trusted. 

He felt a fool for ever loving her. And now she had kicked him out of the castle and away from his duty like one would a dirty mongrel.

Let her run the kingdom to ruin. See if I care.

Jaime wearily pulled at his face. That was the problem—he did care, and he knew he did. Cersei on the throne would mean little good for anybody. Not for his little brother, not for Brienne, not for you. He hoped you were safe, wherever you were.

The knight with one hand had had a long day, even though it was not yet nightfall. He had spoken to the Blackfish, Brynden Tully, in hopes of making some sort of negotiation. Perhaps goad him into a duel of single-combat and spare everyone of the grueling boredom that came with a slow siege. Expectedly, the wind-beaten lord took none of the bait and retreated back into his castle. Then, he had a short, but explosive council meeting with a few of the riverlords. They squabbled over each other like mindless birds over a piece of half-baked bread. Jaime couldn’t help but wonder what his father would do in his shoes, but was quick to relinquish such a thought. Tywin Lannister would never be in this position in the first place. And he was dead, which was perhaps the more important bit. After the council, he paid a visit to Ryman Frey, who was preoccupied fucking some whore who called herself a Queen. He had the big oaf dismissed for wasting so much time and resources, then named his son, Edwyn, command of the siege. He ordered young Edwyn to tell his great-grandsire, Walder Frey, to release all the prisoners for the crown. There was no undoing the Red Wedding, but he could, at the very least, attempt to rectify the troubles it left in its wake.

And now—now Jaime had one more person to visit.

It was his aunt, Genna Lannister, who had urged Jaime to do something about the sullen man with the noose loosely wrapped around his throat. In his state, he posed no danger physically. As a symbol, however, Edmure Tully, was a great danger to the cause. His cause? Jaime wasn’t entirely sure what he was fighting for anymore. It certainly didn’t feel like he was protecting Tommen from all these leagues away from him. His golden hand felt so very heavy strapped onto his stump—why did he still bother carrying it around?

Ilyn Payne made quick work of cutting Edmure Tully down from the wooden gallows he was perched upon. His hair, scraggly and red, hung in limp clumps over his dirtied, bloody face. Eyes deep blue, heavy with exhaustion. Jaime couldn’t help but think of Robb Stark at the sight of him. Gods, they looked alike.

Jaime had Edmure pulled through the tents and mass of Freys and other rivermen alike. One japed about a fish on a leash. A young man holding an instrument was amongst the throng of stares, and he ordered the singer to follow, and the lad obediently did. Onto a ferry they went, where the vessel would carry them to Tumblestone.

“Why?” Edmure has croaked, gripping weakly onto Jaime’s arm. 

“Consider it a wedding gift,” Jaime replied. 

The Tully eyed him warily. “A wedding gift?”

“I’ve heard your wife is pretty. She’d have to be, for the two of you to be abed whilst your sister and king were being murdered.” Jaime gave him a wry look. 

“I never knew. There were musicians outside the bedchamber, I couldn’t…”

“I’m sure Lady Roslin made for a grand distraction, as well.”

At the crass insinuation, however truthful, Edmure frowned and pulled away from the knight. “They made her do it. She had little say in the matter. Roslin never wanted any of it to happen. She wept the entire night, but I thought…”

“You thought it was your rampant manhood that swayed her to tears? It’s a sight any woman would weep to, I’m sure.”

Edmure hung his head. “She is carrying my child.”

Your child or your death? Jaime thought, but tastefully decided not to say it out loud. Not yet. Instead, he asked, “Your king-nephew, Robb. Did he ever speak of his aunt before his end?”

Edmure lifted his gaze to the kingslayer at that. “The Bitter Wolf?” He thought for a moment, eyes distant. “No. She was hardly ever brought up. Robb didn’t like to speak of her. Not after her betrayal with your freedom. If he did speak of her, it would’ve been with Catelyn.”

“Who is now dead,” Jaime dryly said.

“Yes,” Edmured replied, letting his gaze drift down to the waters. 

“Much help you are.”

“Where is she now? The Bitter Wolf.” 

Jaime saw no point in lying to him. “I don’t know.”

The rest of the ferry trip was spent in silence.

Once at his pavilion, Jaime dismissed Ilyn, but kept the singer around. He ordered the servants there to boil bathwater for the honored guest, and had clean garments brought to him, along with warm food and sweet wine. Edmure still couldn’t quite comprehend why exactly Jaime Lannister was being so courteous, but couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of cleanliness. He clambered into the tub and started scrubbing the grime off his skin.

Jaime pulled up a chair to sit beside him. “After you’re clean and your belly is full, you will be escorted to Riverrun. What happens after that is up to you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Jaime. “Your uncle is old. Valiant, admittedly, but his best years are behind him. He has no wife to grieve for him, nor children to succeed him. A good death is the most the Blackfish can wish for. You, however, have many years remaining to you. You are the rightful heir to House Tully, not him. Your uncle serves you, by law. Riverrun’s fate is in your hands.”

Edmure blinked at him. “I don’t…”

“Understand, I presume? All that time with a rope around your neck must have strangled you of all your wits.” Jaime was growing impatient. “You must yield the castle. Yield, and nobody dies. The smallfolk will be allowed to leave in peace, or they may serve Lord Emmon and his lady-wife, my aunt. Ser Brynden will be allowed to take the black and join the Night’s Watch, with as many of the garrison that choose to join. You, as well. The Wall is in dire need of more hands, I’ve heard. If that is not to your tastes, you may go to Casterly Rock as my captive and enjoy all the comforts and courtesy that befits a hostage of your rank. Your wife may join you. If your sire is a boy, he will serve House Lannister as a squire. Once he comes of age, he is welcome to earn his knighthood, along with some lands I will bestow upon him. If Roslin bears you a daughter, she will be well dowered until she is old enough to wed a fitting lord. You may be granted parole, even, once the war is done. All this only if you yield the castle.”

The water steamed and sloshed in the tub as Edmure gingerly shifted about. “And if I will not yield?”

The servants and squires were all listening. The singer watched the two speak with wide eyes. No matter. Let them all hear it.

“You’ve seen our numbers, Edmure. The ladders, the towers, the trebuchets, the rams. If I speak the command, my cousin will bridge your moat and break your gate. Blood will spill. Hundreds will die, most being your own people. Your former bannermen will be the first wave of attackers, so you will start your day by killing fathers, brothers, and sons of men who died for you at the Twins. The second wave will be Freys, and there are plenty of them to spare. My westermen will be the third once your archers are exhausted of arrows and your knights so weary their blades will no longer lift from the ground. The castle will fall, and all inside will be put to the sword. Your livestock will be butchered. Your river will rot with corpses. Your godswood will fall. Your keeps and inventories will burn.” Jaime swallowed as he said the next words. It was true that he did not actually mean to do it, but a threat was a threat, and words are wind. “Your wife may have the child before any of this. You’ll want the babe, I presume. I can send him to you once he’s born. With a trebuchet.”

There came a lengthy silence. Edmure was still in the bath. All the servants and squires stared in horror. 

Genna had told him earlier that he was not his father’s son. Tyrion was more Tywin’s than he could ever dream to be. Would her mind change if she had heard his speech? Was this what Tywin would have done? 

“I could climb out of this tub and kill you right as you are, Kingslayer,” said Edmure, once he finally regained his wits about him.

“You could try,” Jaime calmly replied. The man made no move, so Jaime pushed himself back to his feet. “Enjoy your food. Singer, play for our guest while he eats. You know the song, I trust.”

“The one about rain? Yes, my lord, I know it.”

Edmure’s head swiveled between the singer and Jaime. “No. I don’t want him. Get him away from me.” The tub water sloshed some more. 

“Why, it’s just a song, Lord Tully,” said Jaime, feigning innocence. “His voice couldn’t be that bad.”

The knight left his pavilion with the beginnings of Rains of Castamere playing faintly behind him.

The inns you came across the road were growing sparse. Many had been torched, ransacked, abandoned, or torn down. War left much of the Riverlands in ruins. Though you were none too happy about the state of the lands, pillaged, empty villages meant there would be fewer people loitering about, which was all the better for you.

You had managed to outrun the outlaws through the cover of the storm and ruins. It was only when the rain cleared away did you let yourself sit down and silently cry for Brienne. None deserved a fate like that. She was so undeniably good, more honorable than any other man you’ve ever met—and yet her face was torn apart and now she was dead.

Eventually, you made it out of the Riverlands and began to travel along the high road up to the Eyrie. It was the safest option to get there—the mountains were hardly on the table to walk through on your own, considering it was likely running amok with clansmen and thieves of all sorts. Even on the high road, the terrain was far more mountainous than the relatively-level grounds of the riverlands, and the incline noticeably steeper. You were traveling at a much slower pace than before, growing ragged and tired with shorter distances. 

On the third day on the narrow pathway towards the Bloody Gate, you came across two men on a cart. Merchants, perhaps. You spied the stacked wine casks in the back of the cart, wondering if they were empty. Surely they must be, you thought. The Vale is not likely to make any wine of their own, not with mountains as sheer as theirs. 

As their cart slowly rolled by, being pulled by braying donkeys, you overheard one of the men say, “A singer, it’s said!”

“A singer?” the other merchant echoed.

“Yes, a singer! They say he shoved Lady Arryn right off a mountain.” 

Lady Arryn? Your ears perked up at that. Did they mean Lysa?

He glanced at his companion dubiously. “I heard she threw herself out the door once she confessed her love to him.”

“That’s nonsense, have you seen the way she grips that sickly whelp of hers? She would never throw herself to her death whilst little Robin lives.”

That confirmed it. Lysa is dead?

“If I had a son like that, I’d do the very same,” he grumbled.

“Wait! Good sers!” you exclaimed, turning back to hurry after the cart. The donkeys whined protest as they were pulled to a slow stop. They both glanced back at you with wide, curious eyes.

“Sers?” The one with mousy brown hair piped up with a laugh lodged in his throat. “We are no knights.”

“Apologies, it’s a habit now, I fear. I simply wanted to know—” You stopped in your tracks. “What were you saying about Lady Arryn?”

“She’s dead, she is,” the older of the two merchants told you. His nose was crooked in three different places. “Out the Moon Door—or off the mountain—she flew.”

You stared at them for a moment, trying to gauge whether they were being serious or not. Tall tales such as this were not uncommon amongst the lowborn. “And who now rules in her stead?”

“Little Lord Robin is young still—”

“And far too sickly!”

“—Until he comes of age, Lord Petyr Baelish is Lord of the Vale.”

Littlefinger. The realization dawned on you with great unease as you recalled his infatuation with your good-sister and his alliances with the crown. Lannister crowns. This was no good… no good at all…

“Thank you,” you told the merchants. “That’s good to know.”

“Where are you off to?” said the younger one.

“Runestone,” you lied. “I have family there.” 

That seemed to appease them well enough. The one with brown hair waved farewell as he set the donkeys back into motion. You silently thanked the Gods for coming across decent men. You watched the cart of wine caskets descend down the path.

Now what? You could hardly stroll straight into the Vale now—not with the threat of Littlefinger handing you right back into Cersei’s mad hands. Should you even trust these rumors, though? Perhaps the septon at the Bloody Gate could clarify the situation for you. Surely he would tell you the truth. But getting there would take weeks, and you certainly didn’t have that sort of time. If word of Littlefinger’s rule in the Eyrie was true, you would be wasting even more time doubling back to escape. And if he heard of your presence in the Vale there was no telling what he would do… have you locked up and sent to Cersei in a cage? 

But what about Sansa? Your heart shattered at the thought of leaving her alone at the Eyrie with Baelish. You had to be smart about this. Even if Sansa was in the Vale, and if you managed to get to her, and if you could whisk her out of the castle undetected, there was nowhere for the two of you to go that would be safe. Sansa wouldn’t last a fortnight out in the wilderness. Gods forbid, but perhaps it was best for her to stay in the Eyrie until you managed to find a stronghold that would keep her safe and protected. 

Then again, she could just as likely be elsewhere in Westeros. Arya, too. Gods, you wished Brienne was with you. You could still see the blood spurting from her face, her screams cracking through the thunderous air. 

Damn you, Jaime. You should have come with me, you said to yourself, knowing it was a foolish chain of thought. He wouldn’t be much help, anyway. All he did when we traveled together was complain and find new ways to irritate me. 

You lingered on the path for a few more moments. Then, you frustratedly gestured to nobody, made a noise of displeasure, and turned to follow after the wine merchants. 

Back to the Riverlands you went.

Riverrun was now taken, but at a great cost. Brynden the Blackfish had escaped. All thanks to Jaime’s carelessness and Edmure’s wit. This would never have happened if Tywin was around, Jaime couldn’t help but lament. It was no wonder his aunt Genna told him he was nothing like his father. 

He was a fool, and his father knew it.

After a series of threats to both Edmure and his wife, the Tully lord managed to sullenly tell him what he knew of the Blackfish’s whereabouts. Which, to Jaime’s dismay, was very little. 

“He swam away,” Edmure had told him. He had the very same blue eyes as Catelyn did, as well as Robb. The very same look of loathing in them, as well. There was a time when you looked at him like that. “The Water Gate’s portcullis was raised. Not enough to be noticed, only three feet or so. My uncle is a strong swimmer. He pulled himself beneath the spikes and I can only assume the current helped him from there.”

Damn it all.

Jaime had hounds and hunters on the prowl for the Blackfish, but he had little hope of catching him. And Edmure was to be heading west the following morning. Jaime was glad to be rid of him, though he worried that the man would slip through the guards he would be traveling with. The knight wasn’t too keen on hunting for the Tully a third time.

News of Ryman Frey’s death was brought to him by young Edwyn, the former’s son. Hanged, apparently, by a band of outlaws nearby Fairmarket, which was boldly close by. Thoros, or Dondarrion, or this mysterious Stoneheart woman. There was little to do about the matter now—Jaime ordered more guards posted and that was that. 

That night, he practiced his shoddy, left-handed swordsmanship with the silent Ilyn Payne. He managed to last a grand total of three hours before giving into his cramping muscles’ begs for a rest. Afterwards, he poured the both of them cups full of Hoster Tully’s wine, and told Payne of how he used to kiss his sister when they were children. It was innocent at first, until it wasn’t. It felt nice being able to freely tell someone of everything knowing he couldn’t possibly relay such information to anybody else—Payne’s lack of a tongue ironically made Jaime chattier than ever. 

“Tyrion once told me that whores oft avoid kissing their patrons. They’ll fuck you until your legs fall off, he said, but they keep their lips far from yours. It’s what separates work from real romance. I wonder if my sister ever kissed Kettleblack.” Jaime thought for a long moment. “I kissed the Bitter Wolf.”

Payne spared him no reaction.

“She was crying.” Jaime took a sip of wine, leaving out the fact that he had shed a tear or two. “Not because of the kiss, though. I hope not, at least. I’m not that bad of a kisser. Cersei never cried when we kissed.” Though, after he said that, he realized basing his assumptions around Cersei wasn’t a particularly smart thing to do. You and Cersei were many leagues apart from one another.

Payne drained his cup and gestured for Jaime to refill it.

As he did, Jaime went on. “If not for Tyrion’s reckless call for a trial by combat, I would have married her. The Bitter Wolf. We would be at Casterly Rock, and Tyrion would be at the Wall, and my father would still be alive, and my son would sit the Iron Throne, and all would be well. Or not. Cersei would make matters difficult. I doubt Y/N would be pleased about her predicament, either, come to think of it.”

He decided to change the subject back to Kettleblack when Payne’s silence stretched for a little while longer.

“It would be ill-fitting to slay mine own Sworn Brother. I should geld him and send him to the Wall—make up for Tyrion’s loss in some way. He’s been to the Wall, perhaps he had no taste for returning. It’s bloody cold there, I’ve heard. Of course, if I were to lay a hand on Osmund, there would be his brothers to consider, as well. Brothers can be dangerous. Aegon the Unworthy had Ser Terrence Toyne dismembered into pieces after finding him abed with his mistress, and forced her to watch. Toyne’s brothers tried to kill the King for it, though their plans were ultimately foiled by the Dragonknight. It’s written in the White Book. All of it, including every knightly deed and chivalrous act. It doesn’t tell me what to do with Cersei, though.”

Ilyn dragged a finger across his scarred throat.

“No,” Jaime said. “Tommen has already lost a brother, and the man he thinks is his father. If his mother were to die by my hand, he would hate me for it. I’m sure his sweet little wife would use that hatred to her benefit, as well.”

An ugly smile stretched at Ilyn’s thin lips. Jaime misliked the crude gleam in his eye. 

“You talk too much,” Jaime told the mute.

The next night, Jaime found himself in Hoster Tully’s solar, looking over a map, wondering where the Blackfish could have gone. Many of his hunters had returned that morning, torn and bleeding. Direwolves, they had told him. A monstrous pack with a large she-wolf leading them. He wondered if that could have been the wolf that had mauled Joffrey what had felt like a lifetime ago. 

In consequence, Jaime couldn’t help but wonder about you. Did the direwolves like you at all? He strained his mind to remember, but couldn’t seem to recall. It confused him when his chest constricted at the thought of forgetting you.

The war was practically won. Dragonstone was taken, and Storm’s End would be very soon. Stannis was welcome to the cold fruits of the Wall—if Roose Bolton hadn’t already destroyed him. And the Riverlands were successfully taken without Jaime ever having to raise a sword against neither Stark nor Tully. All in all, he was to be content.

But where did that place you? Once everything calmed down, what would happen to you? To Sansa, who surely deserved no harm that would come to her? She was just a young girl and you… you were far from the paragon of innocence, to be certain, but surely he could have Tommen pardon you for any of your crimes. Your crimes being allegiance to your own nephew, which Jaime could hardly fault you for.

Then again, Cersei was the problem. There was no chance she would sit idly by and let you live. Once he returned to King’s Landing, he had to find a way to whisk Tommen from her crutches before he would turn as corrupt as Joffrey. A new council full of abled men would be in order, as well. 

More and more days passed. Jaime had the entire Tully garrison safely released from their keep, which displeased his Aunt Genna greatly, but Jaime was intent on letting them go. There was little harm they could do when they were scattered, weaponless, and hungry.

 He dreamed of Cersei most nights. Of her golden hair, which then molded into golden hands. In his dreams, he always had two hands. Sometimes touching her, stroking her, holding her—dreamy memories of old. Sometimes he was strangling her, which he certainly had never done before.

Other nights he dreamed of Brienne. Her big, brutish face red with rage and exhaustion. She would swing Oathkeeper at his neck and he awoke just before his head rolled off his shoulders.

Some of the nights, however scarce they were, were far more precious. He dreamt of you, your hair freckled with snow, your eyes alight as you watched children play beneath you. He was in Winterfell, he realized, and with a shocked start looked back down at the children. His? No. They were your nieces and nephews, of course. Their faces were a blur, but their red hair was unmistakable. Save for the littlest girl and the bastard boy. Snow, Jaime remembered. 

“We should have one,” your dream-self said to him, so serious that Jaime wondered if it was actually you standing there in front of him. “A little wolf-lion.”

Did Jaime want that? Would they have golden hair like his? Like Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen? But how could he have another child when he was never a father to the ones he already had? It felt wrong to even consider it. Dishonorable. Any romantic notion of a normal life with you was quickly dashed.

“I know we can’t,” you continued on before he could respond. “They’re all dead.” You gestured down to the Starklings. “And I’ll be joining them soon. But it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

“No—” he said, reaching out to you, but you had already faded into a blur.

Not all of his dreams with you were as bleak. Once he was abed with you, and another time he was bound by rope as you pointed an arrow at his forehead while he cackled maniacally. 

A week after releasing the last of the garrison, Jaime woke up with a start after dreaming about a cloaked figure that looked eerily similar to Cersei, though he knew it wasn’t her. His mother spoke soft riddles, where Cersei would bark harsh insults. He couldn’t quite tell which he favored. He threw the covers off him with his stump.

The room was frigid. The hearth’s warmth had waned away and the windows had been left pushed open when he fell asleep. In the darkness, Jaime made his way to close the shutters, but his foot touched against a wetness on the ground. Blood had been his first thought, but blood would not be so cold. Rain, perhaps, but he would have heard the sound of pattering coming from outside.

Jaime drew the damp curtains apart, letting the moonlight stream through. Moonlight and snow. Down below, the yard was spotting with white, growing thicker and thicker in the minutes he watched. After a moment, he even began to see his breath misting in front of him.

Winter is here, he thought. Marching south, and our granaries are half empty.

He watched the snow fall, and stood there thinking of you. It irked him that you haunted his every thought. Nonetheless, he hoped you were warm, wherever you were. If he was as fanatically religious as his dear coz Lancel, he would have even prayed for your safety.

When morning dawned, Riverrun’s maester came to pay him a visit. He was pallid-faced and shaking.

“I know,” Jaime said, glancing at the bound letter in the old man’s quivering hands. “The Citadel has sent a white raven. Winter has come.”

“No, my lord,” said Maester Vyman. “The bird came from King’s Landing. Forgive me, I took the liberty to open it, I did not know it was meant for your eyes…”

Jaime took the letter and sat by the window to read. It was Qyburn’s hurried hand, but he knew it to be Cersei’s fevered words. 

Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

“Does my lord wish to answer?” asked Vyman, hovering by the door.

A snowflake landed on the letter. He was reminded of the snowflakes in your hair, in his dream. It was quick to melt, blurring the inked words and streaking down the paper. 

Jaime rolled the paper back as tight as he could with his one hand, and handed it back to the maester. “No,” he said. “Put this in the fire.”

[onaswife]

https://www.tumblr.com/onaswife/785460957763747840/ive-been-seeing-a-lot-of-videos-in-tiktok-and?source=share

share them thoughts 🙂‍↕️

I made blurbs of both Alexias, I don't know if you'd like to know more. For now, these are the ideas I developed best.

Warning: Mention of miscarriage

The first time Omega! Alexia met Irene's little son, she was struck by the famous "Baby Fever."

You still remember how bright her eyes looked as Lucía showed her how to hold a baby properly without hurting or making him uncomfortable. Never, at least not since you two had started having a serious relationship, had you talked about having children.

That day when you got home, Alexia couldn't stop talking about this new experience, about feeling how the little one seemed to snuggle up against her chest, something that made her feel full. You, on the other hand, couldn't stop thinking about how radiant Alexia looked with a baby in her arms. You'd always thought Alexia was a person who radiated energy, perhaps not so much on the pitch when she should have been a more serious person, or when she was in "media day" mode, but when she was at home with her mom and sister, or when she went to visit the girls from her foundation, even when she scolded the younger members of the team for listening to Mapi and doing something mean, Alexia would look like the most beautiful and radiant person in the room.

That day you didn't talk about expanding the family; ypu only talked about Irene's little one.

The months began to pass. Mateo, Irene's son, was already older, beginning to say his first words, and could already babble something close to "mama" and "mami." Meanwhile, Alexia had one mission in mind: to get Mateo to say "Tia" or at least "Ale."

When it was their turn to babysit (on Alexia's whim, disguised as the older couple needing to have time for themselves), she would try to get him to mumble something as close to "Tía" as possible. Every time he mumbled something with a tone resembling that word, Alexia would begin to congratulate him while holding him tightly to her chest and praising him for being so intelligent.

You always stayed more distant, not because you hated being around the boy or anything like that, but because you'd never been able to figure out how to connect with little kids. You always stood there, not knowing what to do while looking anywhere but at the boy, trying to find help. But while you stood like that, you could look at your girlfriend, who seemed more and more accustomed to being maternal, giving you future ideas of what she would be like with your children, without having to be sad about them having to go with their real parents; they would be hers.

Gradually, every time Mateo accompanied his mother to training, or when they took him to watch the finals, he always looked for Alexia first. Which is why it seemed rather strange to you when Irene approached you with the little boy in her arms, while he screamed your name and tried to get away from his mother's arms. As soon as Irene stood in front of you, the boy stopped moving and stretched his short arms toward you.

It was at that moment, when Mateo looked for you first, that the baby fever hit you the hardest.

Neither of you said anything, neither of you wanted to have the conversation.

It was like that until you saw Alexia start flushing all the birth control pills down the toilet, and you knew the next step in the relationship was closer than you'd thought.

There was a long talk about the future. You tried to get Alexia to remember why she had decided not to be a mother yet—she was in the prime of her career, having just won the Ballon d'Or and being the face of the Spanish national team—but Alexia kept countering her arguments based on her experience with her teammate's child.

From that day on, you had both agreed to no longer use protection, you wouldn't force children, but Alexia really wanted to get pregnant. Whenever you two had sex (which was quite often, it was hard to keep your hands off her body), Alexia made sure that when it was time for you to finish, you wouldn't pull out until she was sure you could. So for the next eight minutes, you were on top of your girlfriend's sweaty body while her legs tightly hugged your body, leaving you with no way to move.

It was in the midst of recovering from her ACL that the pregnancy test finally came back positive. You both were both now proud mothers to little Mar. Mar Putellas.

On the other hand alpha! Alexia would be more scared. She loves children, and she had that instinct, being Alba's older sister. From the moment they met and talked about having children, they had both agreed that they weren't ready for them.

That remained the case until your older brother had his first daughter, and you automatically made her your spoiled niece (the only one).

You lived and breathed for that little girl. She looked a lot like you did when you were a baby, something your mother and brother emphasized when you and Alexia visited them.

Alexia and you had a tacit agreement about using condoms when being intimate. You both got tested for sexually transmitted infections every two months, and obviously neither of you had any other sexual partners, so it hadn't been a problem.

Until it was.

You got pregnant.

None of you expected it. That night there was a big argument. Alexia left, slamming the door as you cried in the bathroom stall, no longer knowing what to feel.

The following week was a cold one. You didn't speak to Alexia, you didn't look at her, you had started sleeping in the guest room and always avoided seeing her in the mornings and at night.

It was like this for about two weeks, until Alexia stopped being a coward and spoke to you seriously. While it was something neither of you had planned, it was something you had both done, and therefore, you would both have to take responsibility. As soon as you heard those words, you couldn't help but feel worse; you felt like Alexia was forcing herself to take charge.

Time began to pass; Alexia seemed to change. And just as Alexia changed, so did your pregnancy. At week 11, you began to feel strange; even Alexia commented on your lack of milky smell. That day, you both suffered and cried knowing your little one would no longer be with you.

The following weeks were hell for both of you, a personal hell.

Time passed, the wound healed as best it could. A year and a half after that fateful day, the test came back positive again.

This time, Alexia didn't get angry, of course not. She cried. She cried next to you as she looked at the pregnancy test on the sink.

Alexia pampered you throughout your pregnancy. She didn't mind canceling interviews so she could get treatment for the back pain you were having. She didn't mind getting up at 2 in the morning and having to get up in 4 more hours to go buy your midnight snack. She didn't mind carrying you every time you went out and your feet started to hurt. She watched videos on social media to help you. When your bump had grown enough to slow you down and cause more back pain, she started standing behind you and bringing her hands to your lower abdomen, where she would put her hands together and take some of the weight, making you feel less heavy and allowing you to rest a little. Or when you were going for a walk on the beach and you couldn't lie face down, she remembered seeing a video where they dug a hole in the sand big enough to fit your bump comfortably so you could rest. Alexia might be able to take her heart out if you asked her to. She wouldn't make the same mistake as in the past again, and she wouldn't let it end the same way either.

The day her son was born, Alexia felt her chest fill with happiness as she saw him in your arms as he lay resting. Even as you watched her be happy with your son, you couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if your first baby had been born. You still had nightmares about that event.

She cried again, seeing how her family had grown, now determined never to be separated from her son or from you again.

Whenever you went out, both Elias and you reeked of Alexia's scent; it was her way of being present.

Over time, little Elias had grown up with the same passion that Alexia's father had passed on to her. Both Barcelona fans, they breathed and died for their colors.

[kunastrophic]

pairing - popular! satoru gojo x fem! loser! reader

sypnosis - you have a passion for art but you're losing inspiration till you start drawing the pretty boy in your class !

reader is very awkward and makes a mildly stupid decision but it's okay, she's our girl nonetheless !!! not proofread !!!! i'm far too lazy

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being so artistic in such a drab place can be excruciating when taken into deep consideration.

honestly, could you have ever possibly gone to a more dreadful building? to call school boring is a major understatement in your eyes. seven continuous and seemingly never ending hours of the same bland off-white and beige walls surrounding you, almost making you feel trapped, like they're slowly closing in on you. the decor is worse, shockingly enough considering the lack of it.

fake plants, brainless posters that no one actually reads past the fifth grade, shelves adorned with drawers filled with typical school supplies, though all but the pencil drawer collects dust.

a few of the teachers seem to notice the distasteful environment and want to flip it just as much as you do, though you wholeheartedly believe they'd be better suited as preschool teachers rather than ones at a highschool.

no seventeen year old boys or girls want to walk into a classroom with tacky rainbows and suns with smiley faces plastered on the walls. the effort is appreciated by you, but you really do wonder whether or not they're conscious of the age group they teach.

the most ‘interesting’ things in this dreary institution are the tvs funded to the core classes, though even those lose points since they're only ever on to play the same three ‘school appropriate’ playlists that have you wishing they didn't implement a headphone ban. you honestly believe you can feel your ears bleeding within the very second they click the play button on the playlist.

even so, you take pride in the fact that you're likely one of, if not the only imaginative person in this school, the only one who can somehow find artistic enthusiasm in a place as depressing as this.

that was until recently.

this entire week, you've been desperately trying to find even a lick of motivation to draw, but alas, nothing.

feeling hopeless, and like you might need to quit art and start selling drugs, you look around the classroom, hoping something or someone will catch your eyes.

it's pitiful, really. imagine being so run dry, so out of original ideas that you would rather look around this miserable hell-hole for help rather than lay in your mind, desperately trying to form an original thought or idea.

almost immediately, you realize what an idiotic idea this is. seriously, how are you to find anything worth drawing in such a monotone environment? even the students line up perfectly with the same boring aesthetics.

it's like they all lack any sense of originality, like they all pick their clothes from the same store- no, the same closet. it's all variations of white, grey, navy blue, black, and off-white tops paired with faded blue jeans or black leggings. doesn't that get boring at some point?

you suppose you aren't in a position to judge, for you are no better. though, at least you have a plausible excuse. you were bullied for years over your niche interests and odd style, you were forced into the mold your society created as to what a highschool girl should be.

you're about to give up when someone catches your eyes.

satoru gojo. of course, he catches everyone's eyes everywhere he goes, and you hate to admit that you know exactly why. piercing blue eyes that remind you of a drop of blue dye falling onto fabric, like if you held a blue orchid between your finger tips then spun it quickly, watching the colors blur together beautifully. fluffy white hair that almost resembles a cloud- no, no that's too soft. maybe closer to snow? yes, snow, gently fallen, heavenly stacked snow. his cheeks had the softest pink tint to them, like a lipgloss smudge on a dress. almost invisible, yet there nonetheless.

he's alluring, you won't deny. he's like if someone drew what an angel would look like and then he crawled out of the page.

would it be weird to draw him? probably. do you anyways? yes.

the first sketch is mediocre. already, you know he's a perfect muse. finally free from art block as you try to draw him perfectly.

you examine the first finished drawing.

the eyes are a shade too dark despite it only being a pencil drawing, his hair is too long and flat, he honestly looks more like a woman rather than the infamous satoru gojo.

‘okay..’ you think to yourself

‘round two.’

you continue this cycle the entire class period. drawing while taking your previous imperfections into account then finding new ones within that art work.

you try not to make it too obvious that you're blatantly staring at him from time to time. you pray he doesn't notice, and for the most part, he doesn't seem to.

weeks pass, and this has become your ritual for every class that you share with him. shove your assignments into a folder to do them later, (though it's pointless since deep down you couldn't care less for the assignment and it more than likely will end up crumpled at the bottom of your bag by the end of the week), you pull out your sketchbook and begin drawing.

you've had a few close-calls and awkward encounters when he would happen to look in your direction and catch you staring, but he didn't seem to care much- or so you thought.

the bell rings, queuing you to shove everything in your bag, not caring what gets destroyed in the process- we are speaking of your school bag after all, something you deemed absolutely worthless years ago.

you approach the door when a strong hand grabs your wrist.

it's not enough to hurt, but enough to hold you back.

you turn to look at the culprit only to be met with those iconic and almost hypnotizing blue eyes. orchids.

“hey, how come i never get to see those drawings? i mean, i am the muse after all, shouldn't i be first to see?” he's smiling.

he's smiling and he knows you've been drawing him and- god, is it hot in here?

one second, you're up-close, staring into those remarkable eyes that you've mastered drawing over the last month, the next, you bolted out of that classroom.

in retrospect, you probably looked stupid considering you had to take a second to remove his hand from your wrist then had to dodge through the endless crowd of students who had also just been released from class, tripping at some point, but the past is the past and you obviously have no control over that.

you spend the next morning trying every excuse in the book to try and stay home. there's no way you can withstand sitting in the same classroom as him after that.

however, much to your displeasure, you find yourself sitting in your seat with your face buried in your arms. maybe he won't know you're there if he can't see your face?

as you drown in your thoughts, dreading ever choosing him of all people as a muse, a sudden voice cuts through your thoughts like a knife.

“running away mid conversation is really impolite.”

you don't bother looking up. that'll just dig you a deeper grave- if that's even possible.

“yoo hoo? (y/n), i'm talking to you!” he speaks in a sing-song voice, almost as if this is a big joke to him.

you almost raise your hand and ask to use the bathroom so you can hide from him in there all week, till- wait- he knows your name?

you look up hesitantly, confusion plastered onto your face like a cream-heavy pie on a shitty prank show.

“you know my name?” you ask hesitantly, your voice coming out significantly softer than you intended. god, you probably sounded so pathetic.

“duh. you're the pretty artist lady. you made that really good eye drawing in like sixth grade, no?”

now you're REALLY confused. he knows your name and has known your name since sixth grade?

“you remember that?” you reply, sounding too excited for your taste.

“of course i remember. you were the talk of the playground after that.” he laughs fondly at the memory and you can't help but let it shoot straight through your heart, making it ache in a way that felt too good, almost wrong. almost.

“can i see the art you made of me?” he tilts his head in a way that, in your mind, resembles that of a dog when told to do something it doesn't understand. cute.

you suppress a giggle at the thought.

you suppose he does deserve to see the art you made, especially considering how uncomfortable it must've felt to feel your eyes all over him as you drew him.

you rummage for the most recent drawings in your bag then hand them to him.

your heart starts to race. what if he hates them? what if he thinks they're awful? what if they're not good enough and he assumes that you think he's ugly? what if-

“i'm in love with you.” he suddenly speaks, staring at the papers in awe.

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

(a/n : and then they kissed and married and had 828282892839 babies and grew old together yeah !!! idk people (like four people total...) said they liked my ideas so here's a low quality drabble uhhhhh idk !! PLEASE don't bully me if this is bad, i'm very much a beginner author !!!!!)

[notbecauseofvictories]

it's wild to watch the original Stepford Wives (1975), and realize that their depraved vision of hypersexualized domestic slavery was just...Betty Crocker. June Cleaver. A modestly made-up woman in gingham or pearls; a husband looking for some afternoon delight. Not that these aren't very narrow and terrible boxes to be stuffed into, or that the control inherent in the fantasy is any different ("Why? Because we can," Dale tells Joanna) but compared to Stepford Wives (2004) you could almost admire the reasonableness, the relative affection.

But then, on the flip side….doesn't this make the ending even more tragic? In Stepford 2004, it's never quite clear why Joanna and Walter are married. They simply are, by necessity of the plot; while they do talk about why they like each other, it has the ring of a "we're moving in different directions" speech, or even a performance review, rather than genuine affection.

In Stepford 1975, it's very clear why Joanna and Walter are married. It might not always be the best of marriages (the women's lib discussion, where Charmaine admits that her husband married her for how she looks; the scientist who scribbles "I'm not happy either" on the notepad) but Walter makes sure Joanna has a drink, somewhere to sit; he watches the kids when she's in the dark room, or travels to New York; he eats breakfast with her, fights with her, sits in the dark weeping after he discovers what Stepford will make of her.

Which makes his defection to the Men's Association even crueler, more selfish. It might not always have been the best of marriages, but it was something resembling a partnership. And if Joanna ever thought that was a choice, a choice both of them were making together day after day…well, she knows better now. There was only ever one person entitled to make choices in their marriage. It wasn't her.

[irreverent-saints]

PREVIOUS NEXT FIRST

A Formal Invitation

“So, are you planning on leaving immediately?” Dravad said, leaning over a small hill as if it was the back of a chair. He resembled a big cat basking in the sun. His tail trailed behind him, waving with mellow interest.

“I’d hate to overstay my welcome.” Idun said. He nodded.

“You’re the first human I have ever invited to my home. Would you mind staying for tea?”

He looked upon her with large, hopeful eyes. Idun’s legs felt weak as she took him in. From the dozens of scars scatted around on his body, to wiry musculature under taut skin, to the way she could feel his heartbeats resonate with seconds between them.

“Any particular reason why?”

“I’d prefer it if the person with access to my home did not remain a stranger for long,”

Idun looked around, hands folded.

It was not by any means a sinister request, in fact, what he asked for seemed rather reasonable. Still she refused to look away from his clawed hands.

“Tea, what do you mean by that?” She asked. His eyes lit up.

“Nettle, rosehip, chamomile. Beyond that, herbs few have heard of, and fewer still tasted. Not to mention the camellia and all it’s derivatives,”

He revelled in recounting them all, as if they were fine cloths or rare keepsakes. Idun nodded along.

“I see, so you just want to drink tea with me. And there is no euphemism?”

“I don’t know what an euphemism is. Nor is it something I can conjure on short notice,” he said, “the tea is good to drink on its own. We’d of course chat a little as well,”

“I suppose it could be nice,” she said.

He offered up his palm.

“Come with me then. There’s a part of the garden where I’m rarely disturbed, it has everything we need,”

Idun hesitated.

“Oh, is this a private matter?” She asked.

“I’d rather not be shot at while tending to visitors,”

She touched the tip of his finger, tracing her hand down its leathery surface.

“I see, do you want me to climb in?”

He nodded. She braced herself, before taking an assertive step onto his palm. She laid low, stomach against his warm skin as he slowly lifted. He led her through the garden, until they arrived at a tall hedge growing near the mountain wall. He snuck past it, revealing a small oasis. It fit him comfortably, without too much room to spare. Large rocks and logs provided places to sit, and a sort of table. He sat her down by a large kiln, Big as a town hall. He removed a stout, blackened kettle from a hook. It clang, reverberating deep into her bones.

“We will drink from the same source, I cannot brew to your proportions,” he said. “Which sort would you prefer?”

He unfurled a tarp that hung from the stone wall, revealing a dozen suspended canisters.

“I’m no expert, which one do you recommend?”

As if on cue he reached towards the upper canister. As he were to grab it, he hesitated.

“What do humans eat?” He asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you like curs and horses? Could ordinary food bane you?”

“Oh. I see. What have you put in this tea?”

“Pepper, cinnamon, chamomile, rose and hibiscus. It’s best served with a body from volcanic stone,”

“Body?”

“The pebbles,”

Idun stared at him. He stared back, “the pebbles,” he repeated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’m not sure what that is,” she admitted.

“A small, rounded rock, not a boulder, not a grain of sand,”

“Why should that be in my tea? Humans aren’t fond of eating stone,”

“How do you keep your gizzard in good health, then?”

“I don’t… think I have one…” she stumbled. Dravad gave her a sceptical, if not contemplative look.

“There’s a lot to learn about you. You’re quite an intriguing critter, it seems…”

“I suppose I am. For the record, I can drink everything in the tea, except for the stone.”

“It won’t be the same, but it will do,” he said, leaning over the kiln, “move, or be incinerated,”

Idun jumped, rushing as far away from the oven as possible.

“Am I safe here?” She asked. Dravad nodded. He kindled the fire. He sourced water from the river and placed the tisane within. Soon a white smoke billowed, and the area filled with floral aromas.

“Many critters are highly sensitive,” he remarked, poking the embers to corral the flame, “I had one horse actually, where I wanted to share my brews with him. All seemed well at first, but within dawn he was lifeless,”

“I’m sorry to hear that,”

“Since then I’ve been attentive, only feeding them what I’ve witnessed them graze upon,”

“So you own horses? Are they as big as you?”

Dravad laughed, pulling the kettle out of the fire.

“No. A horse is a fragile thing, skittish by nature. Small enough to hold in your hand, although it’s advised that you don’t, given that mere fright seems to injure them,”

Idun tried to look for these horses, but struggled to see past the hedges surrounding his oasis. Dravad placed a wooden bucket in front of her, and elegantly managed to tip the pot just enough to fill it without spilling. His fingers daintily held onto its body, elongated by his sharp claws. His own cup was larger than any barrel she had ever seen. Steam danced on the surface. Her bucket contained a brilliantly red liquid. It had a peppery berry scent. Dravad grabbed his drink. She ducked as a tub of boiling water flew over her head. He drank, unbothered by the heat. She watched in silence as he downed gallons with each gulp. She placed her lips to the surface of her tea, taking a tiny sip. Its flavour was intense. Each mouthful brought forth new nuances and notes. She stared at her reflection in the cup.

“Do you like it?” He asked.

“Very much so, I’m impressed,” she said.

The jotun smiled. He rested his face in his palm, looking at her with calm eyes. She shuffled around, feeling his gaze linger. Although he seemed at rest, that pupil really did follow her like an omen. His one eye faced her, the rest of his head tilted far to the side.

“Does your neck hurt a lot?” She blurted out. It broke his trance.

“How would you know?” He asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Whenever you stare at me, you seem to move your head to compensate,” she said. He blinked, flustered.

“I don’t look upon you with ill intent,” he said, leaning forwards. He brought a claw to her jaw, casual as ever. Idun held her chin high, staring right into his eyes, “please don’t mind, I’ve just never seen a human this up close, and you’re a calm one, even,”

The cold, smooth surface of his claw tickled her. He traced it along the underside of her arm, culminating in her hand upon his fingertip. A heat rose in her belly as the massive being touched her with utmost precision.

“What are you doing?” She asked.

“Assessing you. Is that bothersome?” With that he withdrew his hand. Idun stepped aside, clutching around her trunk.

“I can’t help but wonder what you find so fascinating about me…” she dryly remarked.

“You seem to have an incredibly keen sense of balance, standing with such rigid posture and no tail to aid. Do your blunted ears help with hearing? How come your pupils are perfectly round? What do you see? Are you born without claws or do you remove them for ceremonial reasons?” He raved, gesturing at her body.

Idun sat there dumbstruck. He waved his tail in anticipation.

“I’m not sure about any of that,” she said, “is that really… all you were looking at?”

“I’ll report back to you if I notice something else peculiar,”

She hesitated.

“Is this considered polite to you? Would you appreciate it if I decided to study your form to comment on everything I found confusing?”

“Maybe. I’d see it as unnecessary. Everybody knows what a Jotun looks like,”

“Right. Show me the back of your wrist,” Idun demanded. He gave her a puzzled look before turning it towards him. She shook her head, “closer,”

He put his arm down on the table, Idun walked up to it. She admired the sheen of his plates and the soft down on his fingers. The heavy chains of gold that appeared dainty over his thick wrist, the polished stone that resembled strings of pearl.

“What’s up with these spurs? Why are they there?” She asked, grabbing at the jagged spikes down his arm.

“Not sure, but I quite like them,” he said, running his other hand across his wrist. He pulled his hair behind his ear and sat upright.

“Does this bother you,” she said, rustling a loose bracelet around atop his hand.

“Not really,”

“You seem more calm than I had expected,” Idun said, “now, what do you need sharp fangs for?”

“Hard to eat without them,” he lowered his head onto the table, pulling his lips back. Idun came face to face with a wall of teeth. His skin was flexible enough to reveal even behind his molars. Everything seemed perfectly engineered to either crush or tear matter apart. She shuddered, then she brought a trembling hand forth, lightly poking a fang the length of her forearm.

“Why did you do that?” She asked.

“You appear to enjoy touching things,” he said. His lips didn’t move, it almost sounded like a regular human spoke from within his head. She blushed, putting her hand in her pocket.

“I didn’t mean to poke around,” she said, “but you’re actually the first Jotun I have seen in the flesh,”

“Really? You must be doing something right, then,”

Idun laughed nervously.

“I do my best to keep the peace, I’m not one to go around asking for a fight,” she said.

“I can see why you don’t find kinship with humans,” he remarked.

“Not all people are bad,”

He sounded a low, rumbling groan as he scratched the scar upon his face.

“I’m sure there are a few exceptions,”

[fool-tarnished]

"Remember me" - Chapter 4 - Kakashi Hatake x F!Reader

Pairing : Kakashi Hatake x Female!Reader

If you want to read Yamato's version, you can find it here.

Warnings : Memory loss, mind control (mk ultra inspired), fluff

Inspiration : Where did she go - Saleka

Words : ~ 2500

A/N : Hello there ! Yes I posted this one faster than the previous ones, uhu. I mean, I wrote it already so why not ? I hope you will enjoy it. And sorry for the mistakes, I'm not a native english speaker. Thank you again for the likes, reblogs and comments ♡

← Previous Chapter - Next chapter →

"Yo, [Y/N]."

Upon hearing that familiar voice, you turned around with a smile, placing your book on the bed where you were sitting.

"Kakashi? You always come in through the window, but you do know doors exist, right?"

He was crouched on the edge of the window frame in the room you were in. The words left your mouth without you feeling like you’d even spoken them, and it felt as though you were living this moment while also not living it at the same time. Something strange, yet not necessarily unpleasant.

"Hmm."

As you continued watching him, the ninja tilted his head slightly to one side.

"I heard you left the ANBU."

"Ah, that."

"Is it because of Naruto?"

A brief silence fell as your gaze landed on a photo sitting on the window ledge. It showed you, along with a blond boy who resembled the description Kakashi had given you during your conversations. Your eyes softened, tinged with a hint of sadness and worry.

"I want to try my best to look after him, you know. It’s... complicated." You sighed before continuing. "I’m not sure staying in the special forces is the right thing. He needs someone to be there for him, especially right now... You know, with the exam coming up."

The silver-haired ninja followed your gaze, letting his own linger on the photo of you and Naruto. Right next to it was another photo, this time of you standing beside Kakashi. His eyes hovered over the picture of the two of you for a few seconds before resting on you again.

"It wasn’t just Naruto who convinced me to make this decision."

Curious, he watched as you looked back at him. This time, the expression in your gaze was different.

"Hmm, who else?"

Smiling softly, you stood up and approached him.

"You can come inside if you want. That window doesn’t look very comfortable."

He smiled before stepping in and lowering himself slightly so that your faces were at the same level.

"Nice attempt to dodge, but I haven’t forgotten my question."

Sitting back down on your bed and patting the spot next to you for him to join, you crossed your legs and stared at him.

He closed the window and moved to sit at the edge of the bed.

"If you want your answer, Hatake, you’re going to have to come and get it."

His cheeks tinged with a light pink as he shuffled closer to you, sitting cross-legged as well. He cleared his throat, looking away toward other parts of the room.

"Hmm... So?"

"Don’t you know a certain grey-haired Sensei? I heard he’s pretty strict, too."

His cheeks turned from pink to a deeper red as he tilted his head to the side.

"What?"

The visible part of his face made it clear that he didn’t quite know what to say—that he was still processing what you’d just said, and it left him slightly flustered.

"You know, Naruto and you... You’re the people who mean the most to me. And what I’ve seen over the years in the special forces... I think it took me a long time to realize this, but if I’m going to risk my life, I’d rather do it closer to you two. With the ANBU, I was always so far away... And if something were to happen, I want to make the most of the time I have with you."

The Copy Ninja was left speechless, unable to say anything more. Laughing softly, you leaned toward him, gently pressing your finger to his cheek. He didn’t react, continuing to look at you.

"Oh, Kakashi?"

He finally moved after a few seconds, blinking once before catching the hand you’d poked him with, holding it gently in his own.

"I’d rather you not think about the worst, [Y/N]," he said more seriously, his cheeks fading from bright red to a soft pink.

"You’re too serious. Why can’t you just try to—"

"I don’t like it when you talk as if you’re not going to come back from a mission, you know that."

He turned his head to the side before reaching into one of his pockets with his other hand. Pulling out a closed fist, he gently opened your palm and placed something in it. Holding your hand between both of his, he locked eyes with you again.

"It’s for your kunai... It’s to protect you when you’re on missions. Promise me you’ll always come back safe and sound, okay?"

You remained silent, unable to find any words. Though you couldn’t see yourself, this time it was you who had turned as red as a tomato. Lowering your gaze slightly to your joined hands, you noticed a finely braided red cord with two small grey beads. His thumb softly traced circles on the back of your hand as he held it, and his other hand gently tilted your head back up.

"Always, hmm?"

Another voice broke the sweet dream you had been immersed in—a voice much more energetic and, above all, angry.

"When did she come back?! Why didn’t anyone tell me?!"

It seemed to grow clearer and closer.

"Kakashi-Sensei?!"

Finally opening your eyes, you found yourself face-to-face with Kakashi’s silver hair. You must have fallen asleep, and he had probably laid you down before dozing off himself. He was sitting on the chair right next to you, his head resting on one arm and his other hand still holding yours. You felt him start to stir as well when a blond-haired boy appeared at the foot of your bed.

The Copy Ninja sat up but didn’t seem to notice your hands, something Naruto did not miss.

"And what’s that?!" he questioned, pointing directly at your intertwined hands, eyes wide—a mixture of surprise and slight irritation.

"Naruto, that’s enough!" yelled a feminine voice before a sharp thud echoed, likely an attempt to calm him down.

"Sakura! What’s your problem?!" the boy grumbled, clutching the top of his head.

After exchanging a quick glance, you and Kakashi pulled your hands apart, and you sat up in bed. Kakashi, for his part, stood up and scratched the back of his head, his expression showing slight embarrassment.

"Hmm, Naruto, Sakura, what a surprise…"

"We’ve been waiting for over two hours, but it seems you’ve gotten ‘lost’ again," the pink-haired girl said with an expression difficult to decipher.

"When did you come back?!" Naruto shouted, this time pointing a finger directly at you, one hand still clutching his skull.

"Uh, I—"

"Naruto, can I speak to you for a moment?" the Copy Ninja interrupted, regaining his composure.

"[Y/N]? Why didn’t you come see me?!" Naruto growled again, but his Sensei grabbed his arm and tried to pull him out of the room.

"Sakura, come too. I need to talk to both of you."

Sakura gave you a questioning look before following her Sensei and her friend, leaving the room silent once the door closed.

Sighing, you dropped your head into your hands, rubbing your eyes. You couldn’t hear the conversation clearly from the hallway, but fragments of it reached your ears. Of course, you could only make out one voice.

"This is a joke, right?!" "You’ve been hiding it from me this whole time? Why do you get to see her and not me?!" "Why, Kakashi-Sensei?!"

The voices began to quiet down, and soon you couldn’t hear anything at all. Starting to get up to see what was happening, you were stopped when the door opened again. Sakura, who stood behind Naruto, looked a little sad as she gazed at the blond boy now standing before you. Staring at the floor, he looked desperate and said nothing.

Casting a quick glance at the silver-haired ninja, who gave you a subtle nod, you slowly approached Naruto. He didn’t move an inch, murmuring something you could only make out once you were closer.

"Why, huh? Did you forget everything, then?"

Choosing not to answer his question for the moment, you simply wrapped your arms around him and held him tightly, as if your life depended on it. You hadn’t even thought about it; it just felt perfectly natural. After everything Kakashi had told you about him and your connection, you hoped this action might comfort him, even just a little.

Naruto’s eyes widened when he felt you so close, and tears began streaming down his cheeks as he shakily brought his arms up to hold you in return. His head came to rest on one of your shoulders as he let himself cry for a while.

"I don’t remember everything, Naruto, only fragments. But I promise I’ll do everything I can to remember you… and I won’t leave again."

Still sobbing, his voice trembling, the blond boy raised his head slightly.

"Another promise, huh?"

You remained silent for a few seconds, thinking about how you could answer. Yes, another promise. But this time, you would do everything you could to keep it.

"I plan to remember this one."

He stayed quiet for a moment before pulling back slightly and wiping the tears from his cheeks.

"If Lady Tsunade agrees… I can already fulfill one of my promises."

He looked up, intrigued.

"Someone whispered to me that I should take you to a certain Ichiraku. Does that ring a bell?"

At those words, his eyes lit up, and you thought you saw a spark of hope within them. A smile spread across his face, followed by soft laughter.

________________________________________

Getting Tsunade’s approval for this outing hadn’t been an easy feat. In truth, she hadn’t expected things to move so quickly, and even though the Copy Ninja hadn’t gone into details about why he had stayed by your side that night, she figured that these surprise reunions were bound to happen. Her only concern was the idea of Naruto spending time alone with you after what she had witnessed, and the only condition that made her agree was that Kakashi would watch over you both from afar.

The day had passed rather quickly, and you could finally put faces and places to the elements the silver-haired ninja had described to you. Beyond that, you were starting to recognize certain locations from your dreams more clearly. The pieces were slowly beginning to come together, and while you didn’t have all the information you needed, you were now certain that your place was here.

Naruto had gradually relaxed throughout the day, his expression growing more cheerful as he relished the time spent with you. As for you, you savored every moment as though it were the first time. After enjoying a bowl of ramen with him, you both returned to the hospital. Following a few last exchanges, the young ninja went home. He had insisted on sleeping in the second bed in your room to stay near you, but the Hokage had firmly rejected this request.

After taking a well-deserved shower and settling onto your bed, you smiled as you thought back on everything you had learned, seen, and experienced since your return. Aside from the fight with Genma, you were still happy to discover that the dark void which had haunted you for so many months was merely a book whose pages you hadn’t yet turned—and that the story they contained was more beautiful than you had imagined. The only pages that seemed to stain the entire book were soaked with the voice, mask, and silhouette of the man who appeared in your nightmares.

Sighing, you pushed the thought aside and lay down, finally surrendering to the sleep that gently began to cradle you.

________________________________________

"So, Naruto knows about it?" The question finally came as Kakashi was savoring the sushi laid out on the table.

"Hmm, he barged in this morning. Naruto being Naruto…" Asuma let out a small laugh and smiled.

"I see." He grabbed the drink in front of him and took a sip. "And you? How are you handling all this?"

The silver-haired ninja suddenly stopped eating, setting his empty plate on the large pile that had accumulated to his right.

"I’m handling it," was all he replied, reaching for another plate.

"Kakashi." He paused briefly, noticing that the Copy Ninja was staring at the sushi instead of him. "No one’s fooled. You two were pretty close before—"

"Things have changed since then, Asuma. She doesn’t remember any of that."

"But you seem pretty determined to help her, am I wrong? After spending the night at her bedside."

Kakashi froze, now looking directly at Asuma without saying a word.

"I really hope you can manage. But after what happened during the test… Be careful."

He resumed eating his sushi, his gaze shifting again to the large pile of food in front of him. Asuma, on his end, took another sip of his drink.

"Anyway, since her return, you seem… different. In a good way, of course."

"Hmm."

Sighing, he set his drink back on the table.

"Deep down, she hasn’t changed. Even if it takes time, I want her to recover her memories. I don’t want to lose her again."

At these words, his friend remained silent, watching him eat as if he had just admitted something mundane.

"Even if she doesn’t see me the same way as before… I want to do everything I can to help her."

Asuma smirked.

"And what if she saw you the same way as before? Would you push her away this time?"

A faint pink flush crept onto the Copy Ninja’s cheeks, and he placed yet another empty plate on the pile.

"How’s Kurenai doing?" he asked, clearly looking for an escape route from the conversation.

Caught off guard, the dark-haired ninja turned red himself, stammering as he fumbled to answer his friend.

________________________________________

Lying still, you tried to look around and make out your surroundings as best you could. Everything was blurry, and once again, you noticed the silhouette of that masked man. He seemed to be sitting, holding a kunai in his hands, twirling it idly.

"Well, I think we’ve finished the bulk of the work. With the little gift I just gave you… we should be able to move on to the next part."

His voice was as dark as ever, though you were starting to grow accustomed to it, even if it still sent chills down your spine.

"Now… the signal."

Your body still refused to move, no words would come out of your mouth, and your eyes remained wide open, fixed on him.

"Everything we’ve prepared up until now will take effect starting from this exact moment."

He stopped playing with the weapon in his hand, stabbing it into the ground. Straightening up, the man leaned closer to bring his face— or rather, his mask— nearer to yours. All you could see was a massive spiral. It felt as though your head had begun to spin, and the black hole on the side of the mask was pulling you in.

"The last ………. where ……. abandon everything ……. "

Parts of the sentence seemed to disappear. Or had his voice simply turned into a whisper on certain words? He paused briefly, his laughter resurfacing, but this time, the sound reaching your ears seemed tortured, distorted.

"It is then …… left ..... "

The last words, too, failed to reach your ears. Or perhaps you just couldn’t make them out. The feeling of unease grew stronger as his mask seemed to shift, consuming your entire field of vision until everything went completely black.

♡ Tag List : @strflp @sayumiht

[sideysvault]

𓍼ོ Ad Astra Per Aspera 𓍼ོ (PT. 7)

Ice and snow

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (Bonus Chapter, dated in the near vicinity of the series events)

WC: 4,310k

Tags: [sfw] Arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, mentions of dead, mature themes, panic attack, enemies to lovers, extreme hurt, comfort.

full series masterlist.

────────

No matter the circumstance, the wins, or the land conquered, they never seemed to be able to leave. Perpetually stuck inside the corner in which the blacks had forced them to hide in. The Princess spent her days studying, reading, desperately grasping for any piece of information that might help lose the collar on their necks. She tried hard to ignore the desperation that was boiling inside of her; Animals always make mistakes when they are scared. But it had become harder and harder to ignore, and it became harder and harder to stay on the sidelines, pretending it did not matter to her.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon had come out of his peaceful hiding place and began to fly to every corner in the entirety of the west, trying to convince disfavored houses to join his suicide cause. Most of the men in power still had some resemblance of honor and an almost instinctive respect for the traditions of the old Valyria. In her opinion, that was one of the biggest threats to the legitimacy of King Aegon's rule. After all, haven’t they all bent the knee to a young Rhaynera Targaryen? Wasn’t her father, still mighty and publically present, right there to conduct the affair? And wasn’t Aegon proclaimed king in the privacy of the chamber of a dying man? A weak man? One poisoned and made compliant by milk of the poppy? Aegon´s behavior and the people's hunger were not exactly helping their cause, either. Something had to change drastically, as even she felt the desire to see someone else sit on The Iron Throne.

But what was one to do? Her husband was bent upon the Green’s right to rule, partially because of the wound that was inflicted upon him at youth, and partly because he was still convinced that Aegon could be conducted in the right direction. And the skilled sailor who was to tame the uncontrollable waves that Aegon had for judgement? Prince Aemond’s brilliant mind, of course.

A childish fantasy, yes. But she had become quite fond of her husband, and she deeply desired to help Heleana’s family.

What occupied the Princess’s mind was a rather simple task; To predict where the bastard Prince was going next.

She had begged her husband to give her details of whatever relevant information he heard on the Council, arguing that she was getting particularly bored and unstimulated with domestic life. When he had unexpectedly agreed, she, for a moment, had dreamed of a future in which she could serve the Kingdom as an adviser of sorts, perhaps even one with the common folk's well-being in mind. Such were the thoughts that powered her body through the nights of research. The Princess had spent every waking hour trying to trace the path the enemy was to take. She wanted to be absolutely certain before telling Aemond about her discovery.

What she did not know was that Prince Aemond knew of his wife's critically inclined mind, and he had always felt a strong desire for them to become partners, sharing information with one another, and assisting each other intellectually. But, knowing The Princess's need for control and secrecy, he figured she would much prefer it if he waited for her to confess to him her intentions.

That is why she did not expect that her husband would insist that she came along with him. Surprised, she realized that he wanted her company on this trip.

“Oh! Don’t be ridiculous, Aemond. I do not enjoy snow, it is at odds with my nature. You don’t need me to chaperone you”.

Her husband waved her hand dismissively, apparently unconcerned with her weather preferences.

“You crafted the prediction, it is only fair you get to travel alongside me on this diplomatic effort”. He stopped for a second, before cheekily adding “Besides, I thought you had grown bored by the domesticity of the castle”.

Aemond was right, and despite her discomfort with the scenery, being so close to the efforts of peace -or at the very least, resolution-Was what her heart desired. But the Princess knew that her ego would not be able to take the blow if she was to accompany him as a mere visual attraction.

“I do not wish to serve wine and smile to the northerners”

Prince Aemond laughed at her as if she had said something amusingly stupid. Dumbfounded, she slowly blinked at him, confused.

“Dear wife, I would not be taking you as a prop. I value your tact, I thought I had made that clear to you”

Even if she despised flattery, she still had a growing sensation that he was being truthful. So there it was. It had been decided.

——

The man in front of her looked like the northerner he was. It went beyond the provincial way in which he carried himself. While Ser Cregan Stark's youth of his time in this realm still adorned his round face, his recently developed manhood was made evident by the undoubtedly brash air to his presence. Even if he was similar in age to her, he portrayed a certain confidence in his gaze that she immediately felt both drawn to, and jealous of. The Princess had heard stories, of course. Boys in the North aged like metal: Tempered and shaped by the bludgeoning hammer of the winter; Forced to be strong, animalistic.

A smile formed on her lips. In a sense, they were much like the wolves they so dearly kept by their side. Loyal like lap dogs, partially astute, superstitious and dangerous when provoked.

How was it? That old saying? There is no King but the one in the North?

“Does it amuse you?” He was getting irritated at her, but more than feeling personally offended by the Princess’s incredulity, the man felt an exasperating disillusionment: she wasn’t as easily swayed as he had thought. She had a hard head on her shoulders, just like her unyielding husband.

“I am deeply sorry, My Lord” the breath of her laughter still echoed in her voice as she continued, “You meant for me to tell my husband, who is pragmatic to the extreme, a tail of monsters and snow?”

As she smiled at him, amused, her mind brought her to think of the Prince himself, who had a beautifully angular face, but his characteristics gave away his birthright. Targaryen features; Delicate, elegant, sincerely blue and with the character of an elusive dragon flying gracefully through the skies. There was power in their lineage, yes. But it had been given. A gift from the gods, or, more feasible than the later, a stroke of luck. However, since the Jaehaerys tragedy, she was now inclined to believe that the technicality escaped her area of expertise.

The Northern Prince, however, had common features. Handsome, strong, rough, and all different from the one before him in the familial tree. A look much more suited for a republican, a man that was given power by his own merit and capability. It was a trustworthy look, and even if she knew better than to judge people on their presentation alone, it was easy to see why the North people followed the Stark line, and why everyone always flinched around the Targaryen's homogeneity.

She felt kin to Cregan Stark, and she was certain of the North’s key role in putting an end to the war, so she felt inclined to go through the trouble of trying to put sensible thoughts on her stubborn husband’s head. Besides, it had been her idea to come this far, she owed it to the both of them.

“It is imperative for you to try to speak some sense to your husband. We are people of honor, and we bent the knee to Rhaenyra Targaryen. But it is certainly true that protecting our people is our primary duty and responsibility. Above all else. Do you honestly believe that my ancestors spent blood, sweat, and centuries building The Wall because of a troublesome tale?”

The Princess sighed and decided that the best path forward was to be honest with him.

“Since I came into the region I have experienced things that have changed the way I see reality. But this-, well, with all the respect your House deserves, Lord Cregan-” The look on his face made her choose her words with caution “A lot has changed since the era where we were afraid of fire and thirsty for blood. However, I-”

“I have heard stories of your people being pedantically elitist. But I’ve never thought it would be in a more insidious manner than the Targaryen's”.

She winced in embarrassment, reprimanding herself with murmured words. Her harsh manners were getting the best of her. She could not even refute the comment that she knew to be true. “I was trying to say that I agree with you, Ser Cregan”.

A look of surprise washed over her as the unthinkable happened; He laughed. Loudly and unapologetically. The sound of his strong palm hitting on the wooden table and his laughter continued had startled you. But the absurdity of his unceremoniously joviality made you laugh as well. She was grateful for the opportunity to get out of the oppressive tightness of the walls on the Red Keep.

A sudden change in the Wind caught The Princess's attention. She had been wrong about the North, despite the numbing sensation on the tip of her fingers, the snow had captured her heart and made it malleable, filled with hospitality and reverence for the beauty of the Natural World. It was very different from where she had come from, that was perhaps the culprit of her distraction. The sound of the wind against the window and the contrast of the castle against the pristine confines of the land had taken her far away from the room she was in. Far away from the horrors of war.

Realizing she might be being rude yet again, she tried to explain herself to Lord Stark.

“I bet there is nothing that burns like the cold of Winterfell, but, God. It is a marvel to experience”.

“You don't go out often. Do you, My Lady?”.

A burst of laughter emerged out of her, and her teeth and gums were happily exposed for a second, before she covered her face with her hands, embarrassed one again. But suddenly unconcerned with her manners, at ease.

“Is it terribly obvious?”

Ser Cregan looked at her for a moment, before smiling.

“Yes, very much so”.

They smiled at each other. The Princess thought of what her life might have been had she been forced to spend it with a person who could be a friend to her. For a moment, just for a moment, their eyes lingered on each other. It was cut short by a sudden remembrance of the state of affairs. They were both in that room for a reason. It was like a curtain was abruptly raised on a stage, and they were back to the insipid negotiations, however honest they may have been.

“I made a great error once, and it cost someone’s future. I do not wish for my pride to blind me ever again. I will speak with my husband, Ser. But I doubt it will make any difference”.

Cregan Stark knew at that moment that she was making a vow to him, that she sincerely wished for the war to stop, to move forward.

“I did not take Prince Aemond to be a man willing to ask for loyalty, much less to be as diplomatic as he has poorly tried to be. I can clearly infer that it was by your design, Princess.”

She did not answer to him, unsure of how safe it would be for it to be known that she sometimes had a voice in her marriage.

“He listens to you”. He uttered those words as if they were gospel, something obvious to the most ignorant of onlookers. Lord Cregan took a breath as he looked into her eyes, one again “I do appreciate your efforts, even if they turn out to be futile.”

——

The Princess did not take into account that her husband was in the room next to her, and that he might have heard their laughter. The shred of hope she had felt while talking to Ser Cregan was violently taken away by The Prince.

He was being unreasonably stubborn, and she had felt disappointed, for she was not property, and did not believe her husband to think of her that way.

“Please, Aemond”.

“I did not take you for a fool, wife. Did he charm his way into your heart with his stories of honor from the Old World?”.

She felt an exasperating fix of rage. The Princess had spent endless nights without sleep, reading interminable, useless files, papers, books, maps, trying to work hard to alleviate the weight of her husband's sins and pressures, and it was all ruined by a misplaced fit of jealousy? Did Aemond not realize all the work she had put into this prognosis? How much she had hoped it would be able to help him? In some way, any way, really? Was he lying about valuing her insight, did he consider her as just a prop and a hand to hold when he was sorrowful?.

The intoxication of patriotic feelings and lineage royalties had always been something alien to her. But she did profoundly believe in one's duty to struggle against the forces that threaten to hurt your family. The Greens had given her a home, and Aemond had been an agreeable husband, and Gods, they killed sweet Heleana´s babe. Furthermore, if she could do something to alleviate the people's hunger, and to shorten the sorrow of war, was it not her duty?. Faith had given her a husband who she thought saw her as an equal. And, despite her best efforts, sometimes, late at night, her husband's teary eyes whispered tales of affection to her, and his hands, always blessed with decisiveness, kept her mind strong and far away from the dreaded terrors of the past.

Prince Aemond, on the other hand, realized the moment he heard his wife's laughter, that he had never made her happy like so; That in their marriage, the strange moments of tenderness and mutual support had only come from sadness or despair. Never, never from a place of innocent happiness or joviality. For even his cardinal sin had been a way to protect her. The whispers of court were not foreign to him, and he had heard the pitiful remarks made to the Princess when the news of their betrothal were made public. How could he call himself better than his brother, if he were to force upon his newly-wed wife the same pain that was inflicted upon him in infancy? How could he truly know if her advances were sincere, or if it was due to a resigned fearfulness? And even if they were, how could he, inept as he was on those matters, fulfill the expectations of a Targaryen Prince?. He had not lied to his wife. In these troubling times, especially with his Uncle, it was dangerous to so recklessly conceive a child. He had, after all, been mutilated in infancy, in the very walls of his home, and war had not been unleashed just yet. What type of father could he be, if he were to expose his child to a similar, or worse, fate than him?.

He did not expect for their laughter to hurt as much as it did. Aemond knew that it was most likely due to his own inadequacies. What other reason could there be, for his wife to laugh and be happily sweet with every person she encounters? Everyone but him?. Was the mistake made on that night she wanted to consummate the marriage, utterly unforgivable? Had he not made it clear that he values her beyond the marital arrangement? Or was it something inside of him, something rotten, poisoned, that repelled her? Is that what made his wife treat him with the usual defensiveness? Was she scared of him, as everyone else seemed to be?. Or had he embarrassed her beyond any reparations, when his brother had told the entirety of the Red Keep about his submissiveness to Sylvie? Perhaps, there would have been a time when none of it would matter much to him. But he found her fascinating, and on occasion, sincerely kind. He had grown painfully fond of her.

His thoughts were promptly interrupted by his wife's pleading “There may be some truth to what he is saying”

Aemond sighed, and grabbed the bridge of his nose. This conceit mannerism further exasperated The Princess. It reminded her of her parents, dismissing her yet again.

“I can’t promise him my-, our family's army. And if he is so concerned with honor, what guarantees us that he won’t later support the usurper?”.

“He is desperate enough to forsake the honor of his clan. I believe that he is profoundly concerned with the white walkers. It is inconsequential, whether we believe it or not. What matters is that he believes them to be a pressing threat to the kingdom”.

Aemond was convinced by the North's importance in the War, and he could not help but smile at his wife's vehement trust in his political influence. A mere misconception, he feared.

“I would never be able to convince Aegon, or the council. The Northern's are prideful superstitious people; malleable, a liability”.

“A liability is losing territory and alliances every day” She took a deep breath as she paced around the room, “Aemond, I’m not a believer, but how can you explain Heleana’s gift?”

“That’s different. Peculiarities of pure Targaryen blood. Unlike the bastard sons of Rhaenyra”.

She laughs in exasperation. There it was, again. She truly believed that her husband could be a good leader, if he was somehow able to release the bonds that made him a servant to the power of his own vanity and lineage. Yes, the Targaryen's were said to be of pure Valyrian blood, dragon lords of ancient lineage. Will he ever be able to let go of such a tyrannical tale? From her point of view, it was one of the few things that kept him far away from greatness. The only one he could control and change, at least.

“Is something funny, My Dear?”

She felt like crying out of pure spite. The Princess was the one who convinced him of coming to The North, and it had been all for nothing. He had failed her, and she had failed him as well. She tried strenuously hard to not take her husband's negation personally, but she failed to do so. The mind of the Princess was simple that way, goal-oriented. And tragically prideful, as she usually was.

“Dear Gods! You cannot be this blinded by hate. Your own resentments are clouding your judgement, husband. This is the best decision available to us” She tried to take a hold of her emotions, as this was not at all how she planned to present her case, "Given the northerner's attitude towards the Wall, the only natural step is that we consider exploiting their needs in the interest of our Kingdom”.

Aemond did not know why he could not say it. He agreed with his wife, this was the best possible route. Even if the plan had its flaws, in their precarious condition, it was as good as they could strive for. But he, in his insensate state, could not bring himself to admit in front of her, -In front of himself, really - that he truly held no power. All of it. His futile plans, it was a delusion of his. And he was deeply embarrassed by it. As much as he had tried to turn the odds in his favor, it never seemed to work. The Prince could not stand to even imagine the look she would have when his wife realized that he was as powerless as she was. So, he said something else.

“It is a bargain. What do you always say? A cry of desperation? Furthermore, I doubt that the usurpers are able to make such abiding promises, even in a stage of crisis”.

Even as those words left his mouth, he could feel that for the first time since the attempted consummation, he had truly hurt her. It went beyond not getting her way, and it went far beyond the matters of war. It was something more personal, far more domestic. He knew that this discussion, as many in their marriage, were a mere result of that something, -What it was, he could not say - that did not quite fit.

Crying was not at all alien to her, as a matter of fact, for someone who took such satisfaction in their strength, she cried rather easily. Of course, she didn't when Aemond was there, or anybody else, but still, this night, The Princess did not have the energy to hide it. It all came together, convulsing and hitting her like a swell. She suddenly felt like no air was left in the chamber, and, warning to grasp for anything solid, she fell to the cold floor. Such hysterical episodes happened to her, on rare occasions, how much less than when she was an infant. The woman felt an indescribable shame infect her throat, further obstructing the air to enter her lungs.

“Aemond, besides Helena, I have no one. Besides you, I have no one on the Red Keep. Those Walls are my whole life now. Do not reprimand me for having cordial interactions with others. Especially when you won't ever talk to me”. She crawled -how pitiful-, to the nearest wall, in an attempt to further anchor herself to the material surroundings, before she continued, “I worked every fucking night to help you on this, and, and this is how you react?”

She knew that it was hard to talk to her husband about her case, because he is oh so wise, and he loves himself so. But there she went and promised it anyway to Ser cregan Stark. And she did not make out a very good case for herself, for she was crying before she had finished.

Aemond was not as unfeeling as she had thought, because as soon as she saw her drop to the ground, and crawl to the wall, it did not take him very long to hit the ground, and move on hands and knees to sit beside her. She laughed through the tears. Oh, the great Royal Couple, dragging themselves on the floor like babes. Unsure of how much she would like being touched, Aemond opted for grabbing only her index finger, and slowly, trying to synchronize it to his breath pattern as much as he could, he began to draw circles on it.

“I am sorry, but it seems like you are in a constant war with me. Saving grace and being charitable to everyone else. Do I scare you? Did the incident in Silver Street disgust you to that extent?”

The Princess got inexplicably angry when he felt ashamed about that, and perhaps being rather insensible, she spat out “Do not be stupid, Aemond. Or think that ill of myself. Of course not”.

He laughed. And said her name in a quiet, a very quiet voice, with the most restrained manner possible. And then he said her name again, softly, sweetly. Soon enough, you were resting your head on his extended legs, hugging them tightly, as he stroked your hair. Breathing became an unconscious action after some time, and your eyes and heart began to feel tired after the crying.

“I wished to do nothing more than to help”.

“I know, Darling. And it was a brilliant move.” He took a breath before continuing his confession, having finally decided to be honest to her, despite how much he loved her respect “But the truth is, despite your high opinion of me, is that I have no real power on the council. It is a smart move, but it is not doable, Love. I cannot do it. I do not have the political capability, or my brother the sense to listen”.

As soon as he said it, he felt like a whole month of fog and rain finally had cleared. The Prince did not know why it had been so hard. And the fact of the matter was that she already knew that. And yet they had both traveled to the North, as an act of Faith for one another, and as an attempt to escape the horrors of their incapacities. They were full of magnificent illusions. What the Princess might not have been aware of, is that the situation had made evident to her husband that change was necessary. Not only for him, but for his wife as well.

“Sometimes I forget that we are at the mercy of others”. He laughed, after all, he often forgot too.

“The Blacks are most likely to support his fantastical crusade. But at least we can now know for certain that we will lose the North. That must give us some time for preparation”.

“Thank you for coming with me, Aemond. I really am grateful”. Her husband wasn’t sure if she meant it for listening to her, for coming to the North, or for the conversation they just had, but by the time the conversation was over, she was sitting straight again, but with her head now resting on his shoulder.

That morning, at breakfast, he heard her laugh again, only this time, it was with him. She smiled at him for the first time, without any irony or jabs, it seemed like a burden was lifted from her chest, from their marriage.

────────

Notes: This is it folks! This is the first chapter (and my favorite) i ever wrote on this series. I got the idea while i was bored watching gladiator 2 (Ik). It has been plaguing my head ever since. This is a long one but I hope you can enjoy it!

-Sidey xxo

[jyeoulzhu]

cause you should be my lady

summary . y/n crashes yunjin's wedding, only to discover she still loves him. despite her fear of ruining each other, she chooses to run away with him, leaving behind the life she never truly wanted.

pairing . huh yunjin x male reader

warnings . angsty ahh

but his hands shook as he typed. the weight of the news crushed his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. yunjin—his yunjin—was slipping through his fingers for good.

“still going?” wonbin asked from the driver’s seat, eyes flicking toward y/n through the rearview mirror.

“of course,” y/n muttered, gripping the bouquet he impulsively bought. “i need to see her one last time.”

he thought back to all the memories they shared—the late-night walks, the stolen glances, and the way her laugh felt like home. the past few months had been nothing but agony, watching her drift further away, but he never thought she'd end up walking down the aisle with someone else.

as they arrived at the venue, the place was glowing with fairy lights and soft music played in the background as guests filled the space. y/n stood at the back, unnoticed, his heart pounding as he spotted yunjin in her white gown, glowing and perfect.

he remembered the way she once looked at him, eyes filled with something that resembled love. but he was too much of a coward back then. too afraid to ruin their friendship. and now, she was someone else’s.

“dude, you’re shaking,” wonbin whispered, nudging him.

“i know,” y/n whispered back. “i feel like throwing up.”

as the vows began, y/n felt his heart shatter with every word. when the officiant asked if anyone objected, y/n's breath hitched, but he stayed silent. what good would it do to ruin her moment?

but just as the groom was about to slide the ring onto her finger, yunjin’s eyes wandered. they landed on y/n, and for a fleeting moment, everything around them disappeared. her smile faltered, her eyes softened, and he saw something—regret, pain, longing—he couldn’t quite place.

wonbin noticed it too. “bro, she’s looking at you.”

“doesn’t matter,” y/n said, forcing a smile. “she’s already made her choice.”

he turned around and walked out of the venue, the bouquet dropping from his hands, petals scattering on the ground. the world blurred around him as he stumbled down the empty streets, the weight of everything crashing down on him.

hours later, y/n found himself sitting on the sidewalk outside a convenience store, a bottle of soju in hand, eyes burning from the tears he couldn’t stop. wonbin sat beside him in silence, knowing there were no words to fix what had just happened.

he let out a bitter laugh, feeling the weight of years crashing down on him. the memories of her, the dreams they never spoke of, and the feelings he buried too deep—it all surfaced at once.

“i really thought she'd choose me,” y/n murmured, taking another sip of soju.

“she did,” wonbin replied quietly. “but some choices come too late.”

wonbin raised a brow. “so... what now?”

with trembling hands, y/n stood up and stumbled toward the venue. his heart pounded as he slipped through the side entrance and found the bridal room. he knocked softly before pushing the door open.

there she was. yunjin, sitting on the floor in her wedding gown, mascara streaked down her cheeks. she looked up, eyes filled with pain and longing.

“y/n...” her voice cracked.

“say the word,” he said, voice shaking. “just say the word and i’ll take you away from here.”

she stared at him, tears falling endlessly. “i... i can't.”

“why not?” y/n stepped closer. “do you love him?”

she shook her head. “no.”

“then why are you doing this?”

“because i’m scared,” she whispered. “scared of choosing you and losing you. scared that... we’ll ruin each other.”

he knelt in front of her, gently wiping her tears. “yunjin, i’d rather ruin myself with you than live a lifetime wondering what could’ve been.”

she broke down, sobbing into his chest as he held her close. outside, chaos erupted as the guests realized the bride was missing.

“we should go,” y/n murmured. “before yeonjun sends a hitman after me.”

she let out a soft laugh through her tears. “let’s run.”

hand in hand, they slipped out through the backdoor, leaving behind the shattered expectations and broken promises. the night air felt freeing, as if the world finally allowed them to choose each other.

but this time, they didn’t have to wait for another life. they had each other now. and that was enough.

[sunshine-theseus]

Bia | Kyra Cooney-Cross x Reader

Words: 2.8k Summary: you create your own boots and meet the most beautiful girl  - sorry I also used this to info dump about the necessity for boots designed specifically for women to lower injury risks Warnings: none i think. lemme know if there are any requested by - @hottiedogs375 i hope you enjoy, it's probably not my best :( definitely not as good as pequeña i think

My family was more of a cricket family than a football one. I wasn’t really fond of either, the shouting was always too much, and the food was somehow sloppy yet rock hard at the same time. Even when we watched at home. The living room would be full of sweaty angry men, sometimes my mum and sister would join if our team was actually doing well. Meanwhile you’d find me in my room at the very back corner of the attic, my room, with headphones on to block out the noise, usually designing something.

Despite the cricket background, I found myself intrigued by the design of women’s football kits. In my design and technology class in year 13, I fell down a research rabbit hole on football boots for women. It was then I discovered the lack of adaptation for the shoe. Women often just wear smaller sizes of boots designed for men, which has been one of the factors in the increase in injuries in the women’s game and I’d decided I wanted to fix that.

That’s how I found myself in front of a crowd, made up of possible brand ambassadors and sponsors, as well as a range of women’s athletes from across the world, pitching my idea.

“And that’s why brands like Bia are important to the growth of women’s football. The shape of the boot, the length of studs, the sole support, they’re all contributing factors to how players perform. When women footballers use the men’s boots, which is basically the only option, they aren’t going to grow used to the details designed for male anatomy. It’s causing stress on not only their feet but every ligament, every bone, every piece of them is suffering because they have to try and adapt to things they can’t possibly adapt to.” I felt like the closing of my speech was rather strong, especially as I watched players and possible sponsors stand to clap. The noise echoes throughout the auditorium and a happiness bubbles within me.

“Thank you for providing me this opportunity. Please, if anyone has any questions.” I gesture to the stand-up microphone in the middle aisle, and people rush to line up.

“What made you intent on creating a boot specifically for women, risking money and time on something people have tried to do before? Something you knew wasn’t guaranteed to work?”

“I know it’s funny, but my family was not a football one, so I didn’t grow up knowing much about the game. But in my a-levels design and technology class, we had to research an issue prevalent in an existing design, and I for some reason was just drawn to the idea that women don’t even get the choice of having a boot made for them. I found it unfair and uncaring. Everyone expects women to play at the same level as men yet won’t provide them with the necessary equipment to do so without them having to risk, quite possibly their career. And I couldn’t just move on after the class, I knew that I had to do something about it. So I’ve spent the past 3 years perfecting the design and building the brand, to be here in front of you all today.” Another round of applause is heard throughout the room before the next person steps up.

She’s a footballer, that I know. Young, no older than 21, my age. And very very pretty.

“This question probably isn’t quite as important as that one but, what made you pick the name Bia? It just seems like an interesting name.” people chuckle at the question, and the (newly discovered) Australian shyly looks around.

“No, I love this question. Bia is the Greek goddess of force and raw energy. She’s actually Nike’s sister, the goddess of victory and very obviously the brand. I think Bia resembles a lot of things within female athletes. They have this driving force and unbelieve power that they bring, and it just felt so right.”

“That’s sick. Can I also quickly ask, sorry, are these boots made for every female athlete? Like can someone in track and field use these or are they just for footballers?” the girl smiles brightly after her question, and I have to remember not to lose focus.

“While the primary focus is obviously footballers, I have researched the compatibility of boots between sports and yes, a professional sprinter like Sharika Jackson can use them just as well as you or Alexia Putellas could. And of course as the brand grows we’ll be able to develop even further and broaden our research further in creating boots fit for anyone.”

-

Questions carry on for a while, then I disappear behind the curtain that’s suspended behind me, rushing to remove my microphone. Eventually I slide out the side door and reach the separate room booked for ‘mingling’ after the panel.

Between talking to rich people desperate to make it seem like they care about others, and athletes who are very eager to know everything they can about the shoe, I try to keep an eye out for the nameless Australian. Every time I think I’ve spotted her; it seems she disappears. Bodies keep moving and she seems to be one of them.

Then I bump into someone. We both go stumbling but she catches me just before I head for the floor.

“I am so sorry I wasn’t looking where I was going.” And there she was, the girl I’d been looking for.

“No, no need to apologise. I’m Y/n.” I give her a hand to shake.

“Kyra.” There’s a pause before she continues.

“I’m a big fan of your boot. It’s truly incredible.” It’s hard not to blush and sputter out random sounds at her praise.

“Thank you. I’m really hoping this function works out.”

“Well I was thinking, when it does, if you need ‘a face of Bia’…”

“Oh my god yes that would be amazing. Seriously you have no idea how cool that would be.”

We talk for quite some time, and she sticks by my side when someone else comes to talk and ask question. When it’s time to go home we exchange numbers and that’s the first and last time I see her for a while.

-

5 months later is the next time I see Kyra in person. We’d both been travelling a lot, me for sponsors, ambassadors, and athletes, her for work. I’d expected to meet with her a few more times before we kick started the ‘face of Bia’ photoshoots, but as the fates had it, we found ourselves in a large warehouse, photo equipment, and many boxes of my shoes filling the space.

It suddenly all started to feel very real, and that made me nervous. So I packed myself into a small room in the corner as I tried to calm down, hoping the isolation and quiet would help me feel better.

Not even 2 minutes in, someone is following and taking a seat next to me.

“You right?” the voice is familiar and smooth.

“Yeah, yeah of course I am. It’s not like the biggest thing I’ve ever worked for in my life is basically in its final stage of release in the next room and I’m freaking out about it. What if they aren’t actually good? What if th-”

“I’m going to stop you right there. You sent me a pair 2 months ago, and I told you I would test them before saying anything, and I did just that. I took them to training. Ran on the pitch, walked, kicked the ball, passed, made risky moves. And what did I tell you after that?”

“‘These are the best fucking shoes ever.’ But what if they aren’t?”

“Listen Y/n, how many other athletes, not just me or footballers, did you send a pair to for testing?”

“Like 43. Basically every one that came to the panel plus some more.”

“How many told you they were good?”

“43.”

“Exactly. So we’re going to go out there together, you’re gonna tell the photographer what you want to see, every opinion, every change, anything, and we’re going to finalise your fucking dream.” Kyra picks me up without me even agreeing, and basically carries me out to the set up.

Ali Kreiger, despite her recent retirement, was currently being photographed. She’d been the one to reach out to me when she heard from, someone, and wanted to be an ambassador. I probably screamed so loud my neighbours thought I was getting murdered that day.

“They’re going to want a couple photos of you too probably. Either with the shoes or with one or all of us. Okay?” Kyra rubs a hand up and down my back as I take it all in.

I nod vigorously and try to shake my hands to get rid of the remaining nerves, eventually taking a seat next to the photographer, Eve. She asks for my input on every shot and manages to carry out my vision without fail every single time. As players filter in and out, I begin to truly relax and allow myself to take in the moment.

Zimmorlei Farquharson and Poppy Boltz, two AFLW players for the Brisbane Lions, were being photographed together when Kyra slid into the spare chair next to me. She didn’t say anything but when I looked over, I had to quickly look away again. Her outfit wasn’t something out of the ordinary, a loose cropped top and bike shorts, plus the sage green boots she was promoting. But the strip of skin that was exposed between her shirt and shorts was enticing and it was hard not to stare at the way her muscles contracted every time she moved in the seat.

I’m certain she caught me staring.

As she stands to take over the Australian Football players, Kyra leans over and whispers in my ear. It takes me a moment to process her words and by then she’s already under the lights.

“Good thing we’re taking some pictures. They’ll last longer.” To say I was stumped was a rather big understatement. Was she flirting with me?

I don’t get to think about it too much, Kyra looking my way every time she changed position or began to play around with the ball provided.

Not long after, I’m asked to join all the girls in front of the camera for a few shots. I knew it was coming but my heart still dropped into my stomach, and I choked on my breath. As expected, it’s Kyra who grabs my hand and instructs me to breathe slowly. Her thumb runs over the back of my hand and the motion begins to sooth me.

I take a place in front of the camera and the group of athletes. I’m not quite sure how to stand, but Kyra takes the space behind me, resting an arm over my shoulder and the other around my waist. It forces me to lean back naturally and as the girls around us take a stance, Eve continues to shoot.

“You and Kyra have a lot of chemistry by the looks of it, and she’s who you’re most comfortable with. Use that. Make it natural. The girls around you will adapt.” I expect the comment from Eve, but it’s Ali who puts a hand on my shoulder and reassures me.

With that instruction, and a nod from Eve, Kyra jumps on my back. It’s a pose that helps with showing off the boot and making me laugh. She then jumps off and takes my hands, turning me to face her as she dips. I rush to catch her as she falls, our faces a hair width apart.

Before I can think, I close the gap. My lips press hard against her’s as the camera shutter repeatedly goes off, but I don’t think anything of it. Until I pull away.

I almost drop her once my thoughts catch up to me.

“I am so sorry. What the fuck did I just do?” the rest of the girls had already walked away, so it was just us.

“Nothing you should regret or feel bad for.” Kyra stands right in front of me, our lips basically touching again.

“And maybe you should do it again.” I pause for a moment before leaning back down, kissing her again.

~~~~~

It takes three more weeks for the official brand release. After years of designing, making, spending every cent I had on these boots, Bia was officially the first woman specific sports boot.

Kyra’s first Arsenal game wearing them was the day of the release. She ended up talking about them in post-match interview after being asked “how were you excelling so well in the midfield today?” Not only was Bia’s sale numbers skyrocketing and the media account blowing up, so was my own.

I’d of course attended the match, excited to see them as an officially released boot. Someone had spotted me in the crowd and tweeted about it, talking about ‘the creator of that new boot brand is watching Kyra rep them for the first time live’. Someone else had caught me hugging Kyra on the pitch after the game and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

The rumours could only be expected. They also couldn’t be denied. Not without lying.

“I’m so proud of you.” The smooth Australian accent almost lulls me to sleep as we rest in Kyra’s bed, the sheets hiding our bare skin.

Her fingers trace shapes on my hip as she holds me, and I kiss along her collar bones and neck.

“And also very, very grateful for your genius brain creating those boots. Not only for helping my game play, but for bringing you to me.”

“I’m also grateful for my genius brain bringing us together.” I tease before softly kissing her.

It’d been impossible to escape her charm after our kiss at the photoshoot, so naturally we went on a date. And another, before she asked me to be her girlfriend. Eve sent me those photos just in case we wanted them in the brand release post. They currently sat in my hard drive, but it was very tempting to post a couple.

Kyra wanted a moment of privacy before the world knew, but I knew it didn’t matter whether it was out or a secret, as long as I had her.

-

A new power couple is on the rise in the world of Women’s Football. Creator of new women’s sports boots brand Bia, Y/n L/n, spotted with girlfriend, Arsenal and Matildas midfielder Kyra Cooney-Cross at a café in North London this morning before the London Derby. The couple confirmed their relationship mere days ago with photos of the lovebirds kissing from L/n’s brand shoot.

I laugh at the article as Kyra pulls into the Emirates parking, hand in mine. I’d become rather acquainted with her teammates and they begged me to come to the London Derby on the weekend. I couldn’t refuse when my girlfriend pulled out the puppy dog eyes and promised to ban me from any sort of affection, specifically kisses, for the week.

“You better win. I have a bet going with Niamh that you’ll beat her and I cannot lose a bet against her again.” Kyra chuckles and leaves with a kiss, sending me into the friends and family section of the stands.

It was nerve wracking going alone, but it was for Kyra and that was all I cared about. Supporting her like she supported me.

-

Kyra doesn’t start, which had been expected. Despite it, the girls were playing well and were up 3-1 at half-time. No yellow cards for either team had most people shocked though. The derby was known to be rough and physical, yet it seemed things were rather calm for the situation at hand.

There’s a substitute at half-time that puts Kyra back on the pitch. I blow a kiss when she looks my way as she jogs out and she pretends to catch it and place it on her cheek. Both of us are unaware of the interaction being caught on the big screen while people wait for the countdown.

It’s when extra time is announced that everyone in the stadium knows Arsenal have won the game. The Chelsea players look tired and defeated and the Arsenal girls don’t look much different, apart from the massive smiles that grace each one of their faces. The final whistle blows, and the crowd erupts in deafening cheers for the gunners, and I can’t help joining in.

After congratulating the blues on their performance and huddling with her own teammates, Kyra comes running for me. The guard on the other side of the barrier grows wary when I stand, clearly about to jump it, but Kyra gives him the okay and grabs me by the waist, helping me join her on the pitch.

“I’m so fucking proud of you.” I whisper as she stands on her tippy toes.

Her arms wrap tightly around my neck and mine go around her waist as she pulls me in for a kiss. It’s deep and passionate and the crowd around us cheers, some of the girls joining in.

“We’re both kinda killing it aren’t we?” I let out a laugh as she hops on my back, pointing me in the direction of her Matilda’s teammates, even Sam, who are grouped in the middle of the field.

She sprinkles kisses around my face as they talk between each other and I’ve never felt more content.

Fuck cricket, football is the sport for me.

[zombieoffender]

My commentary of Starlight Express's Wembley's costume choices (long rant)

Note: This rant is SUPER SUBJECTIVE. 100% my opinion, it's totally okay to disagree and tell why do you disagree with me, it is just something i wanted to share

I've been liking Starlight Express for quite some time, I found out the Bochum version before the Wembley one, and obviously I notice how DIFFERENT they are visually. Personally, i think there's nothing bad about the music, I think the musical numbers for both version have its very own charm!!

I don't know much about musicals in general, but Starlight Express gotta be the most stand out musical out there when it comes to costumes ive seen so far, the idea of personifying locomotives and their coaches are really interesting and i think they execute it really good!! (or maybe im just a railfan)

tho the same can't be said with the Wembley version,,

The Bochum/pre-2024 version ACTUALLY looks like Locomotives and coaches. You can tell Rusty is supposed to be a steam train, Greaseball is the Macho antagonist diesel engine, and so on.

I just feel like you wouldn't be able to tell what locomotive/coaches they are supposed to be in the Wembley version without them getting introduced

Like, tell me you dont know anything about Starlight express, and you had to guess which one looks more like a locomotive?

The wembley one feels more like modern spacesuits, rather than armor of metal

tbh there are some that are not super clear on both version, like Pearl, like i didnt know she was supposed to be a first class passenger car until i watched them slime tutorials.

They also removed the iconic locomotive-looking helmet and changed it to normal helmets in the race which also got me,,, 💔

the helmets is what makes it feels like A TRAIN RACE! not only that, it looks really unique!! i dont know why they removed it </3 maybe its better to breath on a normal helmet? i guess i can understand it, but it's really just a bummer, i think the locomotive helmet is what completes the whole personified-train look.

I think my biggest ick about this whole costume thing is the changes they made with Greaseball, he(or she, for the wembley version) is my favorite character of this musical, and i just- really, don't like her costume in Wembley version. I dont care about the fact you turned Greaseball into a woman character #lesbiansareawesome it just feels like a total downgrade where Male greaseball have all that machine detail in his costume while the Female Greaseball lookin more like a space soldier.

Tho i think it's worth to mention despite that all, there are some characers that nailed their looks in both version, like Dinah and Electra, they do resemble what they are supposed to be (the checkered pattern for Dinah and the futuristic look for Electra)

I think that is all i can say (for now). I just think that StEx 2024/Wembley doesn't feel like a train musical as much as the Bochum version would.

Or maybe I'm just being a closeted foamer finding out my fav UP character doesnt resembled UP diesel anymore

That being said, I do not dislike StEx 2024, i've seen someone said "enjoy StEx 2024 as it's own musical rather than a remaster version" and i think i agree with that, Wembley version has it's very own charm that makes it awesome, It's attention to details and it's performance are rather just as cool and maybe better than the old ones. My only problem i have with it is, again, costumes.

oh and the fact they removed C.B. thats also a sin /j

anyway, here is my attempt on drawing fem greaseball on male greaseball costume as my end note. Thank you!!!

[picturejasper20]

So one of the segments that aired today had Hazel and her friends going inside her own mind.

Episodes with this type of premise can be pretty interesting because they can say quite a lot about a character's psyche by showing how their mind operates and how they view themselves and the world around them.

One thing that is pretty clear from the start is that a lot of Hazel's mind seems to be about being great, her doing big accomplishments or things she wishes she could do when she grows up. All these places give the idea that Hazel not only wants to be a good person but she wants to be seen as one, or that she cares about being perceived as one and believe that she is good herself.

Another thing we quickly learn at the start of the episode is that there is a place that has a lock on it and it shouldn't be open and should remain closed. The person who shows the mind around says that is where ¨Hazel's darkest secrets are¨ and asks to the rest to not touch the trapdoor.

This gives the impression that Hazel has been trying to avoid something. Or that there are certain things she would rather not think about and hide them deep down her mind.

A bit later in the mind tour, the group reaches to a part where there is a poem that Hazel wrote around an year ago that she considers embarrassing and doesn't want his friends to read. Jasmine and Winn only express curiosity over it and don't make fun of Hazel but Hazel still takes other poems when they try reading them and throws them inside the trapdoor that the guide warn them to not open.

From the trapdoor a giant worm that resembles Hazel comes out of it. She explains that she represents all negative thoughts that Hazel has about her, grabs Winn and Jasmine and runs away with them. Hazel asks to Cosmo and Wanda if she can wish the worm away but they explain that the worm is part of she is and erasing it could change her whole personality.

As Hazel tries fighting against the mind worm, who only feeds her more and more with her negative thoughts, revealing that Hazel believes things like how her friends are nice to her because ¨they feel sorry for her¨ or that they laugh behind her back.

This makes me wonder if Hazel has had some bad experiences in her past that lead her to think things like this. Whatever it is, these things show that Hazel has a low self-image of herself, going to the point of thinking people wouldn't want to be her friend.

What really gets me is how this worm was trapped under this trap door with chains and locks, like she was trying to suppress all these thoughts in a way. She is scared of thinking that she has this ¨darker¨ parts of her personality and thoughts and would rather pretend that they aren't there.

This explains why most of the mind is surface is about how Hazel is a ¨good person¨: Hazel is scared of being seen as a bad person and having parts of her that could make her ¨unlikable¨ to other people. She would rather supress those ¨bad¨ parts of herself, thinking they aren't part of her.

Hazel then is able to remember something Angela taught her at the start of the episode and repeats it, using it as a way to not let all these negative thoughts control her, making the worm mind very small in size.

By the end Hazel learns to accept these negative thoughts quite better and understand that they are a part of who she is. That while these are thoughts that exist inside of her, she doesn't have to let them define who she is as a person nor her actions.

I'm curious to see if the series ever gets a second season, we could get more of these ¨negative thoughts¨ from Hazel since it was an interesting part of her character to see and i would like to see more of it explored in the future.

[celestiaras]

‧₊˚✧ ❛[ tangled up in blue ]❜

━━━ .°˖✧ requested by @/iketnos (twt) ˚₊ ⊹

ft. elira pendora, ike eveland x f! reader — lazulight/luxiem, nijisanji en

╰₊✧ elira & ike give their biggest fan the experience of a lifetime after an accidental encounter┊2k words

contains: smut!! dom elira (w drock), ike & sub reader┊idol elira & ike, naive reader who is thrown straight into the plot & wears a skirt, fingering, unprotected piv & blowjobs, dirty talk, getting walked in on & implied foursome with vox

➤ author's note: my very first fic trade... it's such an honor

you could swear on your life that it was a complete accident all you want, but you know that nothing would be a believable explanation of why you were backstage when you shouldn’t be that wasn’t you being a creepy stalker. the two of them looked less than understanding with frowns (maybe even scowls) indicating that they weren’t in a considerate mood when you nervously sputtered that you were following someone who looked like your friend, so focused on tracking them down that you somehow didn’t manage to read all of the signs clearly reading “staff only.” oh, this really was the worst case scenario to meet your idols in, unable to tell them how much you admire them and asking for a picture like a normal fan would, instead insisting on removing yourself from their sight before they call security to do it.

they glanced at each other for a second then smirked as if they read each other’s mind and had agreed on something without needing to speak. “no, don’t worry about it, we understand.” elira’s sudden dazzling smile that exactly resembled the ones you’ve seen in posters caught you off guard, making blood rush to your face and making you feel hot. “so… if this your first wingwriters concert?”

“oh, i’ve actually attended every concert you’ve ever held in this country! it’s just— well, it’s such an honor to meet you guys in person! your performance today was one of my favorites, well, all of them are my favorites really,” you quickly found yourself rambling your admiration to them, telling them about how you bought every single piece of available merchandise that you could get your hands on and how you were in the top point five percent of their listeners on spotify. you weren’t quite sure why they suddenly decided to start a conversation with you, but you certainly weren’t going to pass up the opportunity to tell them how much you admired them. neither of them listened to the details since it was the same old words that they heard from everyone, however, their attention was focused on the rather cute fan who was spilling her heart out about how much she loved them.

elira cut you off mid-sentence, wrapping her arm around you and letting ike lead the both of you somewhere, “that’s so flattering coming from you!” you weren’t sure if her words were genuine or if she was trying to shut you up to steer the conversation elsewhere, now acting friendly like you were already acquainted (not that you minded or anything because, well, the elira pandora had her arm slung over your shoulder and her perfume smelled so good—). “so sorry about us being so rude earlier, by the way, we just some bad news about the next concert.”

you now realize that they were taking you to a trailer, one that was a bit further away from all of the commotion of wrapping up the event. were you allowed to be this deep in an area where outsiders were forbidden? two of the three band members brought you here and didn’t mention the possibility of getting in trouble, so it must be fine, right?

the inside layout was standard, yet it was colorful with a gleaming white and sparkling blue and full of posters of the wingwriters trio covering the walls. they set you down on a little bed and elira got you a drink from the mini-fridge while ike joined. you really tried to follow everything that she was talking about, but she got off-topic a lot and constantly skipped around in her stories— again, not that you minded because your idol who was the prettiest woman you’ve ever been blessed with living in the same timeline as was talking to you like you were a best friend. you were on cloud nine and all giddy inside, practically having hearts floating above your head like a lovesick puppy and holding the can of soda in your hands like it was something worth treasuring instead of consuming it.

seeing how completely unassuming and how smitten you were, she took this opportunity to lean forward and place a little peck on your lips. it was innocent and experimental, to test the waters and see your reaction so that she could estimate how far you’d let her go. she chuckled at your stunned expression and spoke first, “you’re really cute, you know that? what do you think, ike?”

the man who was silent and hidden this entire time made his presence known by sitting behind you, gently caressing your thigh before whispering in your ear, “she’s just adorable.”

they could see you melting in between them like ice cream in the hot summer sun from the attention, speechless from the flirtatious advances. you didn’t resist in any capacity so she kissed you again, more deeply this time while tenderly holding your face in her palm. you gasped as he bit the shell of your ear and began trailing his hand under your skirt, making you shiver under his touch. you weren’t sure how many rules you must have broken within the past ten minutes and the possible repercussions that could happen if you got caught.

although, this is the opportunity of a lifetime! sneaking around with your idol like this was something most could only dream of since it’s only a plot conceivable in fiction, but you were living it out right now with not one, but two of them! you would be stupid to pass this up and reject them! you indulged in their inappropriate behavior instead, reaching out to hold her face in your hands and kissing her back with a bit of tongue while leaning back into him. it took some confidence that you didn’t know you had in you when you were too nervous to even look them in a eyes a few minutes before, but they seemed more than pleased with your reciprocation and took it as unspoken permission to escalate it further.

elira chuckled at your little display of dominance that wasn’t going to last for much longer, quickly hiking up your skirt and hooking a finger around your underwear to pull it down. “god, you’re wet so wet already,” she marveled, looking at the wet patch on the fabric and sticking it in her back pocket as a souvenir. “such a short little skirt that barely even covers your ass, you were probably hoping for something like this to happen, weren’t you?” you didn’t even get to respond, getting cut off by a gasp as she gently rubbed at your clit and pressed in one finger followed by another. she made slow scissoring motions to stretch you out and licked her lips, eagerly prepping you to be able to take her with ease and pushing you over on your back so that she could fuck you properly.

your eyes rolled back to meet with ike’s length already waiting for you, fully erect and nearly dripping with anticipation. obediently, you opened your mouth and let him slip the tip between your lips like it was the only thing you were good for. he tasted bitter due to the poor diet of energy drinks you so often heard of, but it didn’t matter to you since you were being granted the honor to suck him off. he groaned as you ran your tongue along his shaft, sloppy sounds of slurping and his mewls being mixed into a beautiful melody of sin.

you were unable to focus on both of them at once and they had you torn, capturing your attention by doing some action they have yet to do and essentially playing ping-pong with it. feeling elira impatiently reveal her cock from her tight white shorts and sinking it into your warm so quickly make you choke around him, sending vibrations throughout his core and making him grip onto any piece of you he could get his hands on even harder.

her pacing was relentless, pumping in and out of you like you were a mere fleshlight. maybe you were in the moment, a toy just to get them off for the moment instead of a living and breathing fan, but you would be lying if the thought of being used by them so callously didn’t get you excited. you felt completely stuffed and her light blue cock hit your sweet spot so perfectly that it had you seeing stars, tearing up at the sensation while her nails dug into your thighs for her to keep her balance.

with every thrust that pushed you back into the mattress and had your tits bouncing under your top, you choked a little bit more on ike’s cock. you could barely see his crooked glasses that were on the verge of slipping off and felt yourself getting a little lightheaded from the awkward angle. nevertheless, you persisted in your goal to make him cum down your throat, lips slick with bodily fluids as he bucked his hips deeper and hit the back of your throat, “god, how are you able to do this so effortlessly? you must have so much experience sucking dick to get whatever you want, don’t you?” it nearly made him blush at the thought as if whatever he was doing wasn’t worse.

you could only whine in response since you were fully occupied, the only noises coming from you were squelching and gagging from both of your holes getting filled like a common whore. nice, quiet, and compliant, just how they like to fuck their cute little fans like you. it’s truly unfortunate that such an experience can’t be told to others, but it must be kept a secret if they are to continue such activities! they can’t have a scandal breaking out that the wingwriters have a bad habit of bringing unknowing fans who would give them the world backstage and adding their panties to an evergrowing collection, now can they?

“mhm, fuck… i’m close,” he mewled with the soft and gentle voice that you knew held so much power from his metal songs, the type of voice people would listen to as a guilty pleasure. you really wished that you could savor his words properly before you sputtered on the thick ropes of white he shot down your throat without warning, his hand holding your head in place so that you could take every drop of it without wasting and not letting go until you swallowed it all like a good girl.

elira took a bit longer to tap out than he did, absolutely animalistic and flipping you over onto your stomach at some point to rail you even harder. she was feral and had no problem making you scream so loud that everyone else at the concert venue would be able to know that she was the reason behind the noise. ike simply watched the rest of the show amused by it all, even having the kindness of holding your hand when her stamina finally ran out and she painted your insides with her seed before collapsing on top of you.

“what the hell are you two up to? our manager is up my ass about—” vox akuma burst through the door yelling about something of them getting in trouble with perfect comedic timing, stopping in his tracks once he saw the hot and sweaty entanglement of limbs from his fellow band members fucking the brains out of who he could only assume was a fan. he sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, holding the position for a few seconds to think it through yet unable to ignore the stir of lust growing within him. have they really done this again? without him? all it took was a look of bedroom eyes from you realizing he was there for him to shut the door and approach the three of you, “fuck, i guess he can wait for a couple more minutes— move over for me.”

[dae1333]

I need more of your fankids and the Bunnydoll farm life 😭. It’s so cuteeee

OH! Thanks for asking! And sorry for taking so long to answer, this will be a long post!

Well...

As I said, Jax and Ragatha live on a farm, they have a big house and a big plot of land, on which there is a vegetable garden, garden, a poultry yard and a stable

I imagine something like this (sorry for the image from the internet, I'm just not very good at drawing buildings!)

House: They have a very large house, just right for their large family. On the ground floor there is a kitchen, living room and toilet, on the second floor there is a bedroom, children's rooms and a shower room, and they also have an attic and a storage room.

The land plot is divided into a garden, a vegetable garden, a poultry yard and a stable.

Garden: They have a garden with fruit trees - 10 apple trees, 4 cherry trees and 1 large apricot tree, and among the trees there are also raspberry bushes and red and black currant bushes.

Vegetable garden: In the garden they grow a lot of vegetables - tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, carrots, beets, radishes, cabbage, potatoes, corn(!) and even some peanuts.

Poultry Yard: Not a very large area. They only have 9 hens and 1 rooster, but the hens lay a lot of eggs.

Stable: THIS IS THE WORK OF RAGATHA. They have 5 horses, and each horse is Ragata's favorite. There are 3 mares and 2 stallions in the stable:

Ash, mare, light grey, ash-coloured, dapple-coloured, riding horse of Ragatha

Brownie, mare, dark bay, also ridden by Ragatha, but sometimes by Jax

Rusty, mare, dark red in color, the color of rust, hence its name, Christian's horse

Nut, stallion, bay-piebald, with a special spot on his forehead, almost perfectly round, sometimes ridden by Christian

Raven, stallion of a completely black color, Rocky's riding horse

And now about their children:

ROCKY

Age: 17

Pronounce: she/her

The eldest daughter of Ragatha and Jax. She is a rabbit, but her fur color is dark red like Ragatha's hair, and she mostly has her features, such as round pupils, white sclera, mouth with fully separated upper and lower teeth (not like Jax's), and hair. Otherwise, she resembles her father, she is tall, with long thin arms and legs, but she, like Baxy and Kiki, has a tail. Rocky's is very fluffy, which is why Jax often calls her "sweet little tail"

She is quite cheerful and friendly by nature, but cautious with new people, and her trust must be earned. She can be grumpy and closed, sometimes irritable

Rocky's relationship with her parents:

CHRISTIAN

Age: 14

Pronounce: he/him

The second child in the family, he looks like Ragatha, or rather, he is as human-like as she is. Only his hair is purple. He is a little shorter than Ragatha, strong-built like her, a real little farmer.

He is very calm, kind, friendly and sociable, but this does not mean that he is soft-hearted. On the contrary, he is very confident and always finds a solution to everything. Of all of them, he has the most tender love for his mother and the greatest respect for his father.

Christian's relationship with parents:

BAXTER

Age: 11

Pronounce: he/him

Third child, and this guy is the most problematic of them all in terms of his behavior. He's just an absolute rascal! He's just like Jax, He has the same purple fur, yellow sclera, square pupils, and teeth, only he has a nose on his face. And he has a tail. His character is sometimes simply unbearable, he is constantly running around, disturbing everyone, making fun of everyone and creating problems. The only one he doesn't make too rude jokes about is little Ki, because if she cries, he simply won't live. He often gets into trouble with Rocky for his pranks and he is a little afraid of her, but still continues to do mischief.

Baxy's relationship list:

KIKI

Age: 2

Pronounce: she/her

She is the smallest and she is also a rabbit, she has a special mixed color of fur - it is pink and purple, and her hair is reddish pink. Her eyes have yellow sclera, but with round pupils, and she also has separate teeth. She should grow up to be average height like her mother, but slim and thin like Jax.

She is still small, but she already has her own character - she is curious, funny and cheerful. She loves everyone without exception.

Finally, Kiki's relationship list:

The relationships between siblings are also special. None of them hate, envy or despise each other. They all love each other, just in their own way! Even Rocky loves Baxter, and Baxter loves Rocky

Their relationship looks like this:

Phew... It turned out to be a lot, and I hope you enjoy reading it! I described everything in enough detail!

If something is unclear, don't hesitate to ask!

[kurishiri]

02┊Dark If —Alfons Sylvatica—

꒰ ִ ֺ ⊹ @ notice ⊹ ֺ ִ ꒱ this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties due to characterization or narrative flow purposes. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost these or claim these as your own!

— cw: implied dub-con, implied alcohol consumption, invasion of personal space.

(I-I-I...I...)

Alfons the Mirror: You’re rather quick to wake up, aren’t you. Well? Were you able to have a good dream last night?

(Why did I do such a thing... it was like Alfons was my lover...)

(Wait, like one...?)

Kate: Y-you did something to me, didn’t you?

Alfons the Mirror: Why indeed I did. We did a greaaat many things under consent.

A: That said, though, you ended up falling asleep, so we didn’t go all the way.

Kate: That’s not the point...!

Alfons the Mirror: Were you aware of my ability then? Because, yes, I did use it.

A: I am a mirror that reflects wishes and desires. I simply did what you wished for.

Kate: Wh—why would I ever wish for something so dirty...

Alfons the Mirror: Well I’ll be... is that really so?

Though I was intoxicated, I could still remember how I ended up wanting to lean into Alfons’ warmth.

Kate: Y-you’re the utter worst!

Alfons the Mirror: Aha, I do take a fancy to that reaction of yours. I prefer this loads over how you resembled a lost child last night.

Kate: Well, I won’t be seeking any more help from you.

Alfons the Mirror: Well then, how about I make a prediction? You will come to see me... I’m more than sure.

I straightened out my disheveled clothes and stood up as Alfons said while sprawled on the bed...

Alfons the Mirror: Ah, and...

(...?)

Alfons the Mirror: The first cocktail you drank last night is applejack. Despite all appearances, it’s quite some strong liquor.

A: A poisoned apple may not necessarily take the form of an apple itself. Do be careful from now on.

Perhaps out of frustration, or something else entirely, my cheeks grew hot.

Kate: Thanks for the warning! And you take care of that liver of yours too, mister Alfons the Mirror!

Alfons the Mirror: ......... (O_O)

A: ...pfft, ahahaha!

Leaving that shameless parting remark, I burst out of that shady room.

(That guy’s the worst of the worst, I swear to god——!!)

Pub master: Look at you, lady-killer. Did you have a fun time yet again? I’m almost envious.

Alfons the Mirror: Too much fun, in fact. Though she ran away like a cat would in the end.

??? (Harry): ...Hey, don’t go teasing her too much.

Alfons the Mirror: ...?

Sitting in the corner of the pub was a man, and that was all he said before disappearing into the darkness.

Pub master: So, are you gonna have a drink to wake yourself up, Alfons?

Alfons the Mirror: Yes, perhaps I will, with an applejack.

The day after I was played by the mirror, I went around on my own to find the missing thing.

But it seemed the favorite phrase of the people I asked boiled down to ‘maybe you’ll know if you ask Alfons?’

So in the end, I couldn’t get my hands on any information, leaving me to go back to that person, much to my displeasure.

Said person was at the castle, playing on a whim with a black cat.

Alfons the Mirror: Elbie was going to add this cat to his collection, you see... but it’s a relief indeed that you won’t be subject to a taxidermy, isn’t it?

Black cat: Meow...

Alfons the Mirror: And so, what brings you here?

Kate: .........ease.

Alfons the Mirror: I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that. Speak up a little more, why don’t you.

Kate: ...Help me...please...

Alfons the Mirror: With what, might I ask?

(I-I swear, this man——!)

Kate: I need your insights, so please help me...!

Alfons the Mirror: Very well. I must say you looked quite darling just now.

While I threw him a resentful look, Alfons brought his fingers to his chin in a dramatic gesture.

Alfons the Mirror: For the record, everything I am about to say is mere speculation on my end.

A: But you are Snow White, Elbie is the Queen, Roger the Hunter, and I the Mirror.

A: Don’t you think there is a missing cast member here in the story of Snow White?

(Ah...)

Kate: The prince?

Alfons the Mirror: Indeed, if you find that prince who is somewhere in this world, you may be able to return from whence you came!

Kate: Thank you so much, Alfons! I’m starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel!

Alfons the Mirror: Hardly. Then, I say we head off to search for this prince and whatnot posthaste.

Kate: Wait, you’re going to help?

Alfons the Mirror: Did I not say? I happen to very much enjoy sticking my nose into other people’s business without the need to take an ounce of responsibility.

And so, with Alfons, we started our search for the prince.

Alfons the Mirror: To all the candidates to be Snow White’s prince, over here! Yes, that’s it, line up in a single file.

A: Now, entry number 1. You can come up.

Candidate No.1: I-I would like to take Snow White’s hand in marriage, so I can get close to Queen Elbert——

Queen Elbert: ...Dismissed.

Alfons the Mirror: Thank you for your time. Ah, and over there are some souvenirs, so do take some with you.

Kate: Thank you for helping out so much.

K: ...But, what in the world is this!?

Alfons the Mirror: Thinking it was the most efficient way, I invited candidates from within the country. I am quite good at my job, aren’t I.

Kate: I won’t deny that, but you could’ve confided in me before it happened...

K: Besides, why is Queen Elbert helping as well?

Queen Elbert: ...? Because, I was worried about you?

Alfons the Mirror: Alright then, entry number 2. You may come up.

Candidate No.2: I want to marry Snow White, and every night... hehehe...

Queen Elbert: ...Take him out of the castle grounds.

Alfons the Mirror: Yes yes, right away. Guards, if you please, throw him right out of the castle.

—— Time skip ——

(...That must’ve been close to 300 people, but we couldn’t find even one remotely like a prince.)

The fatigue piling up on me, I started to feel more down.

(At this rate, I won’t be able to find the missing thing, and I probably won’t be able to return back to reality.)

Alfons the Mirror: Kate? Kate.

Kate: Yes... ngh, mn...

Alfons kissed me with a wet sound before he finally parted from my lips.

Kate: W-why a kiss so suddenly?

Alfons the Mirror: I was starting to grow tired of all these worthless men, so call this a cleansing of palate, if you will.

A: Oh, or are you perhaps in need of a more intensely pleasurable ‘cleansing’?

Kate: Ah… no, we can’t…

I remembered the heat from when he fondled me before, and for a moment I recalled the pleasure from that.

(But that… all of that…)

Alfons the Mirror: You can put all the blame on me. I simply had unfulfilled desires, and so I laid my hands upon you.

Kate: In between an audience… that’s bad manners.

Alfons the Mirror: Oh dear, did you truly take me for someone who tries to uphold manners, by any chance?

A: And besides that, with that sort of phrasing, are you meaning to say doing things like this is alright if it’s in a different place?

Kate: Wh—ah…

Alfons the Mirror: We can leave the prince hunt for tomorrow and enjoy ourselves today. How about it?

(That it would make me happy if that smile of his was not apathetic, but rather one that came from his heart…)

(…It’s not like I’m thinking that or anything.)

And then, a few days later, in order to invite real princes, a banquet was held at the castle.

(Urgh, if it’s real princes, that would mean they’re nobility, right? Of course I’d be nervous…)

Alfons the Mirror: Are you finished with preparations? Well, I’ll be, don’t you look wonderful.

A: That is one shameless slit, to be sure. You’ll have the princes on their knees in no time flat, I say.

Kate: H-hold on, don’t touch me.

Alfons the Mirror: Goodness, what’s there to be so stingy about?

At this point, such interactions with Alfons like this had long become a part of my every day.

I had initially felt so anxious, but now such feelings have dissipated more…

Kate: …You know, recently I’ve had times when I’ve thought about what I’m really searching for.

Alfons the Mirror: And that is to say?

Kate: I had thought finding that missing thing and correcting what made this world twisted would be the right thing to do.

K: But it’s just… I can’t help but wonder if that’s really the case.

The people living in this country had gone twisted and mad somewhere along the way.

After all, Queen Elbert was still searching for the most beautiful thing in this world,

and Alfons… he would sometimes have this severely lonely or icy look in his eyes.

But… there wasn’t any person here that was living an entirely proper life.

And I couldn’t help but feel more or less everyone was living at least a little mad.

While thinking that, I felt the sensation of fingertips tickling my back.

Kate: Eek!

Alfons the Mirror: So you no longer wish to return to reality, instead wanting to stay with me?

Kate: No way!

Alfons the Mirror: Hehe, that’s unfortunate. Oh, and would you look at that. It’s almost time, Snow White.

In the dance hall, princes from many different countries were gathered.

Green-eyed prince: Snow White, this dish is delectable.

Kate: Ah, thank you. I’ll partake in some.

(If it was Alfons, I imagine he wouldn’t eat this sort of luxurious dish.)

——How rude. I’ll have you know purposefully eating crudely is what makes a noble.

Blue-eyed prince: Snow White, uhm, could we talk over there later?

Kate: Yes, of course.

(If it were Alfons, he would probably drag me off somewhere without asking first.)

——After all, you don’t dislike this kind of force, do you?

(…W-wait, what…?)

(For a while now, why was I…)

Why was I trying to find Alfons in other people?

Kate: ——!

(I… to Alfons——)

to be continued…

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[riinkun-art-stuff]

Howdy ho! I'm very excited to finally be able to share this illustration I worked on as part of this year's @bumblebybigbang for @tahnex's lovely and super fun fic (with no pain attached whatsoever), "Of Dragons and Panthers," which you can read here! As soon as I read the original notes on it this scene captured me so much I had to do something dramatic for it. It's been such a pleasure watching the whole collab come together, tysm for having me!

First time joining an event like this, and I'd love to again if the opportunity comes around hehe. Still a few postings to go on this one, the pieces before us this year have knocked it out of the park and I'm super excited to see the rest once they come around!

Made a few process cuts just for fun, which I left under the cut!

I did do a few sketches roughly before I started out, especially based on other parts of the chapter, but this particular composition was so fixed in my mind that I ended up just sticking with it. In retrospect, I would've loved to go back and do some more thorough exploration for it. Here are a few of the sketches I managed to fish back up:

I also was thinking of trying a few other doodles/another big piece, but ended up not really having the time between other obligations :')

And the sketch I finally settled on:

Inking was SUCH a fun process on this piece in particular. I'm a huge fan of how dragon!Yang's mane turned out, especially, and all the detailing on the head and around Blake's fur and such. Feel like I'm really satisfied w the particular way the line weight variations came out, and it's where the piece shines the most imo.

Panther!Blake, too. Oh gosh. I feel like it took me a lot of reworking to get her structure to a point where she felt very leopard-like, rather than any other type of big cat- especially around the head.

Colours were such a challenging part. There was a big feeling I had for that glow coming off dragon!Yang in the middle of the heavy rain- I love seeing that sort of effect in real life so that's something I'm really hoping to work to capture better as I practice. Trying to get dragon!Yang's slight iridescence in there and to balance out the lighting on panther!Blake's fur each took a long time, too- I'm only a pinch sad that a good chunk of it is covered by other lighting effects XD

Blake's rosettes were SO fun. Augguhugg.

In terms of backgrounds. HOO boy I was going through a strange patch in life while working on the background and final polish for this piece, which is why (at least I feel like) it looks kinda rushed. I have been practicing natural landscapes and doing some observational studies but still struggling to get those rock shapes quite right, which I think is a big make or break point of something like this. I did really enjoy toying around with inking on the foliage and foreground layers of the ground, though! And in the end, lighting and effects ended up masking a lot of the big weak spots :D

I think natural effects like smoke/steam, and rain, are big things that I got to practice more of in this piece, but also really would like to get better at in future. Esp since I feel like it's been a great opportunity to mess around with different colours and brushes that I use way less, which I'm always grateful for w painting. I think just layering the rain on its own ended up being about 10 odd layers?

I think the only other thing I would have loved to improve is to just help the piece feel more Bumbleby™ in the final look. I think I like the cool colours of the lighting for this particular outcome, but I also would have probably tried to have made things much clearer (ahem at the very least switch to yellow/purple) in the long run in terms of representation and resemblance. Ik that at least for me it is fairly easy to associate the two characters with dragons and panthers since I'm more familiar w the fandom lingo around these two, but esp for outsiders I feel like it's probably not great at conveying who they are, and why they are potentially in this situation.

I'd also love to try and find a shading style that still has a painterly quality but compliments the inking a bit better, rather than overpowering it.

I think that, on the whole, I am pretty satisfied with the piece and had a great time working with Tahnex on the whole collab! And I've also has a fun time reading his work and notes in return, and thank you so much for being so so patient with me even as my updates were slow n rocky at points :'D

That's about all I got, have a great day y'all! Still a few big bang postings to go, so very excited for those once they come around!