theswordmaiden

[theswordmaiden]

If it's not too much trouble, would I be able to request Brienne of Tarth fluff???

Like, Brienne visits this woman out in the woods, the woman lives alone, a widow, one day Brienne comes in pissed off and upset, she'd been slandered off by the other knights and this time it bothered her, as they brung up her father, saying he'd be disappointed with such an ugly daughter, etc etc, and then they sit by the fireplace as the woman runs her hand through her hair and just cuddles???

If not, perfectly okay!!!

Also, it's been so long!!! How are you?

🐺 annon

A/N: hiya!! I'm doing well 🥰 how are you? I loved this request so much, it was so fun to write - I hope you like the final result!

Brienne the Beauty

Words: ~2k | ao3 link in title Tags/warnings: mention of death, grief

There’s nothing quite like the solace of your cottage on an early autumn day. Outside your window, leaves turn to molten gold dripping from the trees, the steady murmur of the brook mingles with the constant chirping of the birds. When the fire is roaring and your cottage is particularly warm, the edges of the windows fog a bit as the days turn ever colder, casting your home in a soft glow.

Late afternoon sunlight creeps inside, filtering through the few leaves that are left to create intricate shadows against the wood of the countertop. Steam rises from the kettle, its whistling a familiar, comforting sound in the relative peace of your home. It’s a bittersweet sort of peace, a tranquility tinged with melancholy. Nostalgia lives in every nook, every crack; a living, breathing entity of its own. On some nights, the ones that are quieter than others, you can almost hear the laughter and music that once filled the cottage, before your partner suddenly passed just over a year ago.

Gravel crunches beneath your kitchen window, a shadow is cast across the floor, a flash of sandy blonde hair pops into your peripheral vision, and you can’t help but smile to yourself. It's as if all of the nostalgia, the sadness, has retreated into the shadows at the sight of your visitor, replaced with an inexplicable stirring of warmth. You wipe your hands on a towel and go to the door, anticipating the gentle knock seconds before it comes.

It’s the same knock as always — two soft, even raps — and you start to speak before you’ve even pulled the door fully open.

“Brienne, how wonderful to see you.”

Brienne had first come into your life a little over three years ago, caught outside in a thunderstorm on her way south, drenched to the bone. Your partner had been on her way home when she’d run into Brienne trying to take shelter in the forest and had insisted she stay out the weather in your cottage. She’d been stiff and awkward as you tended to her, drawing her a bath, stoking the fire, offering her food and drink, a place to sleep — clearly embarrassed by the way you fussed over her. But the weather had carried into the following morning and she’d stayed for breakfast and her protective armor had begun to crack as a quiet friendship had begun to develop between the three of you. She visited you and your wife every so often, bringing the odd gift from her travels, sometimes in physical form, sometimes in the form of stories from places you could only dream of visiting. 

When your wife passed, Brienne’s visits became more frequent, though they weren’t unwelcome. Her presence made the silence that had befallen your home feel less oppressive, her company made you feel less alone. Many afternoons were spent in front of your fireplace, or out by the river, sometimes pouring your hearts out, sometimes not speaking a word other than “hello” and “goodbye”, each meeting stitching up another little corner of your heart with gold-dipped thread. 

Today, something seems a little off. Brienne scowls at the floor as she mumbles a greeting, not quite meeting your eyes. You usher her inside and help her with her cloak, unbuckling the straps with nimble fingers, stealing a glance at her — she blinks, shifting her gaze to the floor. 

It's not until you’ve hung up her cloak and turned around to face her properly that you see why she’d refused to meet your eyes — her own are glassy and red-rimmed. You’ve never seen Brienne cry before — you suspect few people have, and you also suspect that she’s made quite an effort to dry her tears before coming to see you today.

“Oh…” The sound is soft, passes through your lips as gently as a sigh, and you move without thinking, wrapping your arms around the knight. She’s tense at first, stiff as a damn board — you’ve only ever hugged once before, the first time she’d come to visit you after your partner had died. 

She gives in, though, second by second, inch by inch, melting slowly but surely into your embrace until, finally, her arms wrap around your waist to return the gesture. She bows her head, resting her forehead against your hair, hiding her face.

Brienne feels like she belongs in your arms. There’s a softness about her that stands in contrast to her hard, muscular frame, a comforting warmth in the way her arms wrap fully around you, and it takes everything in you to pull away before things become too intimate and the fragile balance of your relationship is forever disturbed.

“Sit.” You gesture towards the seating area in front of the fire, fighting against the chill that shoots through you when Brienne’s arms drop from your waist. “Please.” 

The warrior takes a seat on the furs in front of the fire, her mood subdued and her shoulders hunched. 

“Tea?” you ask as you draw the curtains for privacy, casting the cottage in shadow.

“Yes, thank you.” Brienne’s voice is a bit hoarser than usual. It breaks your heart.

There’s a mug at the back of your cupboard that you drink out of only when you’re feeling particularly down — you’re a bit precious about it, as it was once your wife’s favorite, and you hardly dare use it for fear of breaking it. It always makes you feel better, though, as if the mug itself is imbued with healing energy, and you find yourself reaching for it subconsciously, hoping that, somehow, it’ll have the same effect on Brienne.

She gives you a tight-lipped smile when you hand her the mug, turning it carefully in her hands as she inspects it. “I haven’t seen this one before, is it new?”

You glance over your shoulder as you stoke the fireplace, smiling. “No, it’s not new. Just… special.”

Brienne seems to understand. She always does with you, as though her mind is connected to yours by some invisible thread, picking up on the tiniest nuances, putting things together that you yourself are still puzzling over. Her strained smile softens a little and she holds the mug with extra care, letting its contents warm her palms and wash over her tongue. 

Once the fire is roaring again you settle in the armchair just behind Brienne. She leans her back against it, her head inches away from your knee. You resist the urge to reach out and, instead, give Brienne the space she needs, cradling your own warm mug in your lap.

The silence between the two of you is not oppressive. There’s no pressure to hold a conversation or to entertain one another. You know she’ll speak when she’s ready — and you know she’ll be ready soon, judging by the agitated, restless way she changes positions every few minutes. You suppress a smile when she lets out a huff and sets the half-empty mug on the ground beside her. 

“Fucking idiots,” she snarls under her breath.

“What happened?” you dare to ask softly, looking down at the top of Brienne’s head as she stares into the fireplace.

“Some men shouldn’t be able to call themselves knights,” she hisses, and you snort in agreement. You can sense where this is going — it’s not the first time she’s had issues with her fellow knights. As the only woman amongst her peers, Brienne has often complained to you about the lack of respect she’s faced, the rude remarks, the skepticism. It’s something you’ll never quite be able to wrap your head around.

“From the sound of it, most men shouldn’t be able to call themselves a knight.”

Brienne lets out a huff. You lean forward and rest your forearms on your knees, catching the annoyance on Brienne’s face — her furrowed brow, the ruddy flush in her cheeks — as her earlier sadness gives way to anger. 

“Hey…” You place a tentative hand on her shoulder, giving her a moment to protest your touch — she doesn’t, and you slide your hand to the base of her neck and press your fingers into her tense muscles. “You shouldn’t listen to a word they say…”

“What if they’re right?”

“What in the seven hells could they possibly be right about?”

“My father deserves a daughter he can be proud of, a proper lady who can bear him heirs,” Brienne starts, her voice sharp and bitter. “Not some hideous beast wh-”

“Enough.”

The firmness in your voice shuts Brienne up. Your hand tightens on her shoulder as she scoffs, but she doesn’t dare continue to speak. 

“Your father should consider himself the proudest man alive–” Brienne tries to interrupt you but you dig your fingers into her shoulder to silence her, and she lets you. “The proudest man alive to have such a strong, capable, kind, just woman as a daughter. This world has enough daft little princesses to bear children and make men feel bigger and mightier than they are. You, Brienne of Tarth, are a breath of fresh air.”

If a hole were to open up in the floor of your cottage, you’re sure Brienne would jump right in. Her head is turned towards you but her eyes are fixed on the ground, her cheeks up to her ears aflame with embarrassment. 

“That’s not…” Her voice wavers and dies in her throat, and you figure, since you’ve already embarrassed her, you might as well press on. You rake your hands through her hair, relishing the softness of the short blonde waves as they slip through your fingers. Her eyes close.

“Your worth extends far beyond your ability to dazzle some prissy lord and bear him seven spoilt brats. Your worth is not defined by the size of your bust or by the ability of a man to tower over you and make you feel small and dainty. You are so much more than that, Brienne, you are so extraordinary. Your father would be out of his mind if he weren’t proud of you.”

You sit in silence as your words sink in, Brienne’s head leant against your knees as you play with her hair. Firelight flickers, bathing the object of your affections in a warm, golden glow, little shadows dancing across her cheeks every time she moves her head. She seems to enjoy your touch, letting you fuss over her just as you did that first night you met, the sadness and anger slowly draining from her expression.

As the afternoon turns into evening, you end up sliding down onto the furs beside her, leaning into her side and resting your cheek on her shoulder as you both watch the flames glimmer. Her cheek comes to rest against the side of your head, her body molding to accommodate yours as if the two of you were puzzle pieces fit against one another.

“Thank you.” 

The words are so quiet you hardly hear them, though you feel the rumble of her chest as she speaks. Wordlessly, you place your palm face up on her thigh — an offering — and, wordlessly, she places her palm face down onto yours, slotting her fingers between your own. 

There are many more things you’d like to tell Brienne. How you’d never have survived the weight of your grief if it hadn’t been for her. How your heart sings every time you hear the gravel crunch beneath your kitchen window, the exact crunch unmistakably a product of her boots, her body weight, it couldn’t be anyone else. How the rest of the world might think her hideous but you see undeniable radiance in her eyes, in the straight, rigid lines of her body. 

But first, there’s something else you’d like to do, something that seems suddenly more urgent than anything else has ever been. 

You lift your head, the sudden movement causes Brienne to look down at you. Your grip on her hand tightens, and you wait for her grip to tighten back. Then you lean up and press your lips to her cheek, firmly enough to not be mistaken for a friendly gesture. 

You feel Brienne’s cheeks twitch as her lips stretch into a smile.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

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[theswordmaiden]

𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡

i’ve been meaning to post this for a while

i loved working on this. her armor was so fun

[theswordmaiden]

THE SANDMAN 2.02

[theswordmaiden]

hello hello hello, i don’t know if your requests are open but listen

okay, imagine larissa while she’s pleasuring an other woman who is on her lap and has her front pressed to larissa’s

reader passes in front of the door where they are doing it and she hears some moans, she slowly opens the doors, just a few inches so that she can observe the scene

larissa makes eye contact with her, she doesn’t stop, no no, she keeps going and going, she brings the other woman over the edge while constantly keeping eye contact with the reader and smirking while the two women moans in each other ears

reader then realizes how wrong the situation is and go back to her room but she isn’t aware of larissa who followed her and i don’t know the rest is up to you💀 if you will ever want to write this, i understand if you don’t like it, it’s pure smut with feelings at te end? or maybe no feelings at all but just friends with benefits? idk change whatever u want!!

-xoxo dear

i love all your fics so much and ily too!

a/n: another older request that i never got to finishing as i start on some newer ones! i'm so sorry but i hope you like it and thank you sooo much, ily!!!

watching her (nsfw)

words: ~3.7k | ao3 link in title accidental voyeurism, slutty!Larissa, slightly dubious power dynamics - enjoy!

Insomnia is slowly driving you mad. It’s been at least a week since you last got more than 4 solid hours of sleep in a row and you’ve taken to restlessly wandering the corridors of Nevermore in an attempt to tire yourself out. 

Last night, you bumped into Principal Weems on your little walk, as she’d been on her way back to her quarters after being out. It had been late, sure, but you hadn’t questioned it — the woman was allowed to have a life outside of Nevermore, after all. She’d invited you back to her office for a nightcap, you’d talked for a bit, laughed even — she’d insisted you call her Larissa and stop with the formalities, it had made you blush and stutter like a fool. 

She’d said you could come by again sometime if you still found yourself plagued by sleepless nights, that she often stayed up late working and could use the company. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t call on her again, she was probably just being nice, you didn’t want to bother her — but, well… why not?

Your feet carry you towards Principal Weems’s — Larissa’s — office and you knock gently, afraid of disturbing her. The door swings open at your knock, it hadn’t been closed properly, and you stare at it, perplexed.

“Larissa?” you call out, peeking your head into the office. 

Silence.

The room is dark, the last embers dying in the fireplace — clearly she’d already retired to her quarters. You should leave… but she should know that her office is unlocked, you have a feeling she wouldn’t like that. 

Her quarters are connected to her office by a door at the far end and you make your way towards it — you’ll just knock, politely explain that you found the door to her office open, and then leave again. Surely she’d be grateful that you told her. 

As you approach the door to her quarters, you find that this one is ajar as well — and, before you have a chance to decide whether or not to knock, the most pornographic moan you’ve ever heard in your life reaches your ears.

All of the blood in your body rushes to your cheeks and you freeze in place — was Larissa masturbating? Having sex? There’s another moan, a little quieter than the first, but it sounds close, and you know you should turn around and leave but against your better judgement you lean towards the door and place your ear against it and it opens just a few inches more, so that you’re able to peer through the crack.

It feels like a hummingbird has been trapped in your chest, and even eating sand couldn’t make your mouth feel drier.

The door opens into a small sitting room, with a sofa that faces it, and sitting on that sofa is none other than Larissa herself — with a naked woman on her lap, whose back is to you. Larissa seems to be wearing lingerie, it’s hard to tell from the angle, but it’s more of her than you’ve ever seen before, her long legs spread to accommodate the other woman’s petite frame, one hand on the woman’s hip and the other hand disappearing between their bodies.

The two women are kissing, moaning into each other’s mouths. Larissa’s moans are the softer, quieter ones, and the sound makes it feel as though your whole body is suddenly on fire. Your lips feel chapped, you lick them in vain, you realize you haven’t been breathing. You know you should turn away, sneak back to your own quarters before you get caught, but your legs feel like jell-o and you’re certain that if you tried to take so much as one step, your knees would give out and you’d collapse on the spot.

Then Larissa breaks the kiss, nips at the woman’s earlobe — she tilts her head with a moan and Larissa opens her eyes and looks right in your direction and you almost do collapse on the spot, suddenly feeling more than a little lightheaded, your stomach sinking.

You brace yourself, ready for Larissa to stop everything, to come over and berate you, to unleash her fury on you and send you packing. Her eyes bore into your own, pupils so blown that barely a sliver of blue is visible, and you can’t look away no matter how hard you will yourself to. 

But nothing happens. Larissa’s lips stay firmly attached to the other woman’s neck, her shoulder flexes as her arm appears to move with even more urgency — it’s hard to see from where you’re stood but from the obscene noises that reach your ears, you can only assume that Larissa is buried knuckle deep in this woman’s cunt.

Obscenities begin to spill from her lips as she bucks against Larissa, none the wiser to the audience half-hidden behind the door. Her back arches and flexes and the tendons in her neck stretch as Larissa’s lips assault her pulse point, as Larissa digs her teeth into the smooth flesh, all the while keeping her eyes on you.

You can almost see a hint of a smirk on Larissa’s lips as she brings the other woman over the edge, holding her firmly against herself as she trembles and moans in pure, unadulterated ecstasy. It’s as if Larissa is getting off on having you watch her, her cheeks adorned with a rosy flush and her eyes hooded.

It’s almost too much for you to handle. This is so wrong, not only walking in on your boss during sex but staying and watching like a voyeur. You shouldn’t be here — even if Larissa hasn’t acknowledged you yet, you’re certain that you’ll be fired by morning, when she finally comes to her senses.

You stumble back from the door, moans continuing to spill through the crack. Your foot catches on the corner of a rug and you have to catch yourself on Larissa’s desk — the action snaps you firmly back to reality and you slip out of Larissa’s office as quietly as you can. 

Once you’re in the hallway your feet pick up speed, pure adrenaline carrying you back to your own quarters. You’re grateful that it’s the middle of the night and no one is around, surely people would question why you’re sprinting through the halls as if you’re being chased. You don’t stop until you’ve slammed and locked the door to your quarters behind you, and then your knees give out and you sink to the floor.

The thing is, you like Larissa — a lot more than you should. You probably shouldn’t have even taken the job in the first place, seeing as your crush started during your very first interview for the position. Until now, though, it’s been fairly easy to suppress your feelings. You truly don’t interact with Larissa that much, most of your time is spent with your students and working. Only now, you have no idea how you’re ever going to be able to face Larissa again.

One question gnaws at you, and the more you think about it, the more your stomach sinks. Why didn’t Larissa stop what she was doing? Why did she let you watch, why did it seem like she wanted you to watch? Was it because she has some sort of voyeurism kink? Or was it, perhaps, because she has some sort of feelings for you, too? 

You scoff at yourself — the thought of Larissa Weems finding you desirable is utterly absurd. Plus, if she did have feelings for you, why would she be fucking someone else? Tears begin to blur your vision, spilling down your cheeks, and you press your face against your knees, losing sense of time as you try (and fail) to reign in your emotions.

A gentle knock at your door rips you from your misery, and you realize that you’re still sitting on the floor. Your knees pop as you stand and you quickly wipe at your eyes with your sleeves, trying to make it look like you haven’t been sobbing. Your heart hammers in your chest as you reach for the door handle, wondering who could be calling on you — perhaps another teacher who heard you crying? Or maybe a student needs help?

Oh. 

Oh. 

It’s Larissa.

She stands tall in front of you, looking down at you in a way you’ve never seen before. She doesn’t appear to be angry — on the contrary, there’s a small, playful smile on her lips and her cheeks are flushed a gorgeous shade of pink. She’s dressed, though a bit haphazardly, and a few baby hairs peek out of her updo at her forehead.

“I thought you’d still be awake,” she says, her voice a low purr, and you’re certain your face is as red as a tomato, a lump growing in your throat. You wonder if she’s being sweet on purpose to lull you into a false sense of security, but you quickly shake the thought from your head — that isn’t like her.

Your voice fails you so you nod meekly instead, and that little act of submission turns Larissa’s smile into a smirk.

“Are you alright, darling? You don’t look very well…” Her tone is light and teasing but her eyebrows crease a bit as her eyes track the dried trails of your tears down your cheeks. You nod again, wiping at your cheeks with your sleeve, certain you’ve never looked more pathetic in your life.

“I’m fine,” you lie, the tremble in your voice giving you away, and Larissa cups your cheek, her thumb grazing across your lower lip and sending a spark down your spine — your accompanying shiver doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Was that a bit too much for you, my dear?” she coos, and your breath stutters in your chest as images that you’re trying to suppress come flooding back to you.

“I-I just…” You don’t know what to say. Is Larissa looking for an explanation? An apology? Why did she follow you? Why is she touching you?

“I’m not upset with you, darling,” she reassures you, her tone soft. So you’re not in trouble, but this is uncharted territory all the same. She takes a step towards you, backing you into your quarters, and closes the door behind herself. “Why don’t we have a seat, hm?”

Her gaze flickers to your bed and you can only nod dumbly as you let her lead you towards it with a hand on the small of your back, taking a seat beside you. Her thigh is touching yours, her body heat radiating off of her, and you swear you can smell the sex on her, and it’s making it hard to think.

“Why did you come to my quarters?”

“I-I couldn’t sleep again,” you admit quietly, clasping your hands in your lap and looking down at them to keep yourself from doing something you’ll regret. “Larissa, I-I swear, I didn’t mean to walk in on you, it’s just your office door was unlocked and I–”

“I was hoping you’d come by tonight.”

Larissa’s admission knocks the wind right out of you, and you can’t help but to look up at her, struck dumb by the amusement on her face. “Y-you were?” You hate how breathy your voice has gotten, a spark of hope and something more primal sprouting in your abdomen, but your brows knit together in confusion as you try to make sense of the situation you’ve found yourself in. “But what about that other woman?”

“Just a friend,” Larissa says casually, shrugging. 

“A… friend? Does she know you’re here?”

Larissa smirks. “She does.” Her gaze drops slowly, deliberately to your lips, turning your core to molten lava.

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Larissa mocks, and your face turns crimson. She reaches into your lap and takes your hand in her own, stopping your fidgeting. “Tell me you want me to leave and I will.”

“I… can’t do that,” you admit, unable to hear your own voice over the hammering of your heart in your ears.

At that, Larissa takes your hand and places it on her own waist, then kicks her heels off and adjusts herself on the bed so that she’s slowly pushing you backwards until you’re lying flat on your back and she’s hovering over you. “Do you want this as much as I do?” she asks, her gaze flickering between each of your eyes, and you almost don’t answer because you’re so distracted by how soft and right her hip feels beneath your hand. 

“I don’t know how much you want this…” You swallow thickly and Larissa chuckles, the sound like music to your ears. “B-but yeah, I want this.”

Larissa shifts her weight onto one arm, her other hand running through your hair until it reaches your jaw. She hooks one finger below your chin and tilts it up, pressing her lips gently to yours and pressing the length of her body against you.

Her lips are just as soft as you’d pictured them to be (and it’s something you’d daydreamed about often) and your heart is beating so fast you think you might actually be having a heart attack. It takes you a moment to start kissing her back and, when you do, you reach up tentatively to cup her cheeks. The action spurs Larissa on and she flicks her tongue against your lips, silently begging you to part them — you do, without a second thought, unable to stifle the moan that rips from your chest as her tongue tangles with your own.

It’s easy to get lost in a woman like Larissa. Her mouth is hot and wet and tastes like red wine and lipstick, and her body is warm and soft and smells like tuberose and vanilla. She’s got a way of enveloping your senses so that nothing else exists in that moment apart from her, and you’re powerless to stop her — not that you would ever want to. 

She bends her leg and intertwines it with yours, sliding her hand along your jaw and into your hair, her fingers curling behind your ear as she deepens the kiss. The most sinful little sighs and moans spill from her mouth directly into yours, making you soak through your underwear faster than the best audio porn you’ve ever heard.

You think you might be having the same effect on Larissa, because you feel her shudder against you, her hand tightening in your hair as her knee inches towards your center. “I like the way you taste,” she mumbles against your lips, her tongue delving deeper into your mouth. 

“Same,” you murmur, rather pathetically, and Larissa chuckles, nipping playfully at your lower lip — then her knee presses against your core through your trousers, making you gasp. Your head falls back against the pillow and Larissa takes the opportunity to cover your neck in kisses and little bites. Her knee grinds against your cunt and, from this angle, you feel the warmth radiating from her own crotch against your thigh. “Larissa, p-please…”

“Please? Please what?” she teases, pulling back just in time to watch your face turn red, your lips parting but no words coming out. “May I take this off?” she asks, giving the hem of your shirt a gentle tug, clearly realizing she’s not going to get a coherent answer out of you, and you nod eagerly. 

Larissa’s hand is warm against your stomach and your abs contract as her fingers slide up your torso, pulling your shirt along with them and revealing more and more of your body to her. She pushes your shirt over your breasts and you help her to tug it off the rest of the way, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. Your bra soon follows, Larissa’s fingers getting to work on the clasp and wasting no time in getting you naked. Her lips replace her hands, nipping at the swell of your breasts, leaving little red marks and tiny bruises, marking you as her own.

“Aren’t you just stunning?” she murmurs as she kisses her way down the center of your abdomen, her hands molding against the curve of your waist, her breath tickling your skin and making every hair on your body stand on end.

You start to squirm as she gets closer and closer to the hem of your trousers, and you feel her smirk against your lower belly as she hooks her fingers beneath the waistband and starts to tug, her lips following your trousers as they get pulled down, then discarded. 

“You’re so wet,” she coos — your cheeks are aflame as you shift your hips slightly and feel how you’ve soaked through your underwear, and then Larissa speaks again and you feel you may combust on the spot. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, darling, you’re not the only one…”

Larissa sits up, unbuttoning the front of her dress — her breasts spill out of their constraints and you realize she’s come here without a bra on. You shiver. She frees her arms from the dress and tugs it down her body, over the soft swell of her lower belly, her hips, shifting to the side to pull it down her legs and toss it aside, along with her underwear, which join the heap of clothing on the floor. In the dim light of your bedroom, you can see her pale inner thighs glisten with the evidence of her arousal, the smell of her growing stronger with no more barriers in place.

“Now, where were we…” she teases, lowering herself again so that her face is level with your cunt. She presses her lips to your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need her most, and you struggle to keep yourself from bucking your hips against her face. You pray she doesn’t notice this but of course she does — she chuckles, her breath hitting the cool, wet spot at the center of your underwear and making you clench. “Patience, darling.” 

“S-sorry,” you mumble, fisting at the sheets to have something to do with your hands, to keep yourself from squirming and fidgeting as Larissa pulls your underwear down your thighs and then wraps her arms around them, giving you a little tug to get you just where she wants you.

A moan spills from your lips, so guttural that you hardly recognize it as your own, as Larissa runs her tongue up the length of your pussy. She mumbles something about how you taste but her voice is muffled against you and you can’t really focus on what she’s saying anyway as all the blood in your body rushes to your cunt.

You feel your knees bend of their own accord, your body opening itself to Larissa, seeking more of the pleasure she’s giving you. Her tongue dips inside of you, deeper, deeper, fuck, her tongue is long, she fucks you with it nice and slow, thorough, taking her time. When she moans it seems to vibrate throughout your entire body, you bite down on your lip so hard that you draw blood.

It’s clear now why that other woman was moaning so hard — Larissa knows just which buttons to press. Your thighs are already trembling as she thrusts her tongue inside of you, and then she circles your clit with her thumb and you see stars. You want to watch her so badly, you’ve fantasized about this moment and, if the last thing you ever saw was Larissa’s silky blonde hair bobbing between your thighs, you’d die the happiest person on the planet. But it’s so hard to keep your eyes open, every muscle in your body clenching with the effort to stave off your orgasm just a little while longer.

You don’t consciously remember moving your hands but they’re in Larissa’s hair now, gripping so desperately that you’re probably hurting her — though, if you are, she doesn’t let on. She doubles down, letting you push her head against your cunt, her thumb against your clit, and you finally can’t take it anymore — your body tenses as your orgasm washes over you, the most satisfying release you’ve ever felt.

Larissa stays in position as you ride out your high and even after, gently and thoroughly cleaning you up with her tongue until you whine and twitch away from her, too sensitive to continue. She releases your legs from her hold, crawling up your body and lowering herself beside you, curling one arm around you and pulling you into her side. You rest your head against her chest, your breathing slowly synching with hers, her heartbeat helping you to regulate your own. You’re sweaty and your cheek sticks to the top of her breast but she doesn’t seem to mind, just runs her fingertips up and down your arm as you come back down to earth.

“You said you wanted this,” she says after a while, her voice quiet and contemplative in the silence of your room.

You grunt in response, still feeling a little dazed.

“Since when?”

A blush spreads across your face, you’re sure Larissa can feel the sudden heat from your cheek against her skin. You can’t believe you’re about to confess to Larissa how long you’ve liked her — but then again you can’t believe she’s just eaten you out either. “I think since I first met you, actually,” you murmur, preparing yourself for a negative reaction.

Larissa laughs, her chest rumbling beneath your head. “That’s quite a long time… though my answer wouldn’t be much better.” That alone makes your heart pound but then Larissa continues speaking and your ears start to ring. “Though I think if I’m being honest, I want a little more than just this.” 

“What do you want?” you whisper, trying desperately to keep your hope at bay. You steal a glance at Larissa’s face and, even though it’s hard to tell from the angle, you swear she has a small smile on her face.

“More than just sex, I mean,” she starts, her fingertips still tracing patterns against your bare arm. “I’d like to take you out, get to know you better… spoil you a little, perhaps.” There’s a trace of teasing humor in her voice, mixed with a vulnerability that you’ve never seen from her before. You nuzzle your face against her neck, your heart in your throat, your voice hoarse when you reply.

“That’s what I want, too…” 

Larissa presses her lips to your head and hums softly. “Then I suppose I’d like to know if you’re free this Friday evening, and if I could take you out to dinner?”

“Yes, Larissa…” You prop yourself up so that you can look her in the eye. “Yes, I would love to go out to dinner with you.” Pausing, you reach out to tuck a strand of Larissa’s hair behind her ear, your cheeks warming and your heart thrumming in your chest as you prepare to be brave. You take a deep breath. “But… for now… let me return the favor?”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Taglist: @alexusonfire @pro-weems-places @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69  @fictionalized-lesbian @aemilia19 @milfsloverblog @missdowling @billiedeansbitch @http-sam @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @niceminipotato @thevillagegay @barbarasstar @jadewolf22 @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @lilfartbox1 @dovesintherain @fallenbutch @lunala-rose23 @ahauandthesun @thenazwife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @thesamesweetie @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @daydream-cement @im-a-carnivorous-plant @milfomaniac @ilovetlcc @lesbiahonest24 @wastdstime @gwens0girl @larissa-weems-chokehold @makemyworldworthliving @spacetoaim22 @m1lflov3rrr @nightingalespen

Join my taglist here!

[theswordmaiden]

I am no better than a man.

[theswordmaiden]

THAT SLIT WOULD BE THE DEATH OF ME

(Gwendoline Christie attends the Tate Modern 25th Anniversary Fundraising Gala)

[theswordmaiden]

Gwensday x

@theswordmaiden @weemssapphic @janewaykove

[theswordmaiden]

Hellooo, I had a request for another pregnant!Larissa story (,:

Hurt/comfort where Larissa is feeling super insecure because of the weight she’s gained during her pregnancy, and reader has to provide some much needed reassurance? They come home to find Riss crying because none of her clothes fit anymore. She tries not to let her thoughts affect her so badly, but it’s proving to be difficult when nothing covers her growing belly and her emotions are wracked.

You can include anything else you’d like! 🥰

Hiya, thank you sm for the request :') there are never enough pregnant Larissa fics nor are there enough insecure Larissa fics, so this was an absolute joy to write! I hope you like it!! 🥰

like a light came on

Words: ~2.2k | ao3 link in title Tags/warnings: mention of eating disorders, body issues

Soft rays of morning light filtered in through the blinds, falling onto Larissa’s face and gently waking her a second time that morning. The first time it had still been dark, you’d gotten up for an appointment and insisted that Larissa stay in bed and catch up on sleep. You’d be home by 10:30 and you’d take her out to brunch then to make up for the lack of your usual morning snuggles — Larissa, exhausted from being up half the night, had fallen right back asleep.

Blinking groggily, she reached out and felt around her nightstand for her phone, squinting against the brightness of the screen as she checked the time — nearly 10, she’d better get up. There was a text message waiting from you, a “good morning, sweetheart” with so many emojis it would make anyone else sick to their stomach, but it made Larissa’s heart skip a beat. She knew you’d sent it while waiting for your appointment because she’d been so tired that morning she hadn’t even really felt your goodbye kiss as you’d left her in bed.

“Good morning” she texted back, deliberating between her most-used emojis before settling on the one with the two pink hearts — then adding it twice more, for emphasis. Placing her phone back on her nightstand, she sat up with a groan, her back aching, her hands automatically falling to her ever-growing baby bump. She had started to show recently and it fascinated her to no end — as much as she wanted a baby, she never thought she’d have one, let alone as her 30s came and went, and she often found herself crying in your arms about how grateful she was to have found you and to have been given the chance to start a family of her own.

Even though Larissa knew you wouldn’t be upset with her if you came home and she wasn’t ready to go, she still wanted to try and be on time for you, so she shuffled to the bathroom to brush her teeth and start her morning routine of skincare and makeup. She soon found herself standing in the walk-in closet, pulling a dress from a hanger: beige, modest, a bit stretchy — it had been serving her well in the last weeks. 

Though, annoyingly, her belly had grown so much since she’d last worn it that it seemed even the moderate stretch could no longer accommodate her baby bump. It was tight in all the wrong places, pulling awkwardly across her middle, and, when she tried to adjust it, she heard a little thread in the seam rip.

Larissa tried to laugh it off — was she finally at the point where she needed to look into buying proper maternity clothes? She’d put it off the past few weeks, some small but insistent part of her clinging onto the hope that her bump would stay small, that with a healthy diet she wouldn’t fall victim to the weight gain that was expected of women bearing children. How silly of her to think she wouldn’t have to deal with it.

She tried on another dress. She shouldn’t have, but she did. It had never been particularly stretchy, with a zipper on the side and a belt going round the front, but it was one of her favorite dresses, and she’d always felt confident and powerful whilst wearing it.

Except for today.

The zipper refused to budge past her hips and her fingers trembled slightly with frustration as she gave it a tug anyway, and then another, and another.

Well what the fuck was she supposed to wear? She wasn’t about to wear leggings out of the house. Rummaging around the back of the closet, she pulled out an old skirt that she hadn’t worn in years, but that had been a staple when she’d started out as principal at Nevermore. She paired it with a plain blouse, nothing special, it made her frown as she pulled it on but it would have to do. 

The sight that greeted her in the mirror made her want to cry, every negative thought she could possibly have about herself rushing to the surface. Her breasts had grown during the pregnancy, putting a strain on the buttons at the top of the blouse, and the skirt, while it technically fit, was never made to accommodate a baby bump, and the fabric bunched up beneath her belly in a way that made her look bigger than she’d ever seen herself, which also made it a bit shorter than it usually was. It pulled tightly around her ass and she couldn’t bring herself to try and sit down, thinking she’d lose it entirely if she heard another seam rip.

It was like a bad car accident — the darker her thoughts got, the harder it became to look away. The sunlight filtering in through the blinds had taken on a harsh quality, hitting her from the side, casting a shadow across the bit of her thighs that was visible beneath the hem of the skirt, each and every dimple of cellulite not only visible but magnified, until Larissa was certain that it was the first thing anyone would notice about her. 

The shadows also emphasized the dark circles under her eyes, visible even beneath her makeup, made worse during the pregnancy due to poor sleep. She looked old, too old to be a mother — what had she been thinking, getting pregnant in her forties? 

She felt sick to her stomach, clawing at the buttons of the blouse, tears starting to blur her vision and making it hard to get out of the offending garment. She was so lost in her own head that she didn’t hear your keys in the front door, nor did she hear the sound of you kicking your boots off in the hall — it was only when she heard your familiar voice call her name just outside the bedroom that she froze, her breath coming out in short pants as she realized she was standing in the middle of the room, clothing strewn about at her feet, her face streaked with tears.

“In here,” she called out shakily.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You knew something was wrong the moment you came home. Your wife had particularly keen hearing and was usually at the door to greet you before you even fully closed it behind yourself — even if she was in the middle of something, she always called out some sort of greeting. Today, though, the house was eerily still, the sound of your keys clattering in the bowl by the door almost deafening. 

“Riss?” you called out as you shrugged off your jacket.

Nothing.

A master of worst case scenarios, you made your way down the hall with your heart in your throat, stepping out of your boots as you went, kicking them to the side in a way that usually drove Larissa up the wall — but right now nothing mattered aside from making sure she was okay.

“Larissa?” you tried again as you approached the bedroom, pausing for a moment before entering, not wanting to interrupt her if she didn’t want you there. 

The sound of Larissa’s voice eased your nerves, but only a little — something was definitely off. You pushed open the door to the bedroom, feeling your heart crack in two as you saw the state your wife was in. 

“Rissa?” You rushed to her side, trying to keep the panic out of your voice, one arm winding around her waist as if by instinct, your free hand reaching up to cup her cheek, catching her tears with your thumb. “What’s wrong? Is the baby okay?”

Larissa suppressed a sob and nodded, sniffling a little, and you slowly guided her to the bed and sat her down at the edge, offering her a box of tissues from the nightstand, rubbing her back in soothing circles as she blew her nose. She paused, the used tissue crumpled in her hand, attempting to stand and go throw it away, but you plucked it from her palm and tossed it onto the nightstand, smiling involuntarily at Larissa’s frown.

“I’ll throw it away in a few minutes, I promise. You’re more important right now.”

“I’m fine,” Larissa said, sounding a bit congested, and you could almost laugh if you weren’t so worried about her.

“Larissa, you’re not fine. What happened?”

“It’s silly,” she retorted adamantly, though you could hear her voice waver again and you knew she wasn’t quite finished crying. You offered her another tissue and she started to sob into it. “N-nothing f-fits anymore,” she gasped out between sobs, and it finally clicked for you, all the clothes strewn across the floor, something that was very unlike your usually neat wife.

It seemed obvious now — she’d voiced concerns about gaining weight in the past, offhand remarks mostly, accompanied by an adamant refusal to visit the maternity section. You knew about her history with disordered eating, you knew it was in the past and that she was trying very hard to be “perfect” for the baby, but you also knew how great her need for control was, in every aspect of her life. 

Perhaps you’d been a bit naive in not seeing this coming but, to you, Larissa was perfect. Her body was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen in your life, and the changes she was going through throughout her pregnancy were only making her more stunning in your eyes. 

It was hard to wrap your head around the fact that Larissa saw flaws in something that you found worthy of worship.

“Our baby’s getting big, huh?” You kept your voice soft and gentle, resting your hand on her bump.

Larissa scoffed, her voice broken, a mixture of exasperation and sadness. “It’s not just my stomach, it’s everything.” She sniffled, her face pained. “Even my bloody shoes feel tight…”

You tried to pull her into your arms, the angle and the fact that she was a bit taller than you making it a little awkward as she tried to bury her face into the crook of your neck, wailing “just look at me!” 

“Shh, come here,” you whispered, crawling back onto the bed and opening your arms to her. As she settled against you, you opened the buttons on the blouse to stop it from straining and helped her to shimmy the skirt off, an act which seemed to have a calming effect on her, as she was finally free of the restraining clothes. “There, just breathe for me…”

You waited until Larissa’s sobs had quieted down a bit, until her body was no longer trembling in your arms, until her tears had slowed, your arms wrapped protectively around her, your lips pressing firm, loving kisses to her temple.

“What your body is going through is normal, Rissa… you’re carrying a whole other person in there, and they need nutrition, and they need protection. It’s good that you’re gaining a little weight, for the baby, but it’s also okay to feel upset about it.”

“I just feel so big…” 

“Well, yeah, you’re bigger than you usually are, but you’re just as radiant as ever.” Larissa tried to scoff and bury her face in your hair, but you weren’t having any of it. “I’m dead serious, Larissa, look at yourself.” You let your hand trace her waist, down to her hips, your fingertips dancing across the stretch marks going up onto her belly and then stretching down towards her thighs, your eyes drinking her in. “You’re a goddess.”

“You’re biased,” came Larissa’s voice muffled against your skin.

“Absolutely not.” 

Larissa looked up from the crook of your neck, her eyes red and her cheeks stained with mascara. “What if I never lose the weight?” she whispered hoarsely. 

“Then,” you pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose. “You don’t. And you’ll still be the most gorgeous person in the world to me, because your beauty is too great to be defined by a number on a scale or some stretch marks. But how about we cross that bridge when we get there, hm? Let’s start with finding something for you to wear today?”

Larissa sniffled, reaching over you for another tissue to blow her nose and dab at the corner of her eyes with, her gaze darting to the mess of clothes strewn about the room. “Okay,” she mumbled with a hesitant nod. 

“What would you say to a little shopping trip?”

“What about brunch?” Larissa’s pout was so cute it made your heart clench.

“We can still go to brunch. Just after we’ve found you something beautiful to wear.”

“That’s not brunch, that’s just a late lunch,” Larissa replied, a hint of reproach in her voice that made you grin.

“True, but it tastes the same.”

Larissa looked as though she wanted to argue, her eyes darting between your own, before she finally let out a resigned huff, though her lips twitched up at the outer corners. “Fine.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Taglist: @alexusonfire @pro-weems-places @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69  @fictionalized-lesbian @aemilia19 @milfsloverblog @missdowling @billiedeansbitch @http-sam @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @niceminipotato @thevillagegay @barbarasstar @jadewolf22 @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @lilfartbox1 @dovesintherain @fallenbutch @lunala-rose23 @ahauandthesun @thenazwife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @thesamesweetie @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @daydream-cement @im-a-carnivorous-plant @milfomaniac @ilovetlcc @lesbiahonest24 @wastdstime @gwens0girl @larissa-weems-chokehold @makemyworldworthliving @spacetoaim22 @m1lflov3rrr @nightingalespen

[theswordmaiden]

hii it's been so long since my last post here and i really missed it, i want to go back and draw more, but for now here 's a little fluffy little smt with brie and riss hope u like it, ly 🫂💙

[theswordmaiden]

Requested by @theswordmaiden. Enjoy!

[theswordmaiden]

another Larissa weems illustration

please excuse the background I know it's caca. Either way this is we're Larissa is, cuz she's not dead, she's alive and well on vacation to the beaches of the Bahamas (denial)

Here's one with a different background so you can see her a bit easier.

[theswordmaiden]

Is there anything gayer than two women spending their entire time together hating each other’s guts?

I mean, nothing screams true love like attempted murder and/or constantly sniping at one another.

[theswordmaiden]

One thing about Brienne is that she is ALWAYS going to carry the sword of a man she loves

[theswordmaiden]

Any WIPs you would like to share? 👀

Hello my dear anon (':

I have... multiple WIPs to pick from, though most are just compilations of ideas jumbled together than anything else </3 but, for you, I'll list the handful I'm currently working through.

Larissa fucking reader in the kitchen... involves g!p, the thought tickled me whilst I was writing something else entirely. She gets all handsy with you while you're cooking/doing dishes, and tells you to keep working while she entertains herself with you. .

I have 2 different versions for a Brienne request I got, and after discussing it with my friend, I decided to not go the angst route I wanted to do (it'll be a little angsty still, but nowhere near what I originally planned). May or may not involve some internalized homophobia.

Someone requested a prompt using Florence + The Machine lyrics, who just so happens to be my favorite singer, so I'm excited to tackle that one—though it's another angsty route. Larissa was requested, and I will more than likely stick with her.

Another is a Sleep Token song x Lucifer story... though I'm not 100% set on using them yet. I love the idea that the Morningstar would've had a little angel lover back in the Silver City. I thought about pulling inspiration from my Sandman OC and writing something about a fallen angel!reader who willingly abandons their position to be with Lucifer.

I had ideas of a Jan Stevens x photographer!reader, but hardly anyone cares for characters on here other than Larissa so I probably will not post it </3 There's also a Brienne story I have where she ends up dying, another where you die and Larissa finds you. . the list goes on. Just a lot of death/self-inflicted harm. For someone that claims to not be capable of writing angst, I sure do love thinking of angst ideas!

My migraines have been worsening this month, so I haven't gotten around to posting anything that I need to 🥲 I am hoping to post sometime this week, but no promises, as I say that often lol. I've been keeping myself busy with writing for my OCs and entertaining thoughts about a certain Lannister as of late...

If you sent a request and it has not yet been responded to, this is why! I plan on doing each one I've gotten so far.

[theswordmaiden]

Burn

Jane Murdstone x Original Female Character (angst, hurt no comfort)

Note: I decided to write an angsty Victorian lesbian fic without sleeping. This may have been done by a sleep deprived person in a couple of hours who needed a reason to cry. Enjoy, I guess. I don't own anything other than my characters.

Burn

“Jane?”

“Yes?”

“What do you want for your birthday?”

Jane sighs. Her birthday isn’t something she likes to think about. What she used to get as a child were things a child wouldn’t want. Normally, it was to help with her posture or manners; a fan for a lady, a new bonnet, an embroidered handkerchief. She looks to Iris doubtfully.

“I am not usually of the type to want things for birthdays. Not material things, in any case,” she says, finger twirling a lock of the other woman’s brown hair between her fingers.

“Yes, but imagine you did. Even if you wish for a golden watch, I would do my best to seek out something akin to it.”

Jane scoffs, looking upwards, the tree above her allowing for slivers of light to peek through and glare into her eyes. She blinks at the intrusion. “Gold watches hold no more use than silver ones.”

“Jane.”

“Well, I hardly know what you wish for me to say. Materially, I have all I need,” she sighs.

“A scarf?”

“Oh, I beg of you, do not invade me with any more items of clothing, I fear I shall drown in silk and cotton as it is.”

Iris giggles and peers up at Jane from where her head rests in her lap. “A book?”

“Another item I wish not for as I own an abundance.”

“Once again, such a simple quest is made more exasperating by you than it need be, my dove.”

“You do realise the only thing I need, you provide.”

Iris raises her eyebrows and cocks her head as best she can in her position. “And what, pray tell, would that be?”

Jane lifts her head with gentle fingers beneath her chin.

“Love.”

-

“My Lady?”

Jane blinks. She looks up from her book. She’s been reading the same page for over ten minutes. She sees one of the maids in the doorway. “Yes?” she replies curtly.

“Dinner is ready.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Edward keeps the household on a tight leash. He trusts Jane to work with the maids and staff, but little else. Jane hardly feels free to leave the premises, always questioned by her brother like some sort of convict planning to tunnel out of the house with a spoon. Most days, she lays in her room. It matters not that it smells of the smoke from the fireplace or that the sunlight is rarely allowed to peek through the curtains. She reads by lamp or candlelight and stands in the garden only when the maids come to clean her room.

If anyone notices how mellow she is, they do not speak of it. Her once sharp and observant talents have been run into the ground from disuse. Somehow, the household staff are more on edge because of it.

Clara and little David are not to speak at the table. David because, according to Edward, children have no reason to speak if not spoken to, and Clara because her topics of chosen conversation are too inane. Jane is silent, not because of any established rule. It is only because she doesn’t want to find out what reason they would give her. What more the world will take from her and why.

-

“I told you not to get me anything.”

“I remember, but I saw this and couldn’t help myself,” Iris says, beaming as she holds out the package, brown paper wrapped neatly and tied off with a red silk ribbon.

Jane can hardly deny the other woman when she has such a smile on her face. Her eyes light up enough that Jane almost looks for the introduced source of illumination, only to be reminded that it is Iris’s excitement that makes her glow.

Hesitantly taking the package from Iris’s hand, Jane peels it open. She knows it’s only paper and ribbon, but she’ll be damned to tear even the edges. Everything Iris gives her is precious, even paper creased in every way possible. Inside is a necklace; a locket on a chain. She holds it up, observing it in the sunlight.

“You can put anything you’d like in it. Pictures, flowers, things like that. I know you don’t have the tendency to wear jewelry but you can leave it in a drawer. Or sell it, I don’t-”

Jane stops her with a finger on her lips, which is then replaced with her own, kissing her tenderly. She smiles when they part; even with Iris, this is a rare occurrence.

“I’m sure I will figure it out. It’s beautiful, Iris, thank you.”

Iris’s responding smile is just as beautiful as the gift.

-

“Miss Murdstone?”

“Yes, child?” Jane responds impatiently, eyes focused on her embroidery in front of her. The little boy’s voice never fails to irritate her, even now.

“I was um… wondering where Ms. Turner has gone. It has been a while since she has visited and-”

Jane’s hands stop cold and she looks up at David. His face pales when he sees her expression, knowing he has done something wrong. The only problem is that he never knows what. It seems to him that he is always doing something incorrect though he never means to.

“Boy, do you think your impertinence has any place in this house?” Jane snaps, putting her embroidery aside. She has been working on a crimson rose that lays half-stitched into the fabric. She has used the backyard garden as a reference. The dark, velvety petals, rich in its vermillion in a way only nature can provide.

“N-no, Miss Murdstone. I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to-”

“It matters not what you meant to do. Have you not yet learned the consequences of your actions or do I need to get Mr. Mudstone in here to remind you?” Jane rises from her chair and David only shrinks back further.

“No! No, I’m sorry.” The boy cowers and Jane doesn’t feel the usual satisfaction she gets from someone distressed by her authority.

“Why did you ask if not to be impertinent?”

David peeks out from between his little fingers and stutters out a response. He never stuttered when Iris was with her. Maybe it was Jane that was different in her presence and not David. “Only that… you seemed to approve of her company. I feared she had passed when she ceased to visit. I wished to offer my regards if that was so.”

Jane frowns and blinks, looking to the fireplace in the corner of the drawing room.

“She has not passed,” she says quietly. “Death would be a mercy for her.”

-

Jane looks at the locket in her hand. It currently holds a little note of paper Iris has signed in her usual pleasant handwriting, a little heart added to the top. When she told Iris of the idea, the younger woman was delighted, all too eager to sign her name a hundred times so Jane, the perfectionist Iris knows her to be, can pick her favourite. Her favourite is the first one.

“You mean to say you made me write all of those names and picked the first I did? Do you desire to drive me mad?” Iris says, playfully shoving at Jane’s shoulder as she puts the pen down. She flexes her hand that has cramped up from the writing.

“I hardly made you do anything. You volunteered, I refuse to be blamed for that,” Jane chuckles, appreciating the paper in her locket. She tucks it safely into her nightstand drawer and lays down on her bed. Iris joins her, head on her shoulder. There’s silence for a long while, the crackling of the fire calming them both. Iris leans in and kisses Jane’s cheek, which Jane readily sighs contentedly at.

“I’ve decided I want a cat.”

“A cat?” Jane repeats, an amused smirk directed at Iris gracing her pale features.

“Yes, a cat,” Iris nods decisively. “My home shall have a cat. The world has no shortage of them and they keep the mice away.”

“I see. You are telling me this why?”

Iris smiles at her, as mischievous as it is soft. “Because if you are to join me in a home as we have planned, then it must have a cat. If you have a protest, I’m afraid we will have to re-evaluate.”

“Is that so? A felidae mouse-catcher ranks above me in your list of home necessities?”

“No, of course not. I need you in the home. But I would also only be truly content if I were to be allowed a cat.”

Jane thinks, looking to Iris, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “As if you have ever heeded the responses to your requests.”

“Hush. You have moved the cat up to the top rank now,” Iris pouts.

“The hypothetical cat.”

“Yes.”

“I have lost a battle against a cat that does not, as of yet, exist.”

“Yes.”

“Iris.”

“Jane.”

Jane pushes her away, laughing softly. Iris’s eyes light up again, so familiar, so warm. Nothing can be wrong when Iris’s eyes do that. Iris grabs her closer and tugs on her hair. Jane bats her hands away. This is what children feel, Jane realises. Without the jadedness, without the resistance and self-control. Children don’t care how they look to other people. They push and shove and joke without a care in the world. Jane pulls Iris in and the other woman giggles, squirming in her hold.

“Impossible woman,” Jane tuts, unable to help a smile when they calm, arms around her waist, looking into her eyes..

“I love you,” Iris responds in the soft voice she knows gets Jane to melt. She kisses her softly and Jane abandons the rest of the ridiculous conversation.

They would have had a cat.

-

Today was particularly taxing. Edward had some business associates over and on top of dealing with the maids and cooks, Jane was required to put on a polite face, acting as if she didn’t want to wring every neck in the room and save her own for last. She is not one to entertain, true, but while Clara took over that job, Jane ensured propriety. No small feat considering most of the people in the room had children that seemed to have been raised in some sort of wilderness experiment in Jane’s opinion.

The burgundy tablecloth has been stained from the childrens’ uncouth manner of feeding themselves. Jane has to resist throwing the hand-selected decoration in the bin out of frustration. But it is expensive and the stains are removable so she resists an expression of distaste directed at the maids when they take it to be washed.

Horribly trivial thing to lose one’s head over, isn't it? A tablecloth.

In her room, Jane sits in the bed, nightgown on, dark hair braided over her shoulder. She observes herself in the vanity. She looks the same as she always has. It’s terrible. She always heard that when people are in pain, it will be obvious. Their eyes grow hollow and their cheeks grow gaunt. Their skin takes on a certain hue and their weight changes. Jane looks as she always has. It feels wrong, as if she isn’t actually hurting if it can’t be seen. True, it has been only around three months, but she can imagine that everyone around her thinks of her the same way they always have.

She feels it, though. The heaviness in her limbs, the cloudiness in her head. Everything is so empty and colourless, which sounds impossible to imagine until one is deep inside that vortex. A drain, sucking everything out of the day that provides life. What is the reason, she wonders, for continuing the rose embroidery, to clean the tablecloth, to continue day by day without any sense of accomplishment? She is disrespected by her brother and feared by everyone else. She cares for no one and the entire world is only too happy to respond as such. She knows some women live a spinster’s life, dying alone with only their sparse family to barely acknowledge their absence.

She closes her eyes, a stinging behind her lids. This happens less and less as days go by, but on the ones where she is particularly exhausted, all Jane wants to do is tell Iris about it. To have her stroke and braid her hair and murmur comforting words into her ear. Her lap was always so comfortable to rest her head in, warm and soft, cradling her in a way she fears she always needed. She opens her nightstand. The locket no longer remains there and she swallows harshly.

Nothing but ashes now, this and everything Iris ever gave her. Fire discriminates not, greedily devouring all it is allowed to consume. It made Jane sick to her stomach to see how brightly it burned when it was fed. Where Iris’s eyes would light up with joy, the fire flared with glee, bragging, taunting her with its power. Letters, pressed flowers, books, and the locket. She watched it get swallowed by the flames and a scream had built up in her throat. She managed to restrain it but it released instead through a torrent of tears instead. So many that her head had hurt, her eyes had swollen, and she was afterwards amazed that she hadn’t snuffed out the flames.

She held the present’s wrapping in her hands; the brown paper and red silk ribbon. She tossed the paper into the fireplace, watching with absolute agony as it dissolved quickly. She dipped the tail of the ribbon in as well. Just as the end started to smoulder, she yanked it back, tapping it out with her bare hands, burns be damned. She gripped it viciously in her fists, muffled sobs bruising her diaphragm.

The ribbon remains where the locket was, folded neatly in her nightstand. On special occasions, she weaves it into her hair. No one would ever know.

-

Jane opens the door to the house when the mail arrives. She sorts through them, putting aside the ones she doesn’t need to read at this moment. There is one at the bottom; her name is written on it in Iris’s handwriting. Jane holds back a smile and opens it. She wishes she hadn’t. The handwriting is rushed, but holds Jane’s heart no less.

‘Dearest Jane,

I realise letter-writing is not our favoured method of communication, but I fear that I will not be able to contact you in alternative ways for quite some time. I do not know how or when, but it has come to my attention that my family has discovered our relationship. They had me followed or something along those lines. It has not yet been made clear to me and I believe it never will be. As proof of repentance for the sins I have committed, I will be sent to Saint Mary’s Women’s Hospital to be reformed. The length of my stay there is indiscriminate at best and eternal at worst. Visitors are not allowed and their methods of aid are to remain undisclosed. I was allowed one more letter to you as my family believes they are not cruel. I disagree, for what could be more cruel than to believe that having you in my life is anything other than bliss in the truest sense of the word?

I ask you to burn this letter after you have read it. I know I have provided you little in ways of material goods, but I encourage you to burn those as well. If my family ever decides to inform yours of our relationship, as little proof of our relationship as possible is in your best interest. I want to know that you are living in the world, not locked in a cage as no creature ever should be. I weep writing this letter as I am sure the smudged ink shows, and I know you will shake your head at this horrid, open display of emotion, but I hope you may forgive me this one time.

I love you.

Eternally yours,

Iris’

[theswordmaiden]

Gwen Character Prompts/Req's

To get myself to write more, and also to get some new content going on in tags, I'd like to attempt a "writing challenge", of sorts. They are meant to be short, meaning 100-800 words ideally.

Just send a prompt! It can be a one-liner, a song/lyric, a trope—anything you desire. If you'd prefer a specific character, please include it; otherwise, I will simply use whoever I deem fits your request best.

I'm open to just about anything... within reason, of course.

Assuming I actually get any asks LOL please do not take it personally if I do not respond to yours by the way. It probably means I was unable to do something with it, or it was a request that was perhaps out of my comfort range—hence why if you've sent a request prior, it was not done, sorry ):

I have something to post soon, and then I'll dedicate any time to asks. This post will get deleted later but my requests are always open regardless. I still need to post my masterlist that's been in my drafts since 2023, but with the drama going on in the fandom lately, I've debated on no longer posting... so this is me hoping that taking prompts will help.

[theswordmaiden]