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cappulcino · 5 months ago

Text

The Shape of Us

Read on AO3

Words: 6,440

Pairing: Larissa Weems x Wife!Reader

Summary: You and Larissa are on a “break”. When you agree to meet for coffee at the Weathervane, you finally get to start healing.

Tags: established relationship, angst with a happy ending, some fluff (flangst if you will), emotional hurt/comfort, eventual smut (skippable, but maybe minors dni), maternal Larissa, character development, no Y/N

Trigger warnings: non-graphic mention of G!P (tell me if I should add more)

A/N: Quite a change of style with this one. I had the idea and just wanted to use it to practice instinctive writing, kind of. It’s also the first time I try to write present tense. Very experimental overall, not as thought out as usual, Larissa might not even be characterised the way I like her to be. Also, no beta, we die like Phasma. I hope you still enjoy it.

Eight months. That's how long you haven't seen Larissa.

You're not divorced –not yet anyway. But after four years of marriage, six years total of a seemingly perfect romance, Larissa had asked for a 'break'. You had agreed to it, and perhaps it had been the right decision, too.

You and Larissa had been constantly fighting over trivialities. And since you had been barely having any, not even sex could have saved your relationship at that point. The main argument often revolved around Elias, your son from your previous spouse.

You had met Larissa when you were seven months pregnant after a particularly hard divorce, and it had never discouraged her. She had courted you all the same, made you feel loved and beautiful like your abusive ex never had –or any other partner, for that matter–, and she had sworn to stay by your side forever.

Elias' birth had propelled your relationship into something terribly concrete in very little time. It had not been easy. But Larissa had helped you raise your little boy as her own without complaining once.

That was until your somewhat divergent views on Elias' upbringing got in the way, amongst other things, leading to endless arguments late at night, trying to keep your voice hushed so as not to wake Elias, but gesticulating and pacing furiously until you were both too tired to say another word.

And then one night, Larissa had said, "I think we should take a break."

Out of anger, you had asked her to be the one to pack her stuff and leave. You had bought your house together –she could have claimed the right to stay, too. But you had Elias and nowhere else to go. She had her quarters at Nevermore. So she had packed and left that very same night without even putting up a fight.

Eight months ago, then.

The break had hurt, kept hurting month after month, and to this day it still hasn't stopped hurting. It might even be worse.

Today, however, you and Larissa have agreed to meet for coffee at the Weathervane –just to see each other and talk, nothing more–, and you are desperate for this pseudo-date to mark the end of that damned break.

But while Larissa had been the one to initiate it, you had been the one to be a bitch about it, so you know you can't expect Larissa to jump for joy when you bring yourself to step inside the Weathervane.

Yet, you're filled with hope, and when you finally push that door, you realise it's not the chilly wind making you shiver, it's the anticipation.

With faked determination in your stance, you head towards the counter. But then you catch the shy wave of a hand with perfectly manicured red nails from the corner of your eye and stop abruptly.

Larissa is already here –of course she is– and slides a cup of coffee across the table she is sitting at. She knows she is always ten minutes early to everything and you, ten minutes late, and has ordered accordingly so your cardamom and sea salt vanilla latte is waiting for you, still steaming.

You want to run to her –you almost do. But you have to take a second to compose yourself. There is a whole range of emotions on her face, from bitterness to sadness and hurt. But she flashes you a weak smile and you are pleased to find out that there is still love underneath it all.

Slowly, with less determination than before, you walk up to the booth she has chosen and sit across from her.

"Hey…"

There is a slight hesitation in Larissa's attitude and tone as you take off your coat and put your bag down, and you wonder if she's excited to see you or scared –or both, like you are.

"I took the liberty to order for you. I hope that's okay," she says tentatively, as if worried your tastes might have changed in the past eight months.

"More than okay. Thank you."

Your eyes start a game of roaming all over each other's bodies without ever meeting, and you notice how Larissa unclasps her hands and her fingers start reaching out before she changes her mind to pull away and fidget under the table instead. It makes your heart clench.

"You look good," she suddenly blurts out.

It's game over for you as your eyes snap back up, boring into hers. You tell her that you think she looks even better. You mean it. But you are pained to see the weary look on her face, the hint of exhaustion no amount of makeup can hide.

You also notice the dress she is wearing, the same one she was wearing the day Elias was born. She had complained time and time again that it didn't fit her anymore, and the thought of her losing so much weight it does again almost brings tears to your eyes. Guilt is consuming you.

Larissa clears her throat in that particular way you know she does when she is struggling to stay calm, and you know it's your cue to pretend you haven't seen anything and start an actual conversation.

"How have you been?" you ask before taking a sip of your latte.

Larissa shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant, even though she is anything but.

"Oh, you know… Busy. With Nevermore, mostly. The new term is approaching, so there's a lot to take care of. What about you? And… Elias?"

You purposely ignore the first question. You feel anything but good and don't have the strength to pretend like Larissa does. You don't want to admit you have been obsessively thinking about her every single day for the past eight months either. And when she mentions your son, you can't help but let your heart speak before your brain can reason it anyway, your tone clipped and cold.

"Let's not pretend you don't know how he's doing. I know you've been calling his school, and that you 'casually dropped by' Clarisse's house right when Elias was there for Timothy's birthday."

Feeling caught, Larissa pinches her lips and looks away. But she quickly recovers, her expression slightly hardening.

"You cannot expect a mother to stay away from her child for months on end without any news. Elias is my son, too."

"He's my son."

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel like dying inside, drowning in instant regret.

Larissa feels punched in the gut –so hard that it makes her gasp audibly. You notice the way her nostrils quiver and her eyes immediately water. But she clenches her jaw, forcing herself to remain cordial.

"Now you're just being cruel."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you say that?"

"I don't know!"

And it's true. The worst part in all this is that you never mean any of the poison you spit at your wife. It just comes out and you're not even sure why.

An awkward silence sets in for a moment, and you bring your cup to your lips with trembling hands before speaking again.

"He barely talks to me now. And when he does, it's only to ask, 'When is Mummy coming back?'"

"What do you tell him?" Seeing your lack of response, Larissa presses further. "He deserves answers."

"But I don't have them, do I? Just like I don't know what to tell him when he comes home from school and tells me that little Lisa's parents are getting divorced and her father is now with another woman, and asks me if his mummy is, too."

"What do you mean, you don't know what to tell him?" Larissa asks, briskly bringing her hands back on the table to better lean forward.

"Well, are you?"

"Am I what?"

"With another woman."

Larissa scoffs loudly, visibly shocked by your question.

"Heavens, no! I'm still wearing my ring."

"It doesn't mean anything."

"No?"

Once again, Larissa visibly aches at your reaction, and you hate yourself for it. Thing is, the fact that she is still wearing her wedding ring does mean a lot to you. It means everything. But you're too scared to get your hopes up, and before you can do anything about it, your heart decides it's best to kill that hope in the womb.

"So… You haven't seen anyone else? At all?" you ask nonetheless, still needing to make sure Larissa remains yours.

You have always felt like she was the most attractive of the two, and have always had this fear she would go look for someone better than you whenever she got the chance.

Larissa glares at you as she sips her own coffee, debating whether to indulge your jealousy or not. Eventually, she decides to be entirely honest.

"Someone did ask me out." Your eyes instantly darken while she continues. "Hannah, the florist. But–"

"But what?" you cut her off, feeling yourself turning green. You can't bear the thought of her with anyone else.

"But I said no, of course! Gosh, who do you think I am? I was never interested in her."

There is another pause and, seeing your eyes dart away, Larissa suddenly worries you might have been trying to tell her something. You notice her gaze quickly scanning your left hand to check your wedding ring is still there.

"Have you been seeing anybody else?"

"Absolutely not."

"Good."

The relief that washes over Larissa's face is undeniable. You find it almost cute, but mostly you feel a weight lifting from your own shoulder, reassured by the notion that you both remained fiercely faithful, no matter what.

Impulsively, Larissa stops fumbling with her napkin, cup, and whatever is in front of her, and gives in to her desire to touch you again, snatching your left hand. She squeezes it, presses it to her cheek. Her thumb traces loving circles on your skin, her lips pepper your knuckles with urgent kisses. Her breath is heavy as she relishes the familiar touch.

"I still love you, you know," she finally blurts out in a desperate whisper. "So much."

You can't help but gasp. Larissa wants to see you. She is wearing the same dress she wore for your son's birth. She hasn't taken her wedding ring off. She doesn't want Hannah the pretty florist. She still loves you.

It has been way too long since you last heard these words, and they make your eyes instantly well up, tears threatening to fall over your waterline like a dam bursting open.

Seeing that, Larissa brings a hand to cup your cheek without letting go of your left one, which she still kisses now and then. The movement is barely there, but you see her shake her head as well, and you can tell she hates seeing you like this and wonders if this break was truly a good idea after all. You're both more miserable than you care to admit.

Eventually, she dares express her doubt.

"Was this break beneficial to you at all?"

You can't say that a little distance wasn't needed. But God knows you can't live without Larissa either, and raising a six-year-old on your own is just too difficult.

"Was it to you?" you ask, once again eluding her question.

Larissa looks up, both forcing herself to swallow her own unshed tears and trying to come up with an answer. But for the first time since you sat at that table, she seems not to have any.

"All I know is that I miss you," she confesses instead. "And I miss our son."

"I miss you, too. We both do."

Your voice cracks at these last words.

"I want to see him. I need to see him," Larissa practically begs. "You can't keep me away from him forever."

You nod slowly and snuffle. You know that's fair –you had no right to forbid her to see Elias. Worse than that, you had no right to forbid your son to see his mother.

After a moment, you carefully pull away and grab your napkin to wipe your tears and blow your nose rather disgracefully. Larissa can't help the faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she hears that sound and sees how red the tip of your nose has turned.

"Do you, uh… Do you want to come home for dinner?" you ask then. "I think Elias would be delighted to see you."

Larissa's heart skips a beat at your invitation. The idea of going home, spending some time with you, with your son… It's everything she has secretly been yearning for. Yet, you sense a slight hesitation. Larissa is still wary of how the evening could go –rightfully so, considering all the arguments you've had in the past.

"Are you sure?"

You don't want to imagine anything negative right now, so you just nod.

"Be there at eight?"

"I'll be there."

That evening, at eight, when the bell rings, you send your son to open the door.

"Elias, honey, I think you might want to answer that."

Your son turns away from the cartoon he is watching to glare at you darkly, but you insist, jerking your head towards the door, and he finally complies, sliding off the couch to go answer it.

When he does, you can see Larissa standing rather awkwardly by the doorway from where you are. The realisation of how uncomfortable she must feel to have to be invited into her own home truly tugs at your heartstrings. But then you see her eyes land on Elias, and her demeanour changes immediately.

"Hello, sunshine!"

Elias gasps loudly.

"Mummy!" he shouts, bouncing excitedly on his legs.

But just when you expect him to jump into Larissa's arms and squeal like he has just seen Santa, he freezes on the spot and a noisy whine escapes his mouth, quickly turning into full, ugly cries –the only way for him to express all those big emotions he had apparently kept bottled up all these months.

"Oh, oh, oh… Baby, no…"

With practised ease, Larissa picks Elias up, even though one of her hands is already full with the bouquet of roses she has bought for you on her way here. Hearing your son cry so desperately is killing you. But your heart breaks even further when you notice his short hair turning platinum blonde.

Elias has inherited your shapeshifting abilities but is too young to control them, of course –and you've never been too keen on teaching him how to, either. When a young, inexperienced shapeshifter feels strong emotions, it is not uncommon for their powers to go haywire. Quite often, the youngest partially shapeshift into someone they feel close to, usually a parent. For Elias, it's Larissa. Always Larissa.

"Mummy…"

"Oh, I know, sweetheart. Mummy missed you, too. More than you can imagine."

As you lean against the wall of your entrance, your hand on your chest to prevent yourself from choking on your guilt, Larissa glances at you, silently communicating her own mixture of sadness, guilt and affection.

Seeing Elias won't let go of her anytime soon, your wife invites herself inside. You come closer, closing the door behind her, while your son struggles to calm down.

"I… brought you these," Larissa says, bending at a weird angle to hand you the flowers without letting go of the little boy in her arms.

You take them, a small smile on your lips until you realise whom she must have bought the roses from.

"Did you buy them–"

"From Hannah? Yes." Larissa notices your jealousy flaring, but she quickly tames it. "I asked her for the most beautiful roses she had so I could gift them to my wife."

The pride in her eyes and her slight possessiveness make your heart soar and the smile returns to your lips.

"They're beautiful. Let me find a vase for them."

As you go find a vase for the roses, you can hear Larissa struggle to get out of her coat and then walk into the living room without ever putting Elias down.

"It's okay, sunshine. Oh… What's that you were watching? Is that Pokémon?"

"Mmh."

"You like Squirtle, don't you?"

"No. My favourite is Lucario."

"I'm sorry," you hear Larissa reply with a melancholic tone. "Of course, it's Lucario."

That simple exchange makes you realise just how fast things can change in a child's life, and therefore how much Larissa has missed because of you. You wonder if she will ever find it in her heart to forgive you. You know you won't.

Throughout dinner, Elias simply cannot stay still. Every time Larissa so much as shifts on her chair, his little hands reach for her to make sure she won't leave without him. Despite your instructions to eat his food –especially his vegetables–, he also keeps wiggling free, running back and forth between the table and his bedroom upstairs to go fetch his new toys and latest drawings and show them to Larissa. He speaks fast and loud, as if scared to give even the tiniest opportunity to either of you to say something negative and ruin the night for him.

Larissa, for her part, seems overwhelmed but far from unhappy. She holds each drawing carefully, murmuring praises as she flips through them, her smile never leaving her lips. Still, she regularly sneaks glances at you, and you understand she is waiting to be finally alone with you for a moment. You're waiting for this, too. You also both can't stop your eyes from darting to each other's lips, and it definitely doesn't help with the tension that has been building up since your coffee date at the Weathervane.

Thankfully, with all those emotions and that energy spent, Elias is quick to collapse on Larissa's lap, his thumb stuck in his mouth. You reach for his tiny wrist –you have successfully started weaning him off that habit over the past months and don't want him to pick it up again. But Larissa gently pushes your hand away.

"Leave him," she says, her voice not unkind but firm. "He needs it."

You sigh but give in. Tonight is not a night to argue about anything.

"You should go tuck him in," you offer after observing your sleepy child for a moment. By now, even his nose has shapeshifted into Larissa's.

Your wife smiles at the proposal and excuses herself, cradling Elias close to her chest as she brings him upstairs. Your gaze follows them fondly until you can't see them anymore and you decide to get up to clean the table a little bit.

But you quickly stop to go upstairs instead and see how things are going. You can't help it. Not necessarily because you want to control your wife, no. It's more because you find the sight of her with Elias comforting and absolutely heartwarming, and you need that right now.

As you arrive in front of your son's bedroom and peek through the crack of the door, you hear Larissa trying to explain to Elias how "mommies can still love each other very much and not be together for a while". You find her courageous. You've never had the balls to attempt such a difficult explanation, despite Elias' incessant questioning.

"I want you to be with me and Mommy again," you hear him plead sleepily.

"Oh, sweetheart…" Larissa coos, her fingers delicately brushing his still-platinum hair away from his forehead. "I want that, too. I really do. But Mommy and I… we're working on some things, okay? We're trying to make things better, I promise."

"I hate her."

The brutal honesty of your own child as he thinks you're not looking makes you want to scream, throw up, and bang your head against the wall. The pain burning in your chest is indescribable, and you have to cover your mouth so your inevitable sobs don't ruin the moment for Elias and his other mother.

Still, through it all, you are glad to find out Larissa has your back.

"Don't say that, Elias. I know you're sad, but Mommy loves you very much."

"But she doesn't want me to see you."

"I know, beautiful. I know. But Mommy is just… She's hurting, too. And sometimes, when people hurt, they say and do things they don't mean."

There is a moment of silence only broken by the constant stroking of Larissa's hand on your son's face. Then Elias speaks up again, his voice still weakened by the fatigue.

"Mummy?"

"What is it?"

"Is it my fault you and Mommy don't talk anymore?"

You can hear Larissa's heart break from the hallway.

"Oh, no, no, no, angel… No. Never. You have done nothing wrong, you hear me? Nothing wrong. Adults disagree and need some alone time sometimes, but sweethearts like you are never the reason why, alright? Now, close those pretty eyes. You need to rest."

"But you won't be here when I wake up," Elias whines.

"I know. I'm so sorry, baby. But we'll see each other soon, I promise. Mommy will let me see you now."

You haven't even really talked about this with Larissa yet, but there is no point in denying it –Elias needs both his mothers with him and you can't prevent Larissa from loving him and wanting to take care of him.

There is a pause, and you can hear in Elias' lack of response that he is contemplating accusing his mother of lying. But thankfully, he is too tired to put up a fight and settles for a "Goodnight" instead.

You watch as Larissa tucks the covers around his tiny body and leans in to kiss his forehead, then step aside to rest your back on the wall next to the door so Larissa doesn't feel too overwhelmed by your presence when she comes out.

Still, she stops in her tracks when she spots you waiting outside. She looks at you, you look at her, and you both notice the tears in each other's eyes as you both ache deeply for your little boy.

"Do you want to say goodnight?"

You shake your head slowly. Deep down, you want to. But you figure Elias is halfway in the arms of Morpheus –if not already there– and might not want to see you anyway. With a small nod of understanding, Larissa closes the door.

"I haven't seen him so happy in a long time," you tell her as she moves to lean against the wall opposite you. "I shouldn't have kept you away from him. He misses you too much."

"You shouldn't have. But I think I understand why you did."

"He doesn't," you reply with a jerk of your head towards Elias' bedroom.

"He's just a child caught in the middle of our problems. It's not fair to him, we have to make things better one way or another."

You nod, your heart heavy with profound sadness, but say nothing because what is there to add? Larissa is right through and through –she always is. You're the one who keeps making the wrong decisions.

"You didn't answer my question earlier," Larissa eventually says, her voice soft and quiet like it always is after she has spent some time with Elias.

"Which one?"

"How are you?"

Your eyes meet hers, but only for a fleeting moment. You miss her, you long for her, you crave her, her touch, her lips, her scent… You feel like if you look at her for too long you're either going to pass out or do yet another regrettable thing.

Larissa calls your name, asks you to look at her. You don't answer. You can't. And then, in one swift motion, she is only inches away from you, tugging at your shoulders to pull you into a hug.

You don't resist, of course, and lean against her with your whole weight. But you don't have the strength to lift your arms to hug her back and instead just start crying, your face buried in her chest.

If there was any word stronger than miserable, that's what you would be.

"I know, I know," she says tenderly as if reading your thoughts. "Me too."

Her voice cracks and she finally lets her emotions fully show, too. Her silent cries pierce your heart, and only then do you feel strong enough to wrap your arms around her and clutch.

Now both crying, you hold each other like you're trying to mend the pieces of each other's broken mind. It feels so painful and so terribly good at the same time. Her body feels nice and comforting, you had almost forgotten just how much.

When you both finally start calming down, you realise you're scared of pulling away. But Larissa keeps you close, only shifting slightly to rest her forehead against yours. Her skin is warm, but as always, the tip of her nose is cold on your cheek. You don't mind it, it's one of Larissa's little things you often find yourself missing the most at night.

Your eyelids flutter open, and, inevitably, you make the mistake of staring not at her eyes but at her lips. The faint aroma of wine coming out of her mouth in hot puffs makes your skin tingle, and you know that you have to look away or you won't be able to refrain from kissing her. And if you kiss her, you won't be able to stop.

But Larissa cups your face with both hands before you have a chance to move and before your brain can formulate a single thought, her lips capture yours in a slow, loving kiss. You can feel the yearning and despair that have pent up in the past eight months in the way she moves her mouth against yours, and it makes you weak at the knees.

You reply to her kiss with a whimper and she deepens it, her tongue seeking entry into your mouth with a mix of hunger and fear. You welcome it without hesitation and move your arms up to wrap them around her neck, carding your fingers through her perfect hair bun. Meanwhile, her hands slide down to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You had missed this and obviously can't prevent your hips from bucking against hers, begging for more.

Larissa responds to your silent plea with a low groan and a hand moving further down to grip your butt. The air catches violently in your throat at the intimate contact and you throw your head back with a moan.

"We shouldn't be doing this," Larissa says. "Not like that."

But there is no conviction in her words, and she still has a hand on your rear and her mouth on your neck, gently sucking and nipping at your sensitive spots before soothing them with her tongue.

The noises you make are so needy that it becomes fairly evident you haven't taken much care of your own needs over the past months. The realisation makes your wife growl possessively, and her resolve crumbles. She needs to have you. Now.

"Bed?"

"God, yes."

Larissa doesn't pull away even once as she pushes you towards your bedroom. Her hands move urgently, her kisses become hungrier, her breathing accelerates.

"I love you."

You both repeat those words so much that it is unclear whose mouth they're coming from.

Larissa is quick to take off your clothes, revealing the skin she has longed to touch again for so long. You, on the other hand, try to take your time. Larissa had changed before coming home for dinner, and you've been wondering all evening if there is any fine lingerie under that burgundy dress. But it's Larissa –of course there is. You just like to torture yourself by unwrapping her like a priceless present. Besides, you don't want to look too desperate, nor do you want to make her feel like she isn't in charge. You want her to be now.

Unlike you, Larissa is not afraid to show how much she desires you. As soon as you're both naked, she pushes you onto your marriage bed, covers your body with hers and starts making up for lost time in every way possible. Fingers, vibrator, tongue… Nothing is off-limits tonight.

Then something different, something you haven't done in a very long time. Larissa shapeshifts, and you feel it –the size, the weight of it against you. Your wife looks down at you expectantly, hoping for your consent. It's something you've never downright refused, but have always felt conflicted about. It often reminds you of a past you'd rather forget and tends to make you question your sexuality in ways you don't want to think about while having sex –even though Larissa has reassured you countless times already that it didn't make you any less of a lesbian.

Not tonight, though. Tonight you nod eagerly and spread your thighs a little further to welcome her shapeshifted appendage, needing that special connection. In the faint orange glow coming from that one lamp post at the end end of your street, you see Larissa smiling brightly.

"Thank you," she whispers against your skin as she pushes into you.

She loves this, you know it, and the obscene moan she lets out as she stretches you only confirms it. It feels good, too good, and you meet her sensual thrusts with deliberate rolls of your hips, the way she moves, gasps your name, and loses herself completely to the moment only spurring you on.

She takes you twice like this. In a row. The first time, deep and slow, then rough and frenzied, until you're shaking and can't even call her name coherently. And by the time your final climax hits, you're so sensitive you feel like you're going to faint.

Larissa keeps moving, chasing her own release, her thrusts messy, uneven. And then with one last push, she spills over the edge, burying her face in the crook of your neck with a broken, "You’re mine. Mine."

You've always loved that possessive side she works so hard to mask under heavy decorum. The way she calls you hers reminds you of your wedding night and makes your chest burn with love. So when she collapses on top of you, panting in your ear, you just have to squeeze her tight in your arms and kiss every inch of skin you can reach.

You keep her close even long after she has pulled out of you, simply enjoying the warmth of her body and the scent that floats in the room in the aftermath of your passionate lovemaking.

It's about two in the morning now, but neither of you is sleeping. You're both just basking in the intimacy of the moment, exchanging gentle kisses and caresses until you break the silence.

"Come home."

Larissa shifts then, and you're suddenly scared you've ruined it all and she is going to leave. But she just props herself on her elbow to look into your eyes with a blend of vulnerability and longing.

"I want to. More than anything. I need you to know that. But…" She sighs. "There are things we need to talk about and settle, compromises to make."

"Like what?"

The way Larissa takes a deep breath before answering lets you know whatever she says won't be up for debate if you want this to work.

"We need to find common ground about our parenting styles. And I want you to try therapy."

"Are you saying I don't know how to raise my own son?"

Larissa sighs in frustration at the defensiveness in your tone.

"No, that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying we have different ways of doing it, and we need to find a way to reconcile them for Elias' sake."

"You want him to explore his shapeshifting abilities," you mumble as you roll onto your back, an arm on your forehead.

"Yes, I do," Larissa replies with a kind but firm voice. "He is a shapeshifter. It's part of who he is, and it's a part we need to let him embrace, not suppress."

"The world is a terrible place for Outcasts."

"That's why there are places like–"

"If you're going to say Nevermore, I swear–"

"Yes, I am going to say Nevermore. It would be the safest place on earth for him, and he would still get to evolve around Normies. You know I've even hired a Normie teacher this year."

"And I don't trust her."

"You don't trust many people."

Touché. You sigh heavily, letting your arm fall to cover your eyes as if trying to shield yourself from Larissa's truths –or rather, from how much you hate being wrong when it comes to making choices for Elias. But Larissa pushes your arm away and tilts your chin with a finger so you look at her again.

"I know you're scared. I am, too. But what scares me the most is the thought of Elias thinking he has to hide a part of himself, even around us, or that he can only move through life safely if he denies every fundamental aspect of who he is."

If you were to be completely honest –even if only to yourself–, you would admit Larissa has already convinced you. It's hypocritical to expect Elias to repress his abilities when both his mothers are exactly like him and free to use them, or to deny him an education at Nevermore when you have spent your own childhood hoping there was a place for people like you. What would be next? He'll come out as gay, and you'll tell him it's wrong? No, this is preposterous.

But you know this is not where the problem truly lies, and it's high time you communicated with your wife to treat it at the root.

"You're his model," you finally say, your voice too hoarse for your liking. So you clear your throat and start again. "You're his model, the one he instinctively shapeshifts into when he's not doing it on purpose. Look at how quickly his hair turned like yours when you arrived. It's you, always you. Never me. I'm his mother, his birth mother. I made him. But it's always you."

Larissa doesn't like it too much when you're this possessive over Elias because it throws her lack of biological connection to him back in her face, and it is something she has always struggled with. Still, her voice remains calm and understanding.

"Yes, you brought him into this world. But I've been a part of his life since he was in your womb, I was there when he was born, I fed him, changed him, taught him how to read, and let myself be vomited on more times than I can count. I have as much an impact on the person he is as you do."

"But shapeshifters are supposed to take on the traits of their closest parent the first time, and he took yours," you protest, your voice cracking. "Why not me? What have I done wrong?"

"Oh, darling…"

Larissa sits up, pulling you up with her so she can hug you properly and draw slow, soothing circles on your naked back.

"You have done nothing wrong. Sometimes, it doesn't work like it usually does and it's nobody's fault."

"My baby hates me…"

Larissa gasps and brings her hands to your face, clasping your jaw tightly while you start weeping again.

"No. Absolutely not. Elias does not hate you. Why would you ever think that?"

"That's what he told you earlier."

Larissa presses her lips into a thin line, feeling pained that you've heard these words.

"He's only six… He's in pain and doesn't have any better way to express himself," she says, pulling you back against her chest. She stays quiet for a moment, and then continues, "It's… It's the reason why you kept him away from me all these months, isn't it? You wanted to feel him closer to you."

You realise how ridiculous this sounds and can't even begin to explain just how hard you blame yourself.

"I'm so sorry…"

"It's okay," Larissa coos, rocking you back and forth, even though you know it's all but 'okay'. "We just… We need to communicate. I understand your fears, I do. I have my own. But we need to do better for Elias. I don't want him to suffer because of our problems anymore."

"I know, I know," you say with a weak nod. Then after a moment, you add, "Therapy, then."

"Yes, therapy. Please. But we're in this together, I'm not letting you go. We're a team, aren't we?"

"'Til death do us part'."

Larissa chuckles softly at your choice of words.

"Mmh, that's right. You, my love, are absolutely stuck with me. So we're going to work as a team for our son. No more isolating each other."

"But you're not coming home yet, are you?"

"No, not yet. But if we do this right, I might come back sooner than we both expected."

You untangle yourself from Larissa's embrace and let yourself fall back on your bed with a sigh. You're getting tired, and aren't sure what to feel anymore. And then you feel your wife's hand coming to rest lovingly on your belly, and it definitely doesn't help your weariness, both physical and mental.

"If you want me to leave now, I can," Larissa ends up offering, sensing your fatigue and disappointment and not wanting to cause you more pain by leaving in the morning after a whole night together.

Your eyes snap to her, wide with confusion.

"Are you serious? I'm asking you to come home, we've just had the best sex we've had in over a year… No, I don't want you to go. Stay. Elias will be so happy to see you at breakfast."

Your decision and the mention of your son's name make Larissa smile brightly, and she lies back next to you with a tiny, excited squeal before leaning in to press her swollen lips against yours one last time.

"I want to be better, Larissa," you whisper when she pulls back and makes herself comfortable on her pillow. "For both of you."

"I know, darling. I know. I believe in you."

"I love you."

Before Larissa can even reply, you're already drifting, your breath evening out and your body melting into hers.

Eight months. That's how long you hadn't seen Larissa. But you figure once you've spent your whole life with her –because you will–, it won't matter anymore.

Taglist: @cordeliasdarling @cygnetteflor @eurydice-shenanigans @vii-v @ellovett @schlaegerpaula-blog @peridot-pineapple @simonknowsnothing @goddessfloresz @barbarasstar @anothersapphicgirl @emeraldoceansstuff @dingdongthetail @valerielovebug @hasthebaconinhispants

(Click here to join the taglist)

#reblog appreciated #larissa weems #larissa weems x reader #wednesday netflix #gwendoline christie #gwendoline christie fandom #cappulcino writes

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agathaandbrienneslesbian · 1 year ago

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Hullooo!

🎂 and 🌙?

Bonjour 🥰✨

🎂Birthday: my birthday is the 2nd of September 🥰

🌙Zodiac: and therefore my Zodiac is Virgo 🥰

The perfectionism is insane… Virgo AND ADHD really makes me struggle 🤣🤭

#answered ask #cappulcino ask #ask #agathaandbrienneslesbian ask answer

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weemssapphic · 17 days ago

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Hi!!! I’m not sure if you have been asked this before (you probably have) but who are some of your favourite writers on here? I’m curious to see if there are some I haven’t come across yet!👀❤️😌

Hello! I have, although it was so long ago that I can't find it right now 😅 (I need a better tagging system... anyWAY 🤪) you're all good though!

The thing is, I haven't been reading much fic in recent months, and many of the people I used to read are no longer active, or at least not posting very frequently. So I am, unfortunately, not the best person to ask at the moment, I'm afraid 😔 that won't stop me from listing some people off the top of my head whose fics I have read recently:

@milfsloverblog is always and forever a favorite and she posts often, so I'm sure you've come across her works, but worth a mention nonetheless 🫶🏼

@cappulcino is AMAZING. Genuinely. Especially if you're looking for quality Lucifer fics.

@dovesintherain I could weep over every word she's written. Art.

@theswordmaiden love their work SO much, another beautifully talented writer! <3

I am positive that there are so many good writers on here still writing for Gwen's characters (and on ao3 as well!), so feel free to reblog or comment on this post if you have any fic or writer recs!

#asks #anon

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viivenn · 1 year ago

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the lying angel.

commission for @cappulcino.

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writing-for-life · 1 year ago

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Tagged by @dreamaturgy

Rules: answer + tag some people you want to get know better and/or catch up with!

Favorite color: I usually don’t do colours. Only black. I might let a bit of red or purple sneak in. When I feel particularly adventurous, a smidgeon of hot pink (go away with pastels) or really bright turquoise.

Last song: Aria 2 (pt. 1) by Max Richter because I sometimes put on “Sleep” when I write. Yeah, sounds counterintuitive, I know 🤣 Great for focus though. At least for me.

Currently reading: Fathom Folk by Eliza Chan.

Currently watching: Not much. Not in a TV headspace at the moment, too much reading and writing going on.

Currently craving: Nothing in particular. Thinking of it, I could go a coffee…

Coffee or Tea: Oh, I just answered that question previously I guess. Coffee of course. Forever and always. Black and short. No shenanigans. I hate tea. I can tolerate fruit infusions on a good day in winter, but that’s about it.

no pressure tags: leaving out the peeps who’ve already been tagged and torturing @marlowe-zara @dreaminglibrary @sgam76 @leesgotwritersblock @poobtato @bobbole @morpheusbaby3 @duckland @notallsandmen @dixdafne No worries if this isn’t for you.

(And adding a tag for @withoutyouimsaskia and @cappulcino because I already did this one. Thank you for tagging me 🙂).

#tag game

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inastarlesssky · 1 month ago

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But is there a name for Dream x Johanna Constantine that isn't Morphanna? (That just sounds weird for me, Idk). Bc I want to be clear that when I mean Constantdream, I mean Dream x Modern Johanna Constantine.

Okay, update: I have the ending part of the fic thanks to @/cappulcino and it's going to be fantastic.

But now I'm quite desperately in need of a beta to help me look over spelling, grammar, give feedback on how it reads and characterization (whether Dream would do this or that) etc. Please?

I'd be super, super grateful. Thanks!

#dream of the endless #the sandman netflix #the sandman #dream x johanna #constantdream #johanna constantine #morpheus

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windsweptinred · 1 month ago

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@cappulcino

pope francis it is your moral obligation to make the entire ocean holy water. the devil cannot be allowed to surf

#Too late #🤣😂#Saw this and thought of you

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cappulcino · 8 months ago

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Where The Wild Things Rest

Read on AO3

Words: 10,122

Pairing: Brienne of Tarth x Fem!Reader

Summary: See prompt here. You're the keep's master of King's Landing and find yourself under the protection of Brienne of Tarth on a quest for medicinal herbs. When a violent ambush leaves Brienne wounded, you seek refuge in an abandoned shack to treat her wounds and wait out the upcoming storm. One thing leads to another, and Brienne gets cared for in more ways than one.

Tags: Slow burn, smut, mutual pining, soft dom!reader

Trigger warnings: NSFW, description of violence, mentions of injuries and blood, graphic description of nudity and explicit sexual content (minors DNI)

A/N: If you're interested, you can find the link to the playlist I listened to while writing here.

"Honestly, Ser, I'm perfectly capable of fetching a few herbs on my own. I doubt the Kingswood has become a den of outlaws overnight."

With one hand resting firmly on the hilt of her sword, Brienne stood unwavering by the gate and her horse, her eyes not unkind but uncompromising on you. You were about to leave the city and had found her there, waiting for you. Apparently, the King himself had asked her to accompany you on your journey, and she would not budge.

"Many refugees and former soldiers have turned to theft and smuggling after the war I'm told, and the forest is less predictable than you'd think."

"I suppose I cannot convince you," you tried.

"No. My orders were clear," Brienne insisted with a firm shake of her head before she buckled her own saddlebag. "His Grace does not want you travelling without a guard."

You sighed, casting a sideways glance toward the treeline where the road to the Kingswood began. You didn't dislike Brienne of Tarth, quite the contrary, but you needed to focus on your mission, and you feared she would be… distracting.

"Well, His Grace worries too much. It'll only be a few bundles of feverfew and willow bark… maybe some yarrow. It's not that valuable and neither am I. The horse is worth more, but–"

"The king believes you are valuable enough, and so do I," Brienne cut you off, taking a brisk step closer. "We have already lost too much. We cannot afford to lose someone with your knowledge and skills. Not now."

She paused briefly and avoided your gaze as she spoke her next words, her voice mellowing ever so slightly.

"Or ever."

You put your hands on your hips and, again, looked into the distance, considering your options.

"Thieves, you say?"

"And smugglers. They might find you an easy target."

You gasped and raised your eyebrows at that statement, only half-feigning the offence showing on your face.

"I did not mean to call you weak," Brienne quickly rectified. "But with your hands full and your attention elsewhere, anyone could come from behind to attack you."

Brienne had a point. You tended to get quite absorbed by any task you undertook and crouching down to pick the herbs wouldn't exactly put you in the best position to retaliate and defend yourself should someone come at you. Still, you didn't understand why the King had appointed his best knight to this mission.

"Very well," you said. "I give up."

You pulled yourself up on your horse and went through the gate, and, from the outer corner of your eye, you saw Brienne letting out a soft exhale. Her apparent relief made you smirk, and you suddenly found yourself thinking that perhaps her company wouldn't be so bad.

For the first hour or so, you both rode in a silence interrupted only by bird songs, your horses' hoofbeats, and the metallic sounds of Brienne's armour. For some reason, she was riding a couple paces behind you and had not uttered a single word since you had left King's Landing.

So you took a halt and turned your horse around to face her, and Brienne, apparently too caught up in her thoughts, almost didn't notice you were no longer advancing and stopped abruptly, a mere pace away from you.

The face she made then and the way she quickly made her horse step back pulled the corner of your lips up once more.

"If we are to spend the day together, we might as well ride side by side," you said. "And maybe talk, get to know each other a little?"

Brienne blinked.

"We have known each other for months already," she replied, furrowing her brow.

"Correction: I know your name and you know mine, I have repaired your armour twice, you constantly refuse the ointments I make for the knights' wounds, and we exchange banalities regarding the keep's security when we cross paths. This is not what qualifies as knowing someone."

Brienne shifted her weight in her saddle, somewhat uncomfortable.

"There isn't much to say."

"Oh, I beg to differ. One cannot become the first female knight of all Westeros, first Lady Commander of the Kingsguard, and say she has no stories to tell."

"My stories have already travelled further and faster across the country than I have."

You weren't sure whether to laugh or roll your eyes at her reluctance to share the slightest bit of information.

"They have indeed," you confirmed. "And I have listened to each of them with great interest. But perhaps you wish to tell me your own version of those accounts, or to share stories yet unknown?"

"I would only be boring you, I'm afraid."

That was it; you rolled your eyes and resumed riding. Brienne could be stubborn as a mule if she wanted, and you couldn't waste the entire day trying to make her understand that you were, in fact, very much interested in anything she would be willing to say.

Brienne stayed frozen in place behind you a couple seconds, trying to make sense of your sudden wish to bond with her before she ordered her horse to catch up with yours in a quick trot, making her armour clank loudly as it did so.

"I don't understand why you would want to get to know me better," she said, now riding to your right.

You snorted softly.

"Evidently."

"An hour ago, you didn't want me around."

"I merely said I didn't need your protection." You glanced sideways at Brienne, and she looked rather disappointed by your constant dismissal, so you quickly added, "But since you must be here, why shouldn't we try to make it enjoyable for us both?"

When Brienne said nothing, you fully turned your head to face her. But she looked away, pretending to survey your surroundings for your safety, and you understood she didn't believe you could truly enjoy her company. The realisation made your heart clench harder than it should.

"Ser Podrick Payne was right," you muttered after a moment of silence.

Brienne's eyes skewered you. She had spent a long time with Podrick back when he was her squire, and she had opened up to him in ways she had rarely done with others. The idea that he could have betrayed her trust and repeated things she didn't want you to know made her blood boil.

"What did he say?" she asked in a clipped voice.

Your expression softened and you offered Brienne a small smile, trying to let her know that she didn't have to worry. Ser Podrick Payne would be the last knight to speak ill of her.

"That you wear more than one armour. And it's a shame."

Again, Brienne didn't reply to your comment. But you saw the crease between her eyebrows relax ever so slightly, and it gave you enough hope that, by the end of the day, she would trust you enough to let you in.

Another hour had passed, and you were now in the Kingswood, keeping your eyes peeled for the herbs you needed to gather.

Brienne still hadn't spoken much, but your genuine softness towards her had somewhat appeased her and you had been pleasantly surprised to find out that while she wasn't one to talk about herself so much, she could be a good listener –one who seemed keen on hearing about anything you had to say.

And so, in the past hour, you had answered many of her questions and told her about your childhood –what you remembered of it, at least–, where you had learnt about the duties of a keep's master, how the King had come to appoint you. And Brienne listened to each reply, with great intent, it seemed.

"Look, feverfew," you said, suddenly putting an end to your monologue.

Brienne followed your gaze and noticed the little white flowers blooming by the trail, right where the sunlight filtered through the trees.

"There is never enough of it in our inventory," you added as you pulled on the reins before handing them to Brienne. "Here. Would you hold onto Galewind for me? He likes to run away when I'm not looking."

Brienne gathered her own reins in her right hand before reaching with her left to grab yours. And as you handed over Galewind's reins, your fingers brushed against Brienne's –a fleeting contact, yet enough to make you pause.

You glanced up at her face, momentarily struck by the unexpected tenderness of the touch while Brienne's eyes flicked down to where your fingers had touched her hand, her expression unreadable. She shifted slightly in her saddle, her lips parting as though to speak, but no words came out. Instead, she only nodded, assuring you your horse was in good hands.

"Thank you. He can be stubborn," you said as you dismounted before clearing your throat in an attempt to chase the awkwardness away.

"Of course," Brienne replied, her tone uncharacteristically soft.

You walked to the feverfew and knelt down to examine the flowers, but your mind lingered on that moment. True, you had "known" Brienne for a while now, yet she remained as much an enigma up close as the stories had painted her from afar. But with what had just happened, you considered for the first time how much strength and gentleness seemed to coexist in her –and you weren't entirely sure she wanted others to notice that other side of her.

From behind, you could feel her eyes on you, watchful and cautious, as if she were guarding more than just your back. A flicker of something stirred in your chest, but you pushed it aside. There were herbs to gather, and you didn't have time for silly, fleeting thoughts –not now, anyway.

A couple of hours later, you had already gathered quite a good amount of herbs and were enjoying the slow ride along the trail when the soft sound of rushing water caught your attention. Glancing toward the noise, you spotted a narrow stream cutting through the trees. At first, you only admired how the water glittered in the sunlight. But then your eyes honed in on a cluster of tall plants nestled on the far bank.

"Motherwort," you murmured, almost to yourself, before halting. "That's a rare find."

You then turned towards Brienne as she stopped beside you and winked at her.

"Perhaps it is you bringing me luck. I shall take you with me more often."

"What is it used for?" Brienne asked to create a diversion from your comment –though the brief clenching of her jaw and the faint blush on her cheeks seemed to indicate you had actually hit the target.

"Oh, many things if you know how to prepare it. But mainly female health."

Brienne nodded in a detached way as if she didn't even feel concerned, and you went back to the matter at hand.

"But it's on the other side of the stream and at this time of year, that water is freezing. I'd rather not risk crossing."

Brienne tilted her head.

"Why not have Galewind jump it? He would clear it."

"Not without trampling the herbs," you pointed out, stroking your horse's neck. "Besides, he has a habit of… misjudging his landings."

Brienne arched an eyebrow in a somewhat judgemental manner, wondering why you insisted on riding this colt if he had that many flaws. This time, you were the one ignoring her and you turned back to the stream, trying to think of another solution.

"We'll have to find a way across."

Brienne's expression shifted, her eyes scanning the area before landing on a large fallen tree a few paces away. She pointed at it.

"What about that?"

You blinked.

"The trunk? Ser, that thing must weigh more than both of us combined."

But Brienne had already dismounted, her boots crunching on the damp soil as she walked toward the tree with purpose.

"I'll manage."

You watched, half in awe, as she planted her feet and bent down to grip the log. Her arms strained, muscles shifting under her tunic and armour, yet she dragged the trunk closer to the stream swiftly and made it look almost effortless, rotating it until one end caught against the bank.

"That should hold," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face and staining her pale forehead with a bit of dirt. "I'll cross first."

You kept looking at her as she stepped onto the log with care. The wood creaked under her weight, but she moved steadily, her balance precise. When she reached the other side, she turned back and gestured.

"Your turn."

You still hadn't dismounted and hesitated. Brienne could leave her mare without a care in the world, but you had had to chase Galewind too many times to do the same without worry.

"I told you my horse liked to wander off."

"He's grazing," Brienne pointed out. "He'll be fine for five minutes."

You sighed, reluctantly getting off your saddle and stepping onto the makeshift bridge. The bark was slippery from the recent rain, and the rushing water below only made it harder to concentrate.

About halfway across, you noticed Brienne offering a hand and you looked up. But the sight of her muscular silhouette waiting for you made you lose what little focus you had left since that fortuitous skin contact, and your foot slipped, causing a yelp to escape your lips.

Before you could topple, the same firm hand grabbed your arm. Brienne hauled you upright with ease, pulling you against her steel-covered chest. Your heart was still pounding as you looked up at her to find her eyes filled with concern.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice once again unusually soft.

"Just my pride," you muttered, realising how your hands had instinctively gripped her shoulders for balance. "Thank you."

Brienne's lips quirked into the faintest hint of a smile and her hand lingered on your arm a moment longer than necessary before she seemed to realise what she was doing and let go of you.

"Well, go on, then. The herbs."

"Uhm, yes. Of course."

You took a step back, re-establishing a proper distance between the two before you went and crouched by the patch of motherwort, carefully snipping the stems and placing them into your satchel.

"We should follow the stream," you said on your way back to your horse –which, thankfully, had deemed the grass much more interesting than running away. "Many herbs that I need grow where the soil is wetter. Then maybe we can stop somewhere to rest for a bit. You brought something to eat, yeah?" You asked, not wanting to waste time hunting.

"I did."

"Good. Then let's go. And, well… Thank you again for not letting me fall, Ser."

"You're welcome," Brienne said, visibly content to be of some help to you. "And if it pleases you… Brienne's enough."

The stream widened into a river ahead, its current rippling faster over smooth stones. On the banks, the graceful bows of willow trees dipped toward the stream, their leaves fluttering like whispers in the breeze. You tugged on Galewind's reins and pointed to a flat patch of grass beneath one of the trees.

"We should stop here. I need some willow bark, and the rocks will make decent seats."

Brienne agreed and dismounted with ease, then cast a practised eye around the clearing before securing her horse to a sturdy branch. You followed her lead, double-checking Galewind's knot.

"No escapade this time. Right, big boy?"

From your satchel, you pulled out two modest bundles wrapped in cloth. Brienne joined you as you settled on a smooth rock close to the river's edge. The air wasn't too chilly when the wind calmed down and it carried the faint scent of damp earth and leaves that had decomposed during winter. For a moment, the two of you sat quietly, the sound of the rushing river filling the space between.

Then, breaking the silence, you gestured to Brienne's meal.

"What'd you bring?"

Brienne unwrapped her bundle: strips of dried meat, a hunk of bread, and a slice of cheese. She glanced at yours, which displayed colourful slices of carrots and radishes nestled beside cured meat.

"If that's not a proper knight's meal…" you teased lightly, breaking your bread.

Brienne didn't reply, but her lips twitched –an almost-smile that warmed you more than you cared to admit.

You looked up to see movement on the opposite bank. A magnificent deer had emerged from the undergrowth, its antlers rising like branches. Its coat was sleek and golden, catching the sunlight in a way that seemed almost unreal.

"Look at that," you breathed, leaning forward. "Isn't he magnificent?"

Brienne lifted her head, her expression impassive as she studied the creature.

"He'd make good stew," she said matter-of-factly.

You blinked, startled, before a loud, genuine laugh escaped you.

"You cannot possibly look at that majestic creature and think... stew!"

Brienne's straightforwardness, combined with the absolute seriousness in her tone, was too endearing to be frustrating.

"Do you see beauty in anything at all? Or just potential dinner?" you asked as your laughter slowly died.

Brienne's brow furrowed, and for a moment, you thought you'd offended her. But then she spoke, her voice quieter than before.

"My father had a fondness for deer. He liked how graceful, quiet, and watchful they were." She looked back toward the forest, her expression softening. "He also said does reminded him of my mother." A pause. Then, almost to herself: "I never knew her well enough to say if he was right. I never knew her at all."

The unexpected vulnerability caught you off guard. You held your breath, not wanting to disturb the moment. For once Brienne dared to talk, so you would let her. Her gaze remained on the deer, now grazing on the other side of the river.

"Once, when I was little, he found a fawn tangled in some brambles. It must have been abandoned, it was too weak to fight. He carried it home and we tended to it for weeks, feeding it by hand. He told me he wanted to teach me the gentleness my mother could no longer teach me and how to care for the weak. He said even the smallest life deserved consideration."

You kept staring at her, struck by the tenderness in her voice.

"What happened to the fawn?" you asked softly.

"It got strong enough to run." Brienne shrugged, her expression hardening slightly. "One day, it left. I suppose it went back to the forest."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The deer on the far bank raised its head, as though sensing your attention, before darting gracefully into the woods. Brienne turned back to her meal, the shutters of her composure sliding back into place.

"That was a long time ago," she said as she briefly shook her head, her tone almost dismissive. "And then my father taught me how to fight instead."

You wanted to say something, maybe tell her both her parents would be proud of the woman, the knight she had become. That, in a way, she still took care of the weak. But the words felt too heavy for the moment, so you swallowed them.

Instead, your gaze fell back to her meal and you decided to try to lift the spirits.

"You know, I don't see a single vegetable in there," you said, a teasing lilt in your voice. "Here, have this."

You plucked a bright chunk of carrot from your bundle and held it out to her. Sensing her confusion, you insisted, jerking the vegetable in her direction.

"They make you loveable, you know."

Brienne frowned.

"Loveable?"

"Absolutely. People see you munching on a carrot, and they think, 'There's someone approachable.'"

Brienne stared at you, her lips parting slightly as though to protest, but then the words tumbled out. Now she was offended.

"I don't suppose I seem approachable to most," she said as she snatched the piece of carrot from your hand and glanced away, her voice stiff. "I try to be better, more gentle. Like my father first wanted me to be. But... I'm just not."

You blinked, surprised by the sudden confession.

"Brienne, I–"

She barrelled on, as if afraid to let you interrupt.

"I'm too blunt. Too hard. Pod was right about what he told you. And since travelling with him, I've tried to be better. I've tried with many people, but… Maybe if I were different, I–"

"Brienne, stop."

Your voice was soft but firm, and it made her pause. You leaned closer, meeting her gaze.

"You don't have to change. Not for anyone. You're perfectly fine as is."

Her expression faltered, a flicker of disbelief in her eyes.

"You don't mean that. No one–"

"But I do. I like you. Just the way you are." You said it simply, but the conviction in your tone made Brienne gawk at you, stunned into silence.

Only then did you notice the smudge of dirt on her forehead. It made you smile.

"But if you do want to change one thing, maybe start with that dirt on your face."

Her hand shot up as her cheeks turned crimson, and she awkwardly wiped at her forehead. But instead of cleaning it, she only managed to smear the dirt even further. You chuckled, pulling a cloth from your satchel.

"Here, let me."

"I'm fine."

"Clearly… Now stop whining, and let me help."

You reached up, the cloth brushing her skin as you wiped the dirt away. She stilled under your touch, her eyes locked on yours, and the air between you suddenly grew heavy with unspoken things.

In the silence that followed, your gaze lingered. Brienne had always appeared to you as striking in her own way –an unpolished charm she seemed intent on hiding beneath layers of stoicism and practicality. But here, now, with the golden sunlight catching in the loose strands of her hair and the silver gleam of the water reflected in her eyes, she looked... ethereal.

It wasn't just her appearance that caught you, though that alone was enough to leave you momentarily breathless. It was that, for the first time, she felt closer, not the distant figure of knightly legend but a woman, warm and real, and achingly human.

Your thoughts wandered to places you hadn't allowed them to go before. Had they been there all along, quietly waiting, or was this the first time you truly left your mind unbridled? Either way, you found it impossible to look away, and something deep in your chest stirred, a pang you didn't want to understand but couldn't ignore.

But then came the sound of snapping twigs, interrupting the beauty of the moment. Brienne's head whipped around, and her hand instinctively moved to her sword.

"Someone's here," she muttered, her voice low and sharp.

You both stood up as six men emerged from the trees, their faces covered by hoods or old helmets, their intent clear in the way their hands rested on their weapons. One, slightly older with a jagged scar tracing his jawline, stepped forward.

"Nice horses," he said, his tone almost conversational, though his grin was anything but friendly. "And a nice haul of herbs, too. You've saved us the trouble of finding our own."

He then looked you up and down in a way that repulsed you so much you found yourself shivering and added, "Maybe we'll take that one back to the camp, too. And your money."

"Leave now," Brienne commanded, "and no harm will come to you."

The leader chuckled, glancing at his companions who sniggered as well.

"That's rich, coming from one damsel against men like us. And no helmet? Bold choice."

Brienne's hand tightened on the hilt of her sword, her gaze never leaving the man. She turned her head slightly, just enough to murmur to you, "Get behind those trees and stay out of sight."

"But–"

"Go," she snapped, her tone brooking no argument. "I'll handle this."

Reluctantly, you obeyed, slipping behind a thick oak as the tension in the air snapped like a drawn bowstring.

The scarred leader barely had time to shout an order before Brienne's sword slid out of its scabbard with a metallic hiss.

She surged forward, her blade arcing in a precise downward cut. The man nearest her, wielding a rusted mace, barely raised it in time to block the blow. The force sent him staggering backwards, but Brienne pressed her advantage. She kicked his knee with her boot, sending him to the ground with a cry.

Another man darted in from her right, swinging a short sword. Brienne pivoted, deflecting the strike with her armoured forearm before slashing across his chest. Blood sprayed, and he collapsed.

The youngest of the group, barely more than a boy, took one look at Brienne's bloodied sword and at the two downed companions before turning tail. His cowardice earned him a curse from the leader, who was now advancing on Brienne.

"Get her!" he barked, drawing his own blade.

Brienne turned to face him, but the man she had kicked earlier had regained his feet. With a snarl, he swung his mace into her exposed flank. The dull thud of impact echoed in the clearing as Brienne fell to the ground, her breath catching.

"Brienne!"

From your hiding spot, you watched the fight unfold, your chest tightening with every blow she took. She moved with precision and strength, but there were too many of them. The man's mace strike had slowed her down, and you saw the hesitation in her steps. You gripped the tree bark, your heart pounding and feeling utterly useless.

The leader lunged, and Brienne barely managed to parry his sword in time before slamming her fist repeatedly in his face. Groaning, he reeled back long enough for Brienne to roll them over.

She was about to punch him some more when one of his accomplices grabbed her from behind and pulled her back to her feet, attempting to strangle her. She once again freed herself by pushing her elbow into his ribs before driving her shoulder into his chest and forcefully crushing him between her armour and a tree.

The leader, weakened but still willing, charged at her with his sword. Brienne raised her blade to shield herself from his attack, but the movement left her vulnerable and allowed a fist to crash above her eyebrow. She stumbled, a cut opening and blood trickling into her eye.

Yet, through it all, she didn't stop. She growled, planting her feet and driving the leader back with a series of quick, precise strikes. Her sword then found his thigh, cutting deep. He crumpled to the ground with a scream, clutching the wound.

"Enough, dammit!" He cried out. "We're done!"

One of the others pulled him by the arm and dragged him away followed by the last uninjured men, leaving their fallen comrades groaning in the dirt. Brienne stayed still, her chest heaving, sword raised in readiness until they disappeared into the trees. And then, as though the fight had drained the last of her strength, she dropped her sword and fell to her knees, her breaths ragged.

"Brienne!" you yelled, coming out of your hiding spot to lunge by her side.

"I'm fine," she said through gritted teeth, attempting to wave you off.

Obviously ignoring that lie, you looped an arm under hers and did your best to haul her upright, the effort straining every muscle. Even without the steel plating, Brienne was solid as stone, and the armour made her nearly impossible to move. You groaned and so did she, her strength faltering as she slumped heavily against you.

The sky that had already turned grey during the fight chose this moment to crack open with rain.

"Of course," you muttered bitterly.

As if getting Brienne back to the horses wasn't hard enough, the rain would soon start to make her armour slippery and you weren't sure you would manage at all.

"Do you think you can get up?" you asked Brienne as you reached her horse.

"Yes…"

But Brienne half-lifted herself before sagging back, too weak to climb.

"It's alright, let me help."

You tried a couple times to lift Brienne up so she could get on her saddle but to no avail. Her armour made her too heavy and her horse was too tall –you lacked the strength to pull her onto a mount so high.

"Seven hells," you cursed when Brienne fell back down for the third time.

"I'm sorry…"

"No. Don't you dare be sorry, Brienne."

Turning around to look at Galewind, you wondered if you should try to get Brienne onto him instead –he was shorter after all.

Galewind's ears flicked toward you and suddenly, as if sensing your desperation, he bent his forelegs to the damp ground and shifted lower.

You barely believed it but had no time to marvel, and promptly guided Brienne to push her onto his back. Her weight nearly sent you sprawling, but this time, you miraculously managed.

"Good boy," you murmured, patting Galewind's neck once Brienne was secured into place. "Hold on, will you?" you told her.

As you hopped on Brienne's horse –which displeased the mare, though she chose not to make a fuss–, you took a second to look at the darkening sky above you and assess the situation. The wind only seemed to bring more charcoal clouds, with no hope for clearing in the distance.

Returning to King's Landing wasn't an option with Brienne in this state, and you wanted to be gone before more men came back for their wounded peers –if they ever did.

Think, you urged yourself. Then you remembered seeing a cabin a league back, just off the path. A forester's or healer's shack, maybe, abandoned but intact enough to provide sufficient shelter.

"Hold on, Brienne," you repeated, as much for yourself as for her, urging the horses forward.

The ride was somewhat gruelling because of the stress it caused you as you saw how Brienne kept swaying dangerously with each step every time you turned around. But Galewind almost seemed to understand he needed to be careful and to have forgotten his fugitive tendencies. Your heart ached for Brienne, perhaps in disproportionate measures, but you had no time to think about this now.

By the time you reached the cabin, the rain was a steady downpour, soaking through your cloak and threatening to make Brienne slip off the saddle. So you pulled both horses to a halt and dismounted with haste to help her down.

She leaned heavily on you, her breaths laboured, as the two of you staggered toward the door. Kicking it open, you guided her to the straw bed there was thankfully still inside. She slumped onto it with a groan, her head lolling back as exhaustion overtook her.

"Stay with me," you ordered in a whisper as you brushed a strand of wet hair from her face before running back out to get your satchels and herbs.

You felt guilty for leaving the horses out in such weather, they could get seriously sick. But you had no choice and other priorities –well, one priority.

Back in the shack, you moved with purpose, thoughts reeling as you began to work.

"First things first, fire," you said, needing to enunciate everything you were doing to keep your mind from wandering back to the feelings Brienne had strangely ignited inside you.

You noticed a pile of firewood under a dirty cloth next to the stone hearth and threw a few logs into it. The air was damp for the rain, and your fingers fumbled over the tinder you had also found nearby. It took quite a good amount of tries, but finally sparks caught, flames flickered, and the fire took.

"Good."

As you rummaged to find something to put some water to boil, you couldn't help but keep glancing at Brienne, slumped on the straw bed. You were worried sick for her.

"No sleeping yet, Brienne. You hear me?"

Brienne didn't answer and it got you even more worried, but you kept working.

At last, you found a stewpot and a clay basin.

"Perfect."

It wasn't ideal, but you decided the quickest way to gather water. You would boil it anyway so it would be drinkable. So you took the stewpot outside and left it there. As you did so, your eyes landed on a patch of stinging nettle. You decided it could be useful and harvested a few handfuls.

Back inside once more, you grabbed the satchels you had brought in, pulling out the gathered herbs that you methodically placed on the dusty table next to the stinging nettle.

You glanced at Brienne once more, and her pallor was far from reassuring. But then again, she had always had an extremely fair complexion –one of the things you found most beautiful about her.

Your heart ached to see her like this, though you were silently commending her for defending you against those thieves. She had fought so hard, so bravely… Those men had never stood a chance –in your eyes anyway.

"Brienne…" you called out softly as you approached the bed she was lying on.

"I'm fine."

"You are anything but."

"You worry too much."

Brienne's voice was hoarse so you walked back to the table to grab your flask in your bag. You had almost no water left, but Brienne needed to drink.

"Open up," you urged, slipping an arm under her shoulders to lift her. "Don't make me pour it down your throat."

Your tone –half-teasing, half-desperate– made Brienne huff, enough to let you tip the flask against her lips. She drank sluggishly but obediently, her eyelids fluttering as her body resisted consciousness. Then you laid her back down gently.

"Will you let me take off your armour? You can't breathe properly like this."

Brienne nodded weakly and you moved tentatively to undo the straps of her armour. But your hands were shaking and you found yourself struggling, until a rugged hand reached for yours, brushing almost tenderly against your fingers.

"Leave it," Brienne rasped. "I can do it."

You weren't so sure about that but let Brienne work out those straps. It was embarrassing for you as you were supposed to know how to deal with that kind of equipment, and your cheeks slightly turned pink. You counted on the dark and Brienne's poor state to hide the blush.

Brienne pulled on the straps and they seemed to fall right off. You cleared your throat and thanked her with a silent nod as she let her arms fall back on the bed. Then you started by removing her gorget, pauldrons, and rerebraces, setting each piece down nearby with care.

The cuirass' turn then came, and you couldn't help but wince in sympathy when you heard Brienne hiss.

"Sorry…" you muttered, though you knew the word wouldn't help.

Brienne shook her head as if to dismiss your apology and groaned through gritted teeth, her fingers clutching her arming doublet. You quickly understood that her abdomen was injured and that any heavy layer caused discomfort. So you took the padded jacket off as well and folded it into a makeshift pillow for Brienne.

"Better?"

"Yes."

With that done, you decided to let Brienne rest for a moment and got back to work. First, you retrieved the stewpot from outside, now brimming with rainwater, and set it over the fire. Once the water was finally boiling, you scooped some into the clay basin and set it aside. Some of the water would be used for a willow bark and stinging nettle decoction, and some for a comfrey poultice. The latter would help with the bruising, the former was for pain relief. Yarrow would help with the bleeding, too.

You crushed the willow bark and stinging nettle between your fingers and sprinkled them into the stewpot with practised precision. You let the mixture simmer and moved on to the comfrey root, crushing it into a thick paste in the clay basin with the handle of your dagger. Finally, you sat at the old table to pluck the yarrow leaves you needed from the stems.

It was only as you caught yourself staring at the remedies that you realised Brienne's breathing had slowed down.

"Hey, no, no, no!" you commanded as you rushed back to her side. "I said no sleeping yet."

"I'm only resting my eyes."

"Later. When I'm sure you're alright."

Brienne shifted a bit to be more comfortable then and hissed again, her face contorting as she grabbed her stomach. You had to take a look.

"Alright. Uh, Brienne…" you said, your voice much softer now, almost a whisper. "I have to check your wounds. And your tunic… It has to come off, or I cannot treat you properly."

Brienne's brow furrowed faintly and she turned her head away from you, stubbornness lingering despite her exhaustion.

"Please, Brienne," you insisted, your fingers now hovering hesitantly near the hem of her tunic. "I will only do what's necessary. Nothing more, I swear."

A long moment passed before she gave the faintest nod, and you pulled the fabric up and away, trying to keep your touch clinical despite the sudden heat rising to your cheeks. You expected another layer beneath, but there was only bandaging, tightly wound around her chest and soaked with blood. Practical, efficient, and utterly intimate in a way you hadn't anticipated. Your breath hitched and you looked away immediately, your face now crimson.

As keep master, you spent many hours a week in the infirmary and had seen many people in various stages of undress. But for some reason you had yet to understand –or rather, yet to admit to yourself–, it all felt much different with Brienne.

"I-Is that… from an older wound?" you stammered, pointing at the blood stain on Brienne's ribs.

Brienne followed your gaze.

"Yes."

"We… We'll deal with those later."

You took a deep breath in to compose yourself, and let your eyes roam as professionally as you could over Brienne's body trying to assess her injuries, then tentatively brought trembling fingers to her bruises, starting with those on her collarbones. Thankfully, they weren't broken and nor were the ribs above her breasts either, so you moved on, checking her arms and hands from every angle. You could feel Brienne trying to keep her body limp, abandoning herself to your expert hands, trusting you completely.

Once you were certain she had no broken bones or dislocated limbs, you carefully let your fingers slide over her abdomen, stopping here and there to apply gentle pressure and check for deeper damage, and wincing at every hiss she couldn't suppress.

Eventually, you reached Brienne's hips and lower abdomen, and she flinched and let out a soft gasp when your fingers dipped right between her navel and pelvis. You froze and your eyes shot up, meeting Brienne's for a brief instant –a fleeting second that still felt like an eternity– before turning away.

"Did that hurt?"

"No, not really," Brienne replied, her voice low and still roughened by fatigue. "Carry on."

You nodded, willing yourself to stay focused, then went and retrieved a piece of cloth from your bag –you always had a few, just in case– and plunged it in hot water before coming back to sit by Brienne's side on the straw bed.

"I need to clean those wounds before I can treat them."

Brienne took a sharp, shaky breath as if needing to compose herself, too, and you began gently cleaning the cuts and scrapes on her hands and face. She had one particular cut over her left eyebrow that you knew would need more than one yarrow leaf. You dabbed at it and, as you did so, glanced at her eyes again. With the flames that danced in the hearth lighting up her face, they looked like clear skies pierced by a winter's sunset. You were captivated, bewitched. But you cast those thoughts aside –now wasn't the time.

Pulling away, you went to fetch the processed herbs, then made her drink a bit of decoction and sat down again before busying yourself with applying the poultice.

"This will help with the bruising," you explained needlessly, now avoiding Brienne's gaze.

"You're kind. Too kind, perhaps," she suddenly said.

You glanced up, startled by the softness in her tone.

"You would do the same for me."

"Aye. But not with such… tenderness."

With the way your heartbeat quickened and each breath seemed harder to take than the previous one, you felt as if the air had considerably thickened.

Searching for a safer ground, you added, "Tenderness is the least I can offer someone who has risked everything for me. Besides, we cannot afford to lose someone with your knowledge and skills. Not now. Not ever."

The words managed to make Brienne smile faintly. But the corners of her mouth quickly fell back down when she noticed you setting the poultice aside and glancing at her bandages. She knew what your expression meant.

"I… I need to check that wound, too. I don't want it to get infected," you said, confirming her thoughts. "May I…"

Brienne's jaw tightened, but she nodded once more. You carefully unwound the binding, the linen sticking stubbornly to the flesh. She tensed but didn't complain.

Controlling your breathing became harder at the sight of her completely bare chest. Her breasts were small, but you couldn't help the thought crossing your mind that they would fit perfectly in a palm –your palm.

Mentally berating yourself for such a lewd thought in such a grave moment as this one, you gently poked around the reopened scar to see how it was healing. You thought about asking Brienne how she had got it to distract you both from what you were doing, but no words came out, and you figured it was best if she didn't waste her energy anyway.

Leaning over her, your breath tickled her skin lightly and, as you dabbed the wound with the damp cloth, your attention got caught by the goosebumps on her skin and her nipples, peaked and taut in the cool air. You immediately averted your eyes, your face burning once more.

"Are you cold?"

"N-No," Brienne stuttered awkwardly after a while as rosy patches formed on her neck and across her upper chest.

The single syllable hung between you, heavy and impossible to ignore.

"You're so different…" Brienne eventually whispered out of nowhere.

You didn't dare ask what she meant. Instead, you rested a reassuring hand on hers, careful but steady.

"Rest now. I'll be here."

"I thought–"

"Rest. I still need to apply yarrow leaves here and there but you can close your eyes now."

Brienne's eyes drifted shut, and her fingers brushed yours before dropping still. You watched the firelight dance across her face and her chest, rising and falling steadily.

Your thoughts churned as you placed crushed yarrow leaves on her face, scraped knuckles, and chest, and adjusted your cloak as a blanket over her, unable to suppress a silent ache of longing and gratitude. Brienne was strong, stubborn, yet startlingly vulnerable and… well, excruciatingly beautiful in her own, unconventional way.

Truth was, Brienne had always unsettled something deep within you, something you had never dared name. You had told yourself time and time again that it was merely admiration, respect for her strength, her relentless honour. But you would be lying if you said there hadn't been nights when her image had haunted you, unbidden and unrelenting –so much that your mind and hands had gone to forbidden places.

You loved the sharpness of her jaw, the fierce intensity in her eyes, and the way she rode her horse with effortless grace despite her imposing frame. Of course, you had long dismissed such thoughts as impossible, shameful even. And yet, seeing her now –scarred, undeniably her and, above all, naked–, the ache you had buried carved its way back to the surface.

The soft rustling of straw pulled you from your thoughts. Brienne stirred, blinking groggily as her gaze landed on you. You straightened abruptly, anxiously waiting for a reaction. Brienne's brows knit in confusion before she noticed your cloak draped across her bare chest.

"You didn't have to," she said, clutching to the hem of it as if the gesture meant more than she let on. Her expression softened –not quite a smile, but something dangerously close. "How long have I been asleep?"

"I'm not sure," you said, standing up to go fill your flask with more decoction and bring it back to Brienne. As she sipped from it, you added, "I had time to add two other logs to the fire and replace the leaves, though."

Brienne glanced at the dirty window near the bed and hummed. The sun was still hiding behind dark clouds, but what little light filtered through them did at a much different angle than when you had first laid her down.

"I'm sorry I left you alone all that time," she muttered.

"Nonsense. You needed to rest. How are you feeling, by the way?"

"Better, much better. Thanks to you."

"I'm glad."

Brienne's gaze lingered on your face with an intensity that made your chest tighten. Determined to regain control, you focused on your task.

"Let me recheck your wounds."

You gently lifted the cloak, mindful to avoid staring at Brienne's breasts again –though her nipples were still deliciously hard– and started cleaning the poultice before inspecting each bruise and scrape with the same care as before.

Brienne kept watching you, smiling ever so slightly at the line that had formed between your eyebrows while you peeled the yarrow leaves off her cuts and scrapes –on her hands first, then on her chest. Finally, you reached for the leaf above her brow. Carefully, you set it aside, then leaned in to examine the cut.

It looked good and had stopped bleeding. But before you could say anything about it, Brienne's hands shot up to cradle your face. She pulled you down firmly then and her lips crashed into yours, fierce, urgent, leaving no room for doubt.

Your breath hitched as Brienne's lips claimed yours, heat surged through you, from your face down to your chest. But then a thought struck like a blade.

So you pulled back, trembling. Not because you didn't want her –you did, you ached for her– but because the world spun too fast. Brienne. Brienne of fucking Tarth… kissing you? You had never dared believe she could want someone like you –or anyone at all, really.

Did she mean this, or was it just a fleeting need, a desperate attempt to feel something other than pain? Was she seeking comfort, something temporary and raw after coming yet again so close to death?

Brienne saw your hesitation and expression twisted painfully, then hardened into something bitter. She scoffed, the sound as sharp as steel grinding on stone.

"Of course," she spat, voice cracking. "Kind words, soft touches… They meant nothing. What was I thinking?"

"Brienne…"

"What an utter fool I am! I should've known. Men mock me, women pity me, even you."

"What? No, I–"

"Don't. You needn't spare my feelings."

"That's not what I–"

"Save it!" Brienne snapped, fists clenched tightly around your cloak. "Everything you have to say, I've heard it all before. I thought maybe, maybe this time… I should have known better."

Before she could retreat deeper into her wounded thoughts, you were the one to crush your lips to hers. She gasped, trembling beneath you and hesitated for a moment, then kissed you back just as hungrily, fingers tangling in your hair like she feared you might vanish. There was no hesitation this time, but though the kiss was passionate, your hands cupped her face delicately and your thumbs brushed over her cheeks as if she were made of glass.

"I wasn't pulling away because I don't want you, Brienne," you confessed when you broke the kiss for air. "I pulled away because I do. More than you know. And I'm scared. Scared that my passion may cause you pain, scared this might not mean what I want it to mean."

Brienne's breath shuddered against your lips as her fingers loosened their desperate grip on your hair, sliding down to your jaw with surprising tenderness. Her eyes searched yours, still wary but now lit with something… alive.

"Do you think I'm not scared, too?" she whispered, her voice heavy with emotion. "I've never… I mean, I have but not like this."

"We can take this slowly if you–"

Brienne shook her head impatiently, then tilted her chin so her lips grazed yours.

"I'm tired of not taking what I want. So, if you'll have me…"

"Yes. Gods, yes."

Something inside you snapped. You claimed her mouth in a kiss far deeper, more insistent. You worried about her wounds and feared she might be in pain, but she met you with equal intensity, pulling you down even closer.

Your hands slid down from her face to her shoulders and bruised collarbones, then lower, finding the strong muscles of her arms that had briefly held you up earlier today. You traced them as if committing them to memory, marvelling at the sheer power contained within her tall silhouette.

Brienne shivered under your touch, and a low, involuntary sound rumbled from her throat as your fingers brushed her bare skin. Emboldened, you let one of your hands travel more daringly to the swell of her breast, enjoying how good it indeed felt in your palm. The sound she made in response sent more heat coursing through you, this time pooling in your belly.

For the first time, you were acutely aware of the heat radiating from her skin and the steady thrum of her heartbeat. When she arched her back to press herself against your body, you seized the occasion to let your mouth trail from her mouth to her jawline, then down the column of her neck, nipping and licking at her pulse point, all the while you made her nipple roll under your thumb.

"Please," Brienne begged, though it seemed she wasn't too sure what for.

But you knew.

"I want to see you," you whispered seductively. "All of you. Touch you everywhere I can."

Brienne's only response was a weak groan and a faint roll of her hips. The vulnerability of the gesture, the trust it implied, sent a jolt of arousal through you. Driven by those sweet sounds, you lowered your mouth, capturing one sensitive nipple while your hand lavished attention on the other. Her fingers tangled in your hair once more, holding you close as she whispered your name like a prayer to both the old gods and the new.

Then, in a matter of seconds –you weren't exactly sure how but you didn't care–, you were both fully naked. You took Brienne's other nipple in your mouth while her hands slid down to your waist. The touch was a bit tentative, as though she feared you might withdraw again. But when you didn't, when instead you leaned into her touch, she grew bolder and her hands tugged you down until you were straddling her.

"Brienne, your bruises…"

"I don't care."

You stopped for a moment to make sure she wasn't lying or trying to be brave, but the eagerness in her eyes and the way she repeatedly pushed her hips into yours encouraged you to keep going.

So you started rolling your hips as well, gently, letting your cores meet for the first time. Brienne's head jerked backwards and arched her back even more, and you could only marvel at the magnificent chiaroscuro the fire burning on the other side of the room created on her alabaster skin.

"You're so beautiful," you murmured as you leaned in again to kiss her temple.

Then you moved to her brow bone and planted gentle kisses around the cut there, a painful reminder of how valiantly she had fought for you.

"So strong…"

With the way she whimpered then, you understood Brienne only half-believed your words but secretly liked to be praised. So you kept showering her with compliments while your hands explored her, tracing every bruise, every scar, every place she might have thought unworthy of touch.

"Keep going," she demanded, voice raw with need.

You obeyed, sliding your hand lower, over the firm lines of her abdomen, until you reached her thighs and the heat between them. Brienne hissed then, and your head shot up.

"Is that not alright?"

"No, it's just… Your hands are cold," she admitted.

"Forgive me."

You pulled back and lifted your hand so you could warm your fingers in your mouth, but Brienne snatched your wrist and brought them to her own lips instead. Her eyelids fluttered as her tongue ran over the pads of your middle and ring fingers, and the sight made you groan.

"Heavens…"

You brought your hand back down between her thighs again, and this time, her breath shattered into a broken moan as your fingers parted her folds, finding her slick and ready. You circled her clit –slowly, at first–, savouring how she writhed beneath you, her body offering no resistance, only hunger.

"Gods, yes!"

Brienne kept moaning and calling your name like a desperate mantra, her legs instinctively parting wider the more you stimulated her bundle of nerves. You watched as she bucked against your hand, her breath coming in ragged gasps, then leaned down again to pepper her body with more pecks and nibbles, kissing her injuries better.

When you finally pushed a finger inside her, Brienne cursed like you never thought could be possible, and her hips rose to meet your thrusts. You set a slow, deliberate rhythm, drawing out every shudder, every broken moan. Then your thumb found her clit, circling with just enough pressure to make her tremble uncontrollably.

"Oh, fuck!"

The more you pumped into her, the more you could feel Brienne lowering her inhibitions and finally being her most genuine self.

"More! I need more!"

What a demanding dame, you thought as your finger kept sliding in and out of Brienne's warm depth. But she had told you she didn't want to wait to get what she wanted any more, so you indulged her and pulled your hand back until you could ease your ring finger inside her as well. Brienne was so relaxed and wet by now that it took practically no effort at all.

Brienne wailed loudly as your fingers stretched her, filling her with a heavenly ache she seemed desperate for. Her thighs quivered against your sides, strong muscles twitching uncontrollably with every deliberate thrust as you slightly picked up the pace. You could feel her slick juices coating your hand as you drove deeper and curled your fingers just right to hit that sensitive spot inside her.

"Right here! Don't stop!" she cried out, voice breaking with unprecedented pleasure.

Your wrist began to hurt, but you obeyed, setting a relentless rhythm, your thumb pressing harder against her swollen clit. You felt like you had no right to be tired when she had not once spared herself for you. So you kept going.

Suddenly, Brienne's leg shifted between yours, pressing firmly against your core.

"Gods, Brienne…"

The pressure made your head spin, your body involuntarily rolling against her muscular thigh as you kept thrusting your fingers inside her. It all felt too good and you couldn’t suppress the needy whimpers spilling from your lips. Your shameless humping made it harder to focus, of course. Yet you didn't stop and your mouth was now making its way down her body, forcing you to shift and let your wetness trail down her skin, coating her all the way to her shin.

When you eventually reached her lower abdomen and nipped at her hip bone, you took a moment to look up, wanting to make sure this was still alright for her. The helpless jolt of her hips was the only sign you needed and, with one last kiss to her mound, you lowered your head to take her bud between your lips.

Her light brown curls were damp from arousal and tickled your nose. Her scent enveloped you –a musky mix of sweat, leather, and something uniquely Brienne, earthy and wild, like wind-swept forests after a rainstorm.

You groaned softly, intoxicated, and pressed your mouth fully against her. Brienne cried out, and, suddenly, her fingers gripped your scalp once more to keep you in place while she practically fucked herself on your tongue.

You circled her clit with your tongue and kept teasing the rough patch behind it relentlessly while your free hand held her thigh tight, no matter how hard her thrusts made it to keep the rhythm going.

"You're so perfect like this, so beautiful," you whispered between heavy pants when you pulled back for a second to catch your breath.

Brienne bucked against your mouth, utterly wrecked, hooked her free leg around your waist to keep you exactly where she wanted, and let out a strangled moan, her whole body tensing under your praise.

You felt her inner walls clench around your fingers, tightening with every thrust as she spiralled closer to the edge. You could also feel your own release creeping closer with every grind, though you never faltered in your devotion to her.

She was close, you knew it. Her pleasure was your command, your entire world reduced to the taste of her, the sight of her, the feeling of her trembling under you. So you took her deeper, sucking gently, taking care of her clit with calculated strokes of your tongue.

"It's alright," you cooed, voice thick with lust and affection. "You can let go."

"Yes!"

With a guttural cry, Brienne came undone. Her entire body arched off the bed, trembling violently, and you felt every pulse, every desperate squeeze of her core around your fingers and thighs locking firmly around your head as wave after wave of ecstasy overtook her.

The leg she had between yours shot up with the force of her climax and parted your own folds so perfectly to brush against your needy clit that you immediately joined her in release, shouting her name at the top of your lungs.

You kept licking, sucking, and thrusting as best as you could during your orgasm and held Brienne through every quivering aftershock until you could move no more and let your head fall limp against her thigh.

"Gods be good…" Brienne panted before one last whimper escaped her lips.

Her hands then gently cradled your face, guiding you back up into her arms. She kissed you with overwhelming tenderness, her lips still trembling, and you kissed her back with equal adoration. Then she smiled at you –a real smile–, and you knew, you just knew, you had had the honour of making Brienne feel like her truest self for the first time.

"It's so different," she mused sometime later.

You had both fully come down from your high and were holding each other close on the small bed while the fire still crackled in the hearth and the rain drummed steadily against the roof, sealing you both away from the outside world.

Your fingers didn't stop their soothing patterns on her upper arm, but you lifted your head, brows knitting in puzzlement.

"Different?"

"When… When it's someone who wants you just as much as you want them, someone who is ready to return the same affection and loyalty you offer them. It's different. It's… better."

Brienne spoke those words in a soft tone, albeit heavy with the weight of old wounds and betrayals. You saw it all in her eyes, and your chest ached with fierce, protective love.

You suddenly felt the urge to hurt anyone who had caused Brienne all that pain, but you knew most of them were dead and it was useless to dwell on the past. So you smiled instead.

Gently, you cupped her face, your thumb brushing tenderly over her cheek.

"Then know this, my lady. As long as I draw breath, you shall never question where you stand with me. You will be loved –fully, fiercely, and without shame."

Slowly, reverently even, Brienne pressed her forehead to yours, exhaling a trembling breath that seemed to release a lifetime of hope.

"I'm no lady," she corrected with a tender smile. "But I am forever yours."

Taglist: @cordeliasdarling @cygnetteflor @eurydice-shenanigans @vii-v @ellovett @schlaegerpaula @peridot-pineapple @simonknowsnothing @goddessfloresz @barbarasstar @anothersapphicgirl @criticsstuff

Click here to join the tag list.

#reblog appreciated #brienne of tarth #brienne of tarth x reader #brienne of tarth x you #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #gwendoline christie fandom #gwendoline christie #cappulcino writes #possible inaccuracies #author hasn’t watch GoT

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weemssapphic · 10 months ago

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https://www.tumblr.com/cappulcino/763403919075540992?source=share

She mad at you for being a little yandere stalker but she's just so flattered that she can't pretend she dosent enjoy the attention just a little 🤭

is she mad or is she turned on because she’s just as crazy as i am? 😌

#asks #bluepandastarfish

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tammymadness · 12 days ago

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@cappulcino

same energy

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magnoliamei · 11 months ago

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Tag Game

(This is for you @cappulcino)

Fav colour: Don't have one😅

Last song: Can't Catch Me Now by Olivia Rodrigo

Currently reading: And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie

Currently watching: Once Upon A Time in Wonderland

Currently craving: Chaos

Coffee or tea: Tea

Hobby to try: Break dancing

Current AU: I'm working on a crossover between multiple different fandoms and a couple separate ones involving Okja!

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writing-for-life · 10 months ago

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Thanks for the tag, @windsweptinred

This should be interesting… or incredibly boring…

All from my camera roll and all taken by me apart from the Pratchett quote and Peter Murphy (obviously 🤣).

That tiger is wrapped in Tunnock’s Teacakes wrappers btw (it’s by David & Robert Mach). It sums me up in a nutshell—in many, many ways. Like all of these really, but that’d be too deep 🤣

Tagging @tickldpnk8 @marlowe-zara @dxliriumoftheendless @cappulcino @morpheusbaby3 @sleepytitan @klarahimmeltheendless without any pressure whatsoever

#tag game #wfl does art #because I snuck in one of my OCs #say hello to Thalia #and my little guy morpheus the cat is in there too #I’m still heartbroken 🥺

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milfsloverblog · 3 months ago

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hello mother, noticed you were answering asks soooo i was curious if you had any Gwen writer recommendations? we desperately need some new content soon from the fandom. hope you’re doing well! ☺️🤍

I’m gonna be honest, I read a fic on here yesterday and that was the first one in…..months…..BUT I’m always up to recommend my friends and moots work, because I know it’s good even if I haven’t read it in a long while.

@cappulcino @theswordmaiden @weemssapphic @valerielovebug are the ones I can name at the top of my head! Also @mysteriouslysapphic who’s brand new here, always good to have new people to a fandom that’s slowly dying 🥲

#ask ask ask #gwendoline christie

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cappulcino · 10 months ago

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Seven Days Til Fall (Part 6)

Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6 – Part 7

Read on AO3

Words: 5,349

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Angel!Reader

Summary: You're an angel sent on a divine mission to retrieve a powerful relic that has been stolen from Heaven. The orders are clear: gain an audience with the Devil, make deals with them if necessary, anything to return that object to the Silver City. But Hell is not quite what you expected, and neither is Lucifer.

Trigger warnings: None in this chapter (let me know if you think I should add some)

A/N: Thank you for your patience. This past month has been very busy, and you have all been so kind. Hope the wait will be worth it.

The first thing you felt on that sixth morning was the cold. But it wasn't the kind of cold you had experienced in certain regions of Hell –which was rather more metaphysical for beings like you anyway– nor did it seem to be the kind of cold Arakiel had reported feeling on the top of the highest mountains of Earth.

So you were neither in Hell nor on Earth. But wherever you were did not quite look like Heaven either because the cold coursing through your body, creeping through the stone floor beneath you and numbing your skin, felt harsh, physical, and profoundly evil.

You shifted, feeling a dull ache in your head and neck that made you wince as you tried to open your eyes, only to realise they had been covered. The realisation made you slightly panic. Heaven had kept you blind for too long –no more. And so, unable to reach for the blindfold with your hands as they had been shackled, you squirmed, moving erratically like a beast until the cloth fell and you could finally take in your surroundings.

You had expected the usual blinding Light, full of your Creator's love –if that was still the word for it. But instead, you found out you had been put in a dimly lit cell where God's Light never shone. You were not on Earth and yet, it seemed your only light source was a weak moonbeam coming through a loophole in the wall and a couple of stars. So where were you? Purgatory? A demimonde?

You shifted again, trying to sit in a more comfortable position –if there was any. It hurt. Your wings were crumpled awkwardly beneath you and all your muscles felt heavy as if weighed down by something you couldn't name.

In front of you, there was no door or bars –just an open archway and a faint shimmering indicating an invisible barrier.

"Hello?" you tried, hoping to catch a guardian's attention or perhaps to hear from another prisoner. "Anybody here?"

Your question was answered only by the echo of your own voice resonating unpleasantly in your ears, amplifying the pulsing headache behind your eyes.

Slowly, you pushed yourself to your feet, leaning heavily against the wall for balance. Your legs quivered under you, but you refused to let them give way. You were tired of being forced to your knees, literally and figuratively.

"Hello?" you called out again, louder this time. "Anyone? Can somebody please answer me?"

Despite the pain, you kept on blabbering, hoping to get a reply. But the air in this cell felt thin and distant, and you soon found yourself out of breath.

Thankfully, you heard a door unlocking in the distance then, as well as quiet footsteps. Finally somebody was coming.

An angel you vaguely remembered as Nanahel appeared in the doorway holding a small silver tray with bread and wine on it. She paused just before the invisible forcefield that held you captive for a moment, taking in your battered form.

"Peace be upon you, Nanahel," you offered weakly.

Nanahel seemed to appreciate that you remembered her name –she was low-ranking after all, and you had only met her a few times– but didn't answer your greeting. The lack of reply made you clench your jaw. Nanahel was only a mere Principality, she was supposed to greet you back, and with reverence, too. But her indifference made you suddenly wonder if you were even a Dominion still.

Eventually, Nanahel stepped closer and stopped right in front of you. Balancing the tray in her left hand, she broke a piece of bread with her right hand and held it out, waiting for you to open your mouth. But you were most definitely not going to take food from the same hand that had betrayed you –not that Nanahel was personally responsible, bless her, but she was on their side– and so you turned away.

"Eat," she said, more as a request than an order at first.

"I feel no hunger and do not need the food."

"You do here. Eat."

Her tone was a bit firmer this time, but when her instance was met by yet another refusal, it outright became commanding.

"Listen, you have no choice. You must eat and I shall stay here until you have eaten the bread and drunk the wine."

"Are they trying to poison me?"

"What?"

"You seem so adamant to have me eat this meagre pittance. I'm simply wondering if the Divine Council wants me dead."

Nanahel didn't answer that, and you wondered whether she didn't because she didn't want to indulge you or because she didn't dare tell you that Michael and his peers did, in fact, want to get rid of you. Either way, you gave in.

"Fine. But can I at least have the dignity to eat with my own hands?"

The Principality hesitated.

"Are you going to attack me?"

"Do I look in a position to attack you right now, Nanahel?"

"Do you promise to eat everything if I let you feed yourself?"

"I swear."

Swearing was not the most welcome terminology in the Silver City, of course. But it served your purpose and convinced Nanahel, who put the tray down and approached you with caution.

You slightly pushed yourself off the wall to give her better access to your chains and thanked her weakly when you heard the keys jangling and felt the tension around your wrists easing. And as Nanahel freed you, you realised she had a scent. Angels weren't supposed to smell of anything as they weren't earthly creatures, but Nanahel did –and this cell did– and though you supposed mortals would describe that fragrance as an odour of sanctity, you found yourself hating it.

Without a word, Nanahel then picked up the tray and jerked it in your direction, urging you to eat and drink what was on it once more. You complied in equal silence, looking her right in the eye as you took the bread with your left hand. That made her flinch and gasp slightly.

"Won't you at least eat properly?"

No. You were done following all those ludicrous rules blindly and therefore decided to keep eating with your left hand without ever breaking eye contact with the Principality. Similarly, you took the wine with your left hand and guzzled it carelessly, even letting it dribble on your white robes.

Now even more tense than when she had first arrived, Nanahel didn't waste a second to restrain you again as soon as you were finished. And as she did so, she spoke in a clipped voice.

"I'll return after lauds to relay today's sermon and pray with you. And I'll do so for every following Mass until the trial is over."

Your heart dropped to your stomach and every ounce of defiance left your body, suddenly replaced by a profound dread.

"What did you say?"

"I said I would check on you until the trial is over."

"Whose trial?"

"Yours, silly."

You gasped as you remembered Michael's words from last night when he had said the Divine Council would "discuss your case". Definitely no promotion then.

"But I'm not there!"

"Nor do you need to be. The Council's decision will be based on facts, not sentiment."

"'Facts'? Will the fact that Heaven is inhabited by a horde of hypocrites be taken into account?" You spat, lashing out as tears started to prickle your eyes.

Nanahel recoiled a bit, visibly shocked and somewhat disgusted by your attitude.

"May Our Lord have mercy on your soul," she mumbled rather grudgingly as she turned to leave.

"No, Nanahel, wait–"

"I'll pray for you."

"I don't want you to pray! Nanahel, come back! Nanahel!"

Pushed by the chaos inside your head, you tried to run after her. But the restraints on your wrists pulled you back and, with your legs still weak and your crumpled wings destabilising you, you lost your balance and fell to your knees, right in the pale, silvery glow coming through the tiny window of your cell.

Panting, your chest heaving, you turned to that opening onto that unknown, hostile world. And right up there, in the navy sky, you found a bright dot which you quickly realised was what humans called the morning star.

The Morningstar. The Lightbringer. Lucifer.

You burst into tears then, thinking about the ruler of Hell and the events of the previous day and the day before that, too.

There were so many more things you wished you had said and done with Lucifer. Lucifer who had opened your eyes to your condition as an angel in the Silver City. Lucifer who had taught you so many things in so very few, well-chosen words, trying to show you a path beyond the rigidity of Heaven's expectations. Lucifer who had praised you, had made you laugh, had touched your wings. Lucifer… who had almost kissed you.

Instead, you had walked away. You had been so focused on the promises of Heaven, the mission the Divine Council had given you –and, let's be honest, a selfish need to save yourself caused by the fear Michael had instilled in you– that you ignored something far more real, more pressing.

The Morningstar had cried for you –or because of you. They had allowed themself to be vulnerable, and you had rejected them. And now, in the cold and solitude of your cell, you realised the ache in your chest wasn't so much from doubt or the heavy burdens of the Silver City –it was something else entirely, something you hadn't yet allowed yourself to name.

Tears kept welling in your eyes and rolling down your face as you realised what you had lost forever. Because it was evident, you would never see Lucifer nor hear their voice, full of wit and wisdom, or feel the warmth of their fingers on your wings ever again.

The Lightbringer would come to Heaven someday, you knew that –provided the Council respected its part of the deal– but you knew you would never have the right to see them, nor could you be certain they would even want to see you by then.

Choking on your sobs, you turned back to the loophole in your cell, to the dim light of the morning star shining faintly through the gloom.

"I'm sorry, Lucifer," you wailed shakily. "I'm so sorry."

"Your Majesty."

Lucifer was sitting on their throne, barely conscious of the chaos of their realm as Mazikeen approached. They had been like this for hours now, and she had offered everything she could think of to get back the ruler she still had not even a week ago: demon battles, torture, an impromptu Dionysian gathering, even sex. All to no avail.

Lucifer's mind was elsewhere, detached, almost adrift. They kept staring blankly at the flames dancing in the pit in the middle of their throne room, their thoughts circling around something –or rather, someone– now far beyond their reach. An angel. Their angel.

"Your Majesty," Mazikeen tried again.

"What?" Lucifer snapped, their fingers tightening around the armrest of the throne, making the polished surface groan under the pressure.

Mazikeen sighed, despair taking over her features. This was not the Lightbringer she knew, the one who commanded with absolute authority, who could turn any situation in their favour. She had seen Lucifer in pain before –there had been a thousand betrayals, a thousand wars– but this was different. This was personal, deep, and she swore to herself that if she ever saw you again, she would slit your throat.

"Please," Mazikeen said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "You cannot sit here forever."

Lucifer remained silent as if refusing to acknowledge Mazikeen's pleas. They kept their gaze unfocused, lost in the orange fire before them, their chin resting in one hand while the fingers of their other hand tapped furiously on the armrest, proof of their inner turmoil.

Seeing that neither patience nor enticement would work, Mazikeen closed the distance between her and the throne in quick, powerful strides and knelt before Lucifer.

"My Lord!" her voice broke through again, sharper this time. She had never needed to shout before. "You have to pull Yourself together. If the demons sense vulnerability, this realm will fall apart!"

Lucifer sighed heavily.

"It is Hell, Mazikeen. Everything and everyone here is constantly falling apart."

"We both know that is not true. This is not who You are."

Slowly, Lucifer straightened up and tilted their head, finally looking down at Mazikeen. Just as slowly, they reached to cup her cheek –the melted side of her face–, grazing it gently with their fingers, which made the she-demon's eyes shine with hope.

Then Lucifer opened their mouth, trying to come up with something to reassure or even compliment her. Their "good, faithful Mazikeen" as you had described her yesterday. But nothing came out, their nice words had seemingly all been used up on someone else. They closed their mouth and let go of Mazikeen's face before standing up and putting some distance between them again.

After a few long breaths, Lucifer finally spoke.

"Well, what is it you came to tell Us?"

Disappointed, Mazikeen sighed and rose to her feet, gripping her swords like a lifeline.

"The generals demand action. Now that Your deal with Heaven is closed and You received the authorisation to go there."

"Of course, they do. But We have already stated multiple times We would not use Our visitation rights until the time is suitable, have We not?"

"You have. But if I may… There is a risk that if You keep postponing Your visit to the Silver City, endlessly waiting for 'the right time', You will miss out on many opportunities."

Lucifer's back and wings tensed but they didn't turn around.

"Are you implying that We procrastinate confronting Our brother, Mazikeen?"

"No. I am merely suggesting You use this… renewed hate towards angels to formulate a plan, go back to Your Father's realm, and take back what is rightfully Yours."

Lucifer huffed.

"There is no 'renewed hate towards–' Wait." They cut themself off and finally spun to face Mazikeen again, bringing a hand to their heart as if to contain its erratic beating. "What did you say?"

Mazikeen frowned.

"Uh… To formulate a plan, go back to–"

"No, after that."

"And take back what is rightfully Yours."

Lucifer's wings suddenly unfurled, assuming a dominating stance, and their eyes darkened. It seemed something had clicked in their mind, and they were burning with ambition again.

"Ours."

"Let the defendant in."

After an eternity in your cell, Nanahel had eventually come accompanied by two Thrones, both clad in shining armour with their faces obscured by helmets. They had covered your eyes –surely so you wouldn't know the way from your cell back to the main areas of Heaven– and were now ushering you inside the Council chamber as its large doors opened without a sound. Only then did they let you see your surroundings.

The Divine Council sat in a semicircle, their thrones imposing and gleaming with an unnatural light. At the centre, on the highest throne, sat the Metatron, the Voice of God, his eyes cold and unreadable. His mere presence was enough to make you shiver and look away.

At the Metatron's side, you noticed Michael sitting with his sword resting against his knee, Gabriel with his usual smug smile, and the rest of the Archangels gazing right into your soul, their eyes hard as stone.

So you then looked at the assembly, millions of angels gathered to attend your trial –or rather, public humiliation. Most of them looked at you with an unforgiving expression or even hate. But as you scanned the crowd, you found some confused frowns, like Muriel's, and very few compassionate eyes, like Camael's and Arakiel's.

Suddenly, a herald angel stood to your right, unrolled a scroll and spoke in a flat, formal tone.

"Angel of the Fourth Choir, Dominion of the Silver City, you stand before the Divine Council today, accused of gross insubordination, consorting with the Fallen, and expressing thoughts contrary to the will and nature of the Almighty. You are charged with treason against the Divine Order."

With your heart pounding in your chest, you opened your mouth to plead innocent, but Gabriel raised a hand to stop you.

"Don't bother answering that."

"Indeed," Uriel added. "The evidence speaks for itself."

"Evidence?" you croaked, your voice barely above a whisper. "What evidence?" This was all going way too fast, and you felt dizzy.

Michael nodded in the herald's direction and the latter spoke again.

"The words you have spoken in private, the thoughts you believed hidden from the Almighty, have been heard and recorded. The walls of Heaven are not deaf, Dominion."

"I– No! I have never spoken against–" You were suddenly cut off by your own voice resonating through the room.

Forgive me Father for I have sinned.

Then Camael's.

There is this look on your face… I think it's doubt.

Your voice again.

How is that a good thing?

His Great, blasted Plan.

Your conversation with Gabriel from two nights past.

You were there. You sang, too. –No!

And finally, your desperate outburst in your cell this morning.

Will the fact that Heaven is inhabited by a horde of hypocrites be taken into account?

I'm sorry, Lucifer.

You turned back to the crowd and noticed myriads of angels looking shocked or repulsed by your words, exchanging whispers of indignation.

Your stomach twisted as Michael spoke.

"The Council has reviewed everything you have said in recent days, and it is clear that your heart has strayed far from the Light. The celestial spheres have borne witness to your disobedience, your doubt, your… affections for the Morningstar."

"Do you deny these thoughts, Dominion? Do you deny consorting with Lucifer? Do you deny that your actions have endangered the stability of Heaven itself?"

"I…"

Your voice faltered. You thought the Archangel's words to be exaggerated, but you didn't know how to defend yourself, nor if there was any point in trying.

"I sought understanding, Your Grace," you eventually managed to say, your voice trembling. "Is that a crime? To seek the truth?"

"It is a crime to seek what lies outside of God's Light," Raphael spoke.

"Therefore the Divine Council has judged your case," Azrael added. "And our sentence is irrevocable."

At that point, the Metatron stood up and revealed the decision long made in your absence.

"For your insubordination and questioning of Our Lord's ways, this Court has decided… that should you accept to ask for forgiveness, you may be saved from disgrace. Atone for your sins, submit to Heaven's judgement, and you will stay in the Silver City, only demoted from your rank."

You felt the blood drain from your face and the dizziness made you sway a little. A demotion. A lifetime of servitude, chained by the very system that had already shackled your wrists and bound your mind. Such was the definition of God's mercy.

"Well?" The Metatron was waiting for your answer which, to any respectable angel, should be more than evident.

The very thought of what you were about to say made your whole body quiver, but you mustered every last ounce of courage you could find in your heart and finally replied.

"No."

Loud gasps resonated through the chamber and the Archangels of the Divine Council exclaimed some "Have you lost your mind?" and "Wait. What?" You glanced behind you once more and found Camael's purple eyes in the distance. They were frantically shaking their head as if urging you to reconsider.

The Metatron furrowed his white eyebrows. He then raised a hand to silence the clamour, and asked, "Come again?"

"I said no, Your Highness."

The Divine Council had made its decision, you had made yours. If refusing the Council's offer meant to spend the rest of your miserable, lonely existence in that cell, then in that cell you would stay. But you wouldn't obey, much less serve, any of those people any more.

Yet, the Metatron decided to insist for the third time.

"Are you quite certain, little angel? You know forgiveness is always given to those who ask for it."

Yes, that was what you used to believe –what they had made you believe. But that was then and you had changed much this past week. You thought about the dead mortals in the Woods of Suicides, about Lucifer and the angels in this room who once sang as they fell, and you knew you were doing the right thing for yourself.

"Just say you're sorry!" Gabriel almost shouted.

You looked at him, then at Michael, and back at the Metatron.

"Never."

Your answer created yet another uproar behind you. You heard some voices calling you a traitor, devil worshipper, while others simply booed.

The Archangels exchanged nods, and then Michael spoke.

"Hence, you give us no choice. There is no place for you here, nor anywhere else in this Holy Kingdom. Usually, we would decide to cast criminals like you down to Hell. But given your… ties with my sibling, I am afraid this becomes no suitable punishment."

He was right. You would rejoice and maybe even sing about your own Fall.

"Therefore, here is your final sentence," the Metatron announced, always in charge of giving the verdict. "You have played with fire, flirted with it. And, inevitably, you shall get burnt. Angel of the Fourth Choir, Dominion of the Silver City, this Court sentences you… to death by Hellfire."

Hellfire. A punishment reserved only for the most unforgivable, those whose souls were considered too dangerous, too corrupted to exist even in Hell.

You had not expected that and, for a moment, you couldn't move or breathe. A cold sweat ran across your brow, and your wings, still battered and weak, twitched instinctively.

"To death!" the assembly intoned.

And then the same Thrones that had retrieved you from your cell seized you by the elbows and dragged you out of the room and towards a vast courtyard at the centre of the Silver City.

By the time you got there, the courtyard, which had once held parties, important Holy Masses, and so many more joyful events, had been transformed into a stage for your public execution.

Angels of all kinds were now gathering around a massive column of Hellfire that had been summoned from the depths of the Abyss. It crackled with an unnatural intensity, even darker and more sinister than anything you had seen in Hell. Or perhaps was it the sharp contrast with Heaven's natural pristine glow that made it so terrifying.

Your legs nearly gave way beneath you as you saw it, and for a moment, despite how confident you felt in your rebellion, the hopelessness threatened to overwhelm you. No being, mortal or divine, had ever survived the flames of Hellfire, save for Lucifer and a few selected demons. This was the end.

The two Thrones threw you to your knees before the fire, and you could feel the heat emanating from it, licking at your skin, searing your feathers even from a distance. The sensation was suffocating, and, in your head, you found yourself repeating the same name over and over again.

Lucifer. Lucifer. Lucifer. Lucifer. Lucifer. Lucifer. Lucifer.

You repeated the Morningstar's name so many times that you were certain it had actually begun to leave your mouth, and it even started losing its meaning. Yet, to you, it now meant everything.

Above you, the Metatron's voice rang out, proclaiming your sins for all to hear.

"This angel, who once belonged to the Holy Orders, has chosen the path of defiance and turned away from the Light. For this former Dominion's transgressions and loyalty to the Fallen, let Justice be done."

You felt hands bind your wings, painfully stretching them back so you wouldn't have the reflex to fly away, but your gaze remained fixed on the inferno facing you. Then the Thrones violently forced you back on your feet.

Lucifer. Lucifer. Lucifer.

"March."

Of course, you had no wish to die. For immortal beings like you, there was no afterlife, only oblivion. Once your body entered these flames, your very essence would combust, and you would be no more –in fact, the whole of Heaven would act as if you had never existed.

Yet, you took a step forward. And another. And another. Your vision narrowed, and the cries and chants around you became muffled, your ears solely vibrating with the thumping of your heart.

Lucifer.

The fire flared, almost beckoning. You kept walking, closed your eyes, and finally let yourself be swallowed by the flames.

You waited for Death's embrace and indeed felt strong arms closing around your waist. But then the intense heat vanished as a new kind of warmth engulfed you, familiar, soothing, safe.

You opened your eyes and first noticed the black, leathery cocoon enveloping you. And then, ever so slowly, your heart soaring with hope, you tilted your head back.

"Lucifer…"

"Hello, little dove," Lucifer whispered with a soft smile as Hellfire's glow made a single tear twinkle on their cheek.

"How did You…" Your voice trailed because you couldn't comprehend everything that had just happened.

"Hellfire obeys Us alone, and We have long since commanded it not to harm you."

The flames recoiled further, shrinking away from Lucifer as if in reverence to their true master, bowing to Lucifer’s will, and retreating into the Abyss from which they came.

As they did so, Lucifer gently let go of you, making sure you could stand on your feet before they turned to the million pairs of angelic eyes glued to them.

"Get them out of here!" someone shouted in the audience.

"You are not welcome here!" another angel added.

"Peace be upon You, my dear sibling," Michael said as calmly as he could, though he was boiling inside, approaching with his sword clutched in hand.

"Hmm. If only, Michael," Lucifer retorted. "We note you forgot to mention our deal to the rest of your kind."

Michael said nothing, his jaw clenching visibly while Lucifer surveyed the assembly at an unhurried pace, the faintest smirk on their lips. They then stopped, retrieved the contract they had brought with them, and quoted it.

"'In consideration of the retrieval of the Cup of Eternal Grace,' et cetera, et cetera, 'the Divine Council does hereby agree to grant Lucifer Morningstar one Visitation to Heaven.' We believe this makes Us most welcome here. At least for the next… fifty-seven minutes. Does it not, brother?"

Michael's fist tightened around the hilt of his sword while the Metatron stepped forward, attempting to maintain his authority before the angels present here began to protest.

"Still, You have no jurisdiction here, Lucifer. This is Heaven's justice."

Lucifer turned to him and looked him up and down with unabashed disdain.

"Precisely," they admitted. "Hellfire belongs to Us and it will not burn a single feather of that angel's wings. So how do you wish to proceed?"

"How do You mean?"

"Well, you want to kill the Dominion, but We are telling you Hellfire will not take part in this so-called heavenly justice. Therefore, how do you wish to carry out the sentence?"

Silence had fallen over the Silver City and you observed this surreal interaction with a strange mixture of relief and confusion.

And then it hit you, and you understood what Lucifer was doing. They had found a loophole. The decision to sentence you to death by Hellfire was not only an act of humiliation but also a way for the leaders of the Silver City to get rid of you without getting their hands dirty. Because no matter how much Heaven seemed to bend the rules, God's Law still prevailed, and "Thou shall not kill". So by making you walk into Hellfire yourself, Heaven's conscience remained clean while you died, basically committing one last sin: suicide. But take Hellfire away, and the perfect murder could be no more.

"That sword of yours," Lucifer then mused, taking Michael's wrist to lift the weapon before running their index down the blade, "could be…" They brought their finger to their lips and licked off the blood they had drawn. "Adequate. But everybody here knows you will not use it."

"I have a sudden feeling I might," Michael growled.

"Enough!" The Metatron interjected, putting an end to these childish threats. Then he turned to Lucifer. "I shall have a word with You. Now."

It had been almost an hour since the whole commotion in the courtyard after your miraculous escape from death, and you were back in your cell, wondering if the Morningstar would manage to find a way out for you before their visitation rights expired.

Finally, you felt them approach, so you lifted your head and noticed they still sported the same soft smile as earlier. They were somewhat happy, you realised. Happy to see you. Behind them, the Metatron stood in the shadow, his eyes skewering you.

"How did You know?" you asked softly as Lucifer stopped a mere foot away from you. You had spent most of the past hour trying to figure out how they had managed to appear just in time to save you.

"We did not –not for certain. But We had a presentiment something would happen to you. We saw the fear in your eyes yesterday and the last flicker of hope born out of Our brother's empty promises. We have been there, We recognised the signs."

"But I thought… This is the last time You will ever be allowed in the Silver City. I thought You would come when the time was right, when You had a true reason, something important."

"Yes. And We did."

Your heart skipped a beat when Lucifer said that, and even more so when you noticed their eyes flickering to your lips before they promptly blinked and looked away.

"So… What are they going to do with me?" you asked after a short, uncomfortable silence. "Are they going to… send me to an isolated planet on the other side of the cosmos?"

That made Lucifer chuckle briefly, but their smile quickly faded.

"No."

Another silence.

"Am I going to fall?"

Lucifer nodded, and you felt a disagreeable contrast between your heart warming up and your blood turning cold.

"Will it be painful?"

"Extremely." Lucifer saw no point in trying to make you hope otherwise. "And lonely."

"But You will be there, on the other side."

"Always."

"Lightbringer, it is time to leave. The hour is coming to an end," the Metatron finally spoke from outside the cell.

"Yes," Lucifer replied. "No need to chase Us away this time. We will see Ourself out." Then they brought their fingers up to graze your cheek. "You have a few hours to prepare; it will happen when God puts an end to this day. We will be waiting."

Lucifer's touch lingered for a moment as if they were wishing you good luck, and then they left.

Once Lucifer had gone, you were left alone in the dim light of your cell, trying to make sense of everything that had happened today. A trial, a sentence, the blistering heat of Hellfire, and now, the promise of an eternity in Hell. It felt surreal, as though you were being swept along by forces beyond your control, moving too fast for your mind to fully comprehend.

A week ago, Lucifer and their subjects were your sworn enemies, you knew nothing about Hell, largely misunderstood it, and, above all, hated it. And tonight, despite the growing anxiety, you found yourself longing for it all.

With your lips parting in a small smile, you sat down on the cold stone floor and turned to the narrow window to your left. The air was chilly and smelled like rain, and you suddenly remembered what day tomorrow was.

Tomorrow was autumn. Fall. Your Fall.

And there was evening, and there was morning –the sixth day.

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