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fastlikealambo · 9 months

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Connubium.|| Coriolanus Snow x Black Fem Reader Chapter Eight

table of contents.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Summary: Stealing from The Capitol is a deadly offense, yet you’ve done it more times than you can count but when you do something you should not have done, Volumnia Gaul decides a fate for you that might just be worse than death.

Notes: This takes place post The Ballad of Songbirds And Snakes and Coryo is in his last year at The University, studying under Dr. Gaul. This will not follow canon, I’m not an expert on all the lore so I apologize if I get things wrong.

Disclaimer: You know Coriolanus is a POS, I know Coriolanus is a POS, please don’t yell at me because this is just a fun little story, something for thee hotties, and if you feel that strongly against President Snow, please let me know if you’d like me to sign you up for tessarae.

18+ only

Thanks for the love and messages on chapter seven! If you want to see chapter nine, comment or reblog, feedback makes me want to continue!

“You heard it here, if you want to find the love of your life, just throw yourself into traffic! If you’re just tuning in at home, I’m Lucky Flickerman and we’re wrapping up here with Coriolanus Snow, our very own candidate for President and his lovely fiancée! Before we go, is there anything you lovebirds want to say to the people watching at home?”

The lights were too hot, your dress felt plastered to your skin, but you gave Panem a big toothy smile and looked right into the camera.

“I just want to thank everyone for their kindness and hard work throughout the campaign so far.” You said, grasping Coryo’s hand, the light catching your engagement ring.

“A brighter future is just beyond the horizon and as long as we come together, we can build a better Panem.” Coryo said, giving your hand a squeeze.

“And we’re clear! I can’t wait for your wedding, I’ll be the one with the mic, have you gotten my dietary restriction brochure?”

The wedding was less than two days away and the election month after and it was all just so much.

How could you be getting married without ma or pa there?

How could you be getting married when your entire courtship was based on one lie after another?

By putting one foot in front of the other because you were not going to turn back.

Too many thoughts dancing around in your head caused you to miss a step on the way off the stage but with a steady hand, Coryo helped you down the remaining step.

“It’s a bit warm here, let’s go outside.” You said with a tired smile, leaning heavily on your fiance as you two made your way out of the studio and back to the waiting car.

“After the wedding we’ll have time to slow things down before the election, I promise.” Coriolanus said, kissing your hand. You put your head on his shoulder, leaning into his touch, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep but you were whisked away into a final fitting of your wedding dress with Tigris, Coriolanus off to a meeting with Strabo.

“ It’s magnificent, Tigris, truly. Thank you for doing this, I’m sure you have more important work to be doing.” You said softly to the blonde who was currently under the gown’s massive skirt, embroidering tiny little roses along the hem. With a happy sigh, she stood up, looking in the mirror at you.

“ I’m happy to help! Are you nervous for tomorrow? They’re calling it the wedding of the century, Fabricia said it’s going to be played throughout Panem.” Tigris said, taking a few pins out of the dress and slowly circling you to make sure everything fit like it should.

“I’m nervous but I’m excited for it to be over. I just wish my mother and father were here.” You said honestly, looking down at the ground. Tigris put her arm around your shoulder and the gentle gesture made you cry harder than you thought you would, shoulders shaking as Tigris placed a pale pink handkerchief into your hand.

“I’ve always wanted a sister, for so long it’s just been Coryo and Grandma’am but now that you’re here I finally get my wish. There was a time when I looked at Coriolanus and all I saw was his father looking back, but from the moment he brought you home, I’ve only ever seen a man in love. You deserve to be happy.”

Tigris Snow must be the best person the Capitol ever produced.

After copious amounts of tea and a few more tears, you bid Tigris goodbye, heading back to your own home, head and heart still heavy.

You had no idea it would have gone like this, hell you thought you wouldn’t last a week in The Capitol but look at you now, the almost wife of a presidential candidate.

You made it.

But at what cost?

“A deal is a deal, little thief. Your precious ma and pa are responding well to the antidote to my poison, I suspect they’ll be breathing fully on their own in a few weeks. Would you like me to wheel them to your reception?” Dr. Gaul said, sipping tea at your counter.

You ignored her, settling into a chair of your own, waiting for the car to pick you up to have dinner with Coriolanus. This gilded cage would be gone after tomorrow and to some extent so would Dr. Gaul’s influence too and that made you want to sprint down the aisle more than anything else.

“Will they be safe now that I’ve given you what you want?”

Dr. Gaul clapped her hands and nodded, stepping down from her stool and heading for the door.

“ You should know by now that no one is truly safe in this world but once they are healthy enough, they can do as they wish, my games with you are coming to an end and I’ll surely miss these little chats. You’re not what I expected, little thief, I told you to steal a boy’s heart and you stole all of Panem. What a marvel you’ve turned out to be.”

A marvel.

You felt like anything but.

You were surprised when Coriolanus asked you to dinner, having thought he would want to spend the night before his wedding going over a new campaign speech in his solitude or doing whatever Capitol bachelors did, but he just wanted to sip wine and hold your hand under candlelight.

It was a quiet affair but it calmed your mind enough to realize that Coryo had brought you the one thing you had craved for quite some time.

Silence.

“Let’s go for a walk, darling.”

The streets of The Capitol were empty this time of night and you couldn’t help but smile when you realized where Coryo was leading you. The street where you first met looked no different at night but you couldn’t help but feel a sense of wonder in it.

“This is very romantic but it might be a little late to change the wedding venue. Is getting married in the middle of the street a Capitol wedding tradition I’m unfamiliar with?” You asked playfully, looking up at the stars.

Just one more month.

If Coryo could win the election, there would be nothing Ravinstill could do, Gaul couldn’t change her mind and keep your parents as lab rats.

You would be safe.

“And what are weddings like in District 6?”

You did not move.

This moment had been a long time coming, perhaps too long for someone with his intellect, but here you were. Your turn in his direction was excruciatingly short, head unbowed and eyes clear. You would not beg or weep for forgiveness.

Before you could utter a word, Coriolanus Snow got on his knees before you.

“I know every secret you have kept from me, every lie you have said to my face yet if you asked to burn down The Capitol, I'd fetch a match. What you need to understand is that I will never not want you and only you, by my side.”

He knew.

You met his gaze and stepped forward, placing a hand on his cheek.

“I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry for stealing from the capitol or pretending to get hit by a car so that Dr. Gaul wouldn’t murder my parents. Most of all, I’m not sorry for meeting you, Coriolanus, and I wouldn’t change that for the world.”

“Do you love me? No lies, just a question. Do you love me?”

“It was easy to lie to you but it was even easier to love you. I have been moving for so long that I’m afraid of what happens if I stop. I love you but what happens now?”

Coriolanus stood up, put his forehead to yours and wrapped his arms around you tight.

“ Don’t move then, all you have to do is stand still. Stand still beside me and I swear to you, no one will harm you again.” He whispered in your ear.

You didn’t have to wait a month.

In the arms of Coriolanus Snow, you were safe.

Morning came quickly and between Tigris and attendants, you looked less like yourself and more like a bride in your extravagant gown, curls on top of your head. From behind the curtain you could see the venue start to fill up with the Capitol’s finest.

“You look so beautiful, oh I can’t believe Grandma’am isn’t here to see this!” Tigris said, fluffing out the back of your gown and you reached over and squeezed her hand. She had been downright giddy when you asked her to walk you down the aisle and you were relieved when she accepted as your only other choice was Dr. Gaul.

“Ma Plinth has your something borrowed, I just have run back to The Corso and then we can get started. The first truly good day in such a long time.” Tigris said softly and pulled you in for a quick embrace before running off.

An attendant brought you a glass of chilled posca and you sipped while you waited, the nerves starting to make you sweat just a little.

The sound of footsteps filled you with relief and you turned from the vanity with a smile.

“Tigris? Are we ready to start?”

The question went unanswered as the person who entered your area was not Tigris but President Ravinstill.

“Well, don't you look stunning, young lady. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were Capitol born and bred but we both know that’s not exactly true.” He said with a dark chuckle.

“Mr. President, the wedding is about to start. I’m sure we can have someone show you to your seat.” You said in a chilled tone but he paid you no mind.

“You were supposed to tame him, dear. You were supposed to curb his political ambition till I got a hold of him so I could mold him in my image. Instead, you had him embarrass me in front of the press with this adorable campaign of his that you both intended to see it through to the bitter end. That just won’t do. Tonight, district whore, you will kill Coriolanus Snow.”

No.

No more.

“No.”

“I don’t think I heard you, young lady.”

You stood to your feet and stood directly in front of the president, calm and collected.

“ I said no, Mr. President. The Capitol no longer gets to make a monster out of me after today so enjoy the wedding and we will see you on election night.” You said simply.

He could kill your parents.

He could destroy District 6.

You both knew that but only you knew that you had simply had enough and there were worse games to play.

“Oh my dear, if only your answer was different.”

The sound of racing footsteps echoed as Coriolanus came racing into the room, concern and confusion on his face.

“The guards said you wanted to talk to me, what’s wrong, what’s going on?” He asked, taking your hand but froze when he saw President Ravinstill.

“Right on time, my boy! I called you in here because I wanted you to see what happens when you attempt to humiliate me, to disgrace Panem. I want you to see that even on your happiest day, you cannot stop snow from falling.” President Ravinstill said.

You were sweating heavily now.

When did it get so hot?

“Coryo? Coriolanus, something’s wrong.”

Coriolanus turned back to you, his features shifting to a picture of horror at the sight of blood gently trickling down your nose. He caught you before you could hit the floor, gasping for breath, your blood coating his fingers.

“ Coryo, what’s happening?” You asked weakly, looking all around but Coriolanus gently placed your head on his lap.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, just look at me, look at me darling.” He said softly, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

This couldn’t be happening.

You risked it all, for what?

“Do you love me?” Coriolanus asked, pressing flat bloody fingers against your pulse, the erratic beat beneath his fingers made him want to sob but he had to stay in control. It would all be over soon.

“I do.” You choked out, tears starting to fall down your cheeks. Everything around you was starting to blur but Coriolanus gently rocked you in his arms.

“Then eyes on me, Mrs. Snow.” Coriolanus said with watery eyes. Through the sleeve of your wedding dress something you could feel something prick your arm but you were too far gone to truly realize what was happening.

“Tell my ma, tell her I’m sorry.” You whispered, eyes slowly closing despite Coriolanus’s cries.

“Don’t worry dear boy, I’ll make the announcement that you’ll be dropping out of the race. Someone should not have drank the posca.” President Ravinstill said, a throaty chuckle that ended with a hacking cough, one that the guard closest to him mimicked.

Enjoy the show.

Outside the bridal area, he could hear others coughing too but with his wife still on his lap, he turned his attention to the president. A wave of calm engulfed him and despite himself, Coriolanus Snow began to laugh.

“And you should not have drank the champagne, Mr. President.”

Coriolanus enjoyed watching Ravinstill crumble to the floor besides his bodyguards, flecks of foam and spittle falling from the former president's now violet lips.

Wedding guests screamed and the sounds of falling bodies echoed throughout the venue but Coriolanus ignored them in favor of breathing for you.

After all, these things happen in war.

That’s chapter 8! Thank you so much for reading, I’m so sorry for the delay! I just wanted to try this ending instead, I really, really hope you don’t hate it. As always, if you want to see the finale, please comment and reblog! Love you all!!!

#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow x black!reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x black reader #sorry for the wait

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anthrofreshtodeath · 7 months

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Looking forward to this prompt like always.

maybe they get slightly jealous while out, so they grab onto their partner's hand to establish their relationship

here it is! I have no idea what I just wrote but, you know, here we go:

—-

The Childhood Cancer Awareness Gala. If anything in Maura’s life is a black tie affair, it’s this. It comes once a year, in May, just as the spring gives way to summer temperatures, and, unfortunately, when the nascent MLB season really starts to take shape. Which usually means she takes a man, a doctor most times, instead of Jane: the person with whom she much prefers to attend these things. Not only is Jane Maura’s best friend - and thus makes it all genuinely more bearable - Jane has all the social skills Maura wishes she did when it came to fellow donors and hot shots. There are celebrities at this thing, for god’s sake. And that makes Maura nervous, especially since Jane so often has about five to eight games to catch up on by the time late May rolls around and refuses to come. Last time Maura had to bring a surgeon. But this year, by some miracle, the Red Sox have an off day on this Tuesday night, the same that the Gala is on.

And Maura had known this fact for months. In fact, as soon as the regular season schedule was released. That meant that she started her get-Jane-to-the-Gala campaign while snow still raged outside and the year had barely begun. It culminates in the black, strapless gown she wears now, the one showing off her tanned shoulders and her three hundred dollar haircut complete with layers and highlights and the smell of priceless product. There are heels that highlight her calves and make her ass look fantastic; there is a pendant on her neck that draws attention to her perfectly supported breasts. There’s even a diamond ring on her right ring finger, big and belonging once to her mother, because Jane likes to look at things that remind her of tradition.

And Maura had promised, not with words per se, but quite forcefully, quite convincingly, that Jane’s attendance would be worthwhile. The promise had consisted of some rather pointed modeling in the guest bedroom while Jane sat in a lounge chair and watched, of even more pointed half-states of undress, including dropping the garment in front of her with her heels still on so that she could bend over in the skimpiest pair of underwear appropriate for a platonic home fashion show that she owned. It also consisted of the subtle increase in hand jewelry, answers to Jane’s questions about it being, “My mother gave it to me. She couldn’t bring herself to wear it anymore; she finds such signs of commitment provincial. I vehemently disagree - especially when the signs are so exquisite. Don’t you think?”

Jane had sniffled. She’d stood, looking stiff and stupid as her mouth gaped at the ring Maura held out, before she finally said, “it’s on the wrong hand.”

Maura had chuckled warmly and replied, “for now.”

The stupidity intensified up until Jane mopped her jaw off the floor and excused herself to return upstairs. Maura then understood that she didn’t even need to invite Jane: she just needed to bring the Gala up.

That happened about two weeks after the ring incident, which was about two weeks after the dress fitting. Maura stood in front of the vanity in her bedroom’s en suite, rubbing a European moisturizer into the skin just over her cheek bones. “You know, the Childhood Cancer Awareness Gala is on the 28th this year,” she said with the most practiced nonchalance as she frowned to get more of the product into her pores.

Jane had grunted. She leaned against the threshold to the bathroom and crossed her arms, using tox results for their current case as the excuse to be in Mauara’s inner sanctum. Maura had at least given her the courtesy of relaying those lab results before bringing the fundraiser up. “‘S an off day,” Jane said.

Maura made a curious sound. “Hmm. Really?”

“Yeah,” Jane confirmed. “Want me to tag along?”

Maura pursed her lips so she didn’t smile. Jane isn’t hers. But she knows a secret: Jane wants to be, and so she admits she played a little dirty to have gotten Jane to accompany her.

Honestly, though, that was the nonverbal content of Maura’s promise: go, and becoming mine is a distinct, dirty possibility for you. “I’d like that,” she told Jane. “Do you need something to wear?”

She knew what Jane would say. Well, she knew the answer. Jane ended up saying, “I”ve seen what you’re wearing; I think I can cobble something together.”

Contrary to what even Jane herself might have believed, Maura hadn’t wanted to go shopping for Jane anyway - she wanted it on the table that Jane would be dressing to compliment her. Because that meant Jane in a suit. And Maura is attracted to the Jane she knows, not the Jane she can conjure by draping her in couture.

And so, Jane is here, at the Childhood Cancer Awareness Gala, in May, instead of in front of a ballgame somewhere. Jane is here in a suit, with a very expensive white silk shirt under the jacket, with a sleeker, more understated boot than the aggressive block heel she often wears to work, her hair wild and beautiful and the perfect compliment to her sharp features.

It is, by all accounts as Maura returns from the restroom, a win. A complete victory on all fronts. Except, that is, Jane stands close to Doctor Melissa Henry - world renowned OBGYN and overall knockout - listening intently enough, leaning in close enough, to hear above the sociable din.

Jane’s long fingers hold her champagne flute by the rim, the drink Maura had procured for her long before the trip to the restroom, and Jane hasn’t touched it. Hasn’t had a sip. Which, of course not, because Doctor Henry is Puerto Rican and curvaceous and a genius. Why would Jane interrupt her spell to imbibe?

Doctor Henry leans close and says something into Jane’s ear, Jane who turns into the gesture yet again, and suddenly, they are both chuckling. And by god, it’s Jane’s handsome chuckle - the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes and bestows upon her a crooked little grin.

Normally, Maura respects the hell out of Doctor Henry as a leader in the field of women’s medicine. She’s serious and principled and warm… and that’s the damn problem. Maura did a fucking bend and snap to get Jane here (thank Jane’s modern media bootcamp for that particularly relevant reference); she’s not letting go this easily.

And again, she intends to fight dirty.

She marches across the crowded ballroom to where the two women stand, where Doctor Henry places a steadying hand on Jane’s shoulder because her heels are tall and her ankles are crossed. A man bumps into a deadset Maura, by accident, but it only fuels her resolve. She continues, gaze forward, back straight, clutch in front of her hips (the ones that sway as she walks), until she approaches Jane and Doctor Henry. Then she stops.

For all her missing of social mores, Maura can synthesize the details of a situation like no other. So just as she approaches, she comes up to Jane’s left, because Jane’s right is occupied with the champagne. And also, coincidentally, Doctor Henry. All for the better, though, because this means that for her next act, the ring on her hand can do all the heavy lifting, even if it’s a mirror image of where it’s supposed to be.

Her fingers find the ones at Jane’s side, and they slither between them. Once they’re all but entwined, she drags them up, skin brushing as they curl, just before manicured fingers scratch Jane’s palm one time. Then as she fans them back out, down and united again, she kisses Jane’s covered shoulder. Jane shivers and Maura knows it’s because of the metal rubbing on her ring finger. “My mother’s bete noir is here,” she says into the fabric of Jane’s jacket, relishing the delicate scratch against her gloss-softened lips. “The feud is as alive as ever.”

Boom.

Between the touching and the comment just for her, she’s got Jane. She knows she’s got Jane because instead of a statement about how rude it is not to greet the third party, Jane says in that gravel-rich timbre, “she still telling the story about how her daughter styled… who?”

“The Roman Prince of Cerveteri? At least once a function,” Maura replies quickly, all as she turns her gaze on Doctor Henry. “So sorry, Melissa - family issues. You know how it is.”

Family. Issues.

Jane stiffens further, grows warmer; Maura knows there’s blushing even if she can only see Melissa Henry’s straight-out-of-a-catalog face.

“That I do,” Doctor Henry says. Gracefully she steps away from Jane. Is that a bit of fear Maura sees, too? “Do uh, do you two need a drink? I think I’m headed to the bar.”

Jane smiles with her lips closed and simply holds up her champagne flute. I’ve got plenty.

“I’ve had enough for the evening, but thank you,” Maura answers with a cordial smile.

When Doctor Henry walks away after a nod and a smirk of her own, Jane snorts. “I don’t think she’s coming back,” she says.

“God, I hope not,” says Maura. When Jane, without letting go of Maura’s hand, downs her entire drink and steps close enough for their fronts to touch, Maura honors the nonverbal request for an embrace by wrapping her free arm around Jane’s shoulders. “When you’re here, when you accompany me to these events, you’re mine,” she asserts with a growl of her own.

“I’m yours all the time,” Jane counters. She rests her head in the crook of Maura’s neck because in heels, Maura is tall enough.

Maura squeezes, and laughs lowly. “I know.”

#lauren writes rizzoli and isles fanfiction #rizzoli and isles #otp prompts February 2024 #featuring Neanderthal Jane #and also Neanderthal Maura apparently lol #I just know they went home and fucked nasty after this

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rise-my-angel · 1 year

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Heart of the Great Wolf

9 - Pleasure of Conflicted Desire

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader (Slow Burn), Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader

Length: 13.1k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, slow burn discussions of warfare, description of corpses blood and gore, child death, character death, pregnancy, smut, p in v, nondetailed references to forced sex acts, struggles of internalized trauma

Notes: Difficult chapter for everyone but Robbs war campaign just is in a wild state right now in general. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here.

The wheels were all in motion, and it may be the only thing giving the man confidence. It was a plan they could get on board with, that maybe they didn’t have to take Kings Landing themselves to end the Lannister reign on the realm. Stannis does the hard work, and the Starks play distraction to give them the time and numbers to do so. Greatjon himself saying, “Aye, we’re better at guttin’ Lannisters then we’d be sailing and breaking down walls. We’re the only ones actually fighting this war.”

It certainly felt that way. You wondered if the rebellion against Aerys Targaryean felt as futile in the middle of it. Looking back, everyone can clearly see the sides that were winning and that the side fighting for liberation were indeed the winning one. Yet you could understand that it likely didn’t feel that way. The Lannisters had not one a single battle against Robb Stark, and there hadn’t been any battle waged against any other. The Iron Islanders could hardly be called an army. More akin to raiders then anything, and the only time they fought as one they were crushed easily in a matter of months.

Yet each day that the war continued on felt as if the North was going nowhere. Brynden had put that into better perspective earlier that morning in a small moment of doubt between the three of you. “Have you considered the fact that we haven’t had any major victories in recently is because the Lannisters aren’t brave enough to come and fight us in the field anymore?”

You had added with, “Tywin Lannister has been holed up in Harrenhal as his men do his fighting for him for how long now? How many days have you been out there, in the front by the sides of your men as an equal and Tywin hasn’t?”

“He and his high lords can sit around their table arguing about strategy and feel like they are accomplishing something, but we’re the only ones doing any of the real work. And we wouldn’t be anywhere but dead a long time ago without you.” Even now, this long into war, Robb still voiced his doubts, never got to sure of himself that it couldn’t go wrong.

Sometimes, on the quietest of nights, you both would speak of what happens when this war is over, what then? So much of your life now, your lives together, had been about war but the truth was it wasn’t fair to ask to much of ‘what then’. The what then of war, was making sure you win because the alternative was death.

Neither you or Robb had asked for this, but the responsibility fell onto your shoulders and if neither of you did it, who would? You had to trudge through the mud, feeling like each day without a win was a loss, because otherwise you have no other choice but to lose absolutely everything.

When you begun to arrive back at the camp, something was wrong. Something was quite wrong, the men were in a state and anger was ripe. A group of men approached at haste both looked to the other with a weary gaze. “Your grace,”

Robb asking what happened as you both climbed down and in an instant you realized that it was going to be something with quite the chain reaction. “The Kingslayer, he escaped in the night.”

The seething silent rage in his eyes was blazing, “How?” They glanced at one another and he raised his voice to repeat himself. They told of the events, of Jaime Lannister bashing the head in of Ser Alton to grab Torrhen Karstark’s attention, and how he strangled Torrhen himself and ran off into the night. That wasn’t what they were speaking of though. Speaking of how he was found, dragged back and yet he still escaped once more. But escaped wasn’t really the right word. He didn’t escape the second time on his own. No, it was far worse then that.

Robb looked to you and found the same feeling within you as well, this only could have happened because you both were gone. Those on the war council had agreed it was the smartest plan to have both of you to confront Stannis Baratheon, and yet one person had used that absence. Robb’s shoulders were tense as his hands flexed in a restraining temper.

It had been an intimidating sight to see apparently, the sheer anger in the King and Queen’s eyes as they moved together in furious haste though the camp amongst the growing contempt the events had caused. One that made quite a number of people back away for fear of crossing your paths. Multiple men were guarding outside the tent and opened it for the both of you where more men stood guard inside, as well as a more composed Roose Bolton, and a Rickard Karstark that you knew had full reasons to be as angry as the pair of you were.

Catelyn sat with a look in her eye, mixing a shame with worry as she looked to her son. Robb’s voice was quiet and even but none were fooled at what lay beneath. “Why?”

It was likely there was a bit of work on her end to keep any tears back at what she knew was coming, “For the girls.”

“You betrayed me.” She tried pleading to him, only getting as far as is name until he raise his voice to her. “No. You knew I would not allow it, and you did it anyways.”

Looking up you glanced to Karstark, a quiet understanding of the pained gaze in your eye behind an almost shaking fury to keep yourself tempered. You and Robb had seen Harrion Karstark die on the battlefield and now he’s lost another son and watched Catelyn send his murderer away. Trying to explain herself you found it hard to rationalize it when you knew too well what this meant.

“Bran and Rickon are captives in Winterfell, Sansa and Arya are captives in King’s Landing. I have five children and only one of them is free.” And somehow that gave her the right, you thought exasperated.

Karstark for what you knew a night ago would have been unbridled rage, spoke with a quiet agony as Catelyn felt the guilt compound onto her. “I lost one son fighting by your son’s side, I lost another to the Kingslayer. Strangled by a chain. You commit treason because your children are prisoners? I would carve out my heart and offer it to the father it he would let my sons wake from their graves and step into a prison cell.”

Catelyn tried to keep her composure, rationalize it, “I grieve for your sons, my Lord-”

You were the one who cut her off. “These men don’t need your grief, they needed justice. And they can’t do that now can they?” What was the point of how hard Robb worked to keep his men running in order, if everyone did what they considered to be fair. It couldn’t be fair, war wasn’t.

“Returning Jaime Lannister might be the only way to buy life for my daughters.” Your eyes narrowed, that didn’t sound like her voice coming out of her and it dawned on you exactly who did. A chill running through you, just what had he been offered this time? How on earth could she even consider his words as any truth?

Your voice in a breathless disbelief that she would ever trust him. You had looked him in the eye with the only trust you and Ned Stark had left, and that trust led you both to knives at your throats and a sword through her own husbands neck. “Petyr Baelish has played you for a fool.”

Robb stared his mother down, his own voice quiet and he played the lecturer and her the one in need of scold. “You realize what it is you’ve done? You’ve weakened our position, you’ve brought discord into our camp. And you did it all behind my back.”

Looking to the men, he gave a final order, ignoring her plea of his name to listen. He had enough of that for one day. “Make sure she’s guarded day and night.” Turning with you he looked to Roose Bolton, “How many men did we send in pursuit of the Kingslayer?”

“Fourty, your grace.”

“Send another fourty. With our fastest horses.” Without another word to his mother, Robb led you outside, making your way through the camp. “He betrayed you, he betrayed my father and now she let him do it again.”

Your voice hissing in an urgency. “If they don’t find Jaime by nightfall, we have to be gone. The Lannisters would have planned this, we can’t risk any chance of them getting word of where we are.”

Robb nodded, “Start getting them ready, we leave as soon as it gets dark. Push onto them and we’ll get behind by the time Edmure draws them out.”

You paused before walking away, looking at him like he was being weighed down by every force and from each side someone or something threw his work right back in his face. An intensity like he couldn’t stop finding new sides to be betrayed from. “Robb,”

His brows narrowed as he looked to you, only the short few steps you took did his eyes wash over him a softer need. Cupping both sides of his face as he drew you in by the waist. His kiss was harsh, but you could feel it in the way he touched you how swirling his head was. Keeping your lips to his for a beat longer then intended, he pulled away pressing a final one to your forehead. Soft only for his ears did you run your hand over his cheek, “I love you.”

Running his thumb over your waist as Robb resisted the urge to pull you right back into him. “And I love you.” Giving you a playful nudge backwards, “Now off with you.”

He watched you walk away, his family tearing itself apart as it all kept resting on his shoulders but the only thing that was keeping his feet planted firmly on the ground anymore was you. Robb couldn’t even be sure if he’d see his siblings again, but then he could look at you and his heart felt full at how much he needed you to breathe.

You believed in him, supported his decisions and had never even argued. Early on he would wonder if you were keeping it to yourself for his sake, but the more he got into your mind the more he just found someone who matched him. Saw the war and his people as he did, and refused to let anyone think you were not right beside him.

Ending the war wasn’t going to be easy, but the more time he spent with you, these past few months especially, the more Robb yearned to bring you home to Winterfell. Watch you spent the first snows of winter swollen with his child and know you can raise them safe and free there. Your nights deserved to be spent in his real bed, being treated like a real Queen not the one you had to be with a sword in your hand.

Robb wished they didn’t, but the red woman’s words had haunted him. So freely speaking of you with his children, the dream you told him that made him take you as many times as you could stand it. His own mother had betrayed him, but at least Robb had you, and a dream of a future where he could be a proper father to those children you dreamed of.

The atmosphere of the camp was miserable to be in, everyone held their own opinion about what happened and none of them wanted to voice it as you passed by in risk of angering their leaders more then they already had been.

What were you to focus on, what were you to prioritize at this point? One of your dearest friends betrayed you, your husbands mother betrayed you, and your own father readied to set sail to King’s Landing in a matter only of days now. You could see his plan perfectly, as well as the one Robb has put into play. Only so much of them you could even control, but as you slammed down a bag over your shoulder with a huff and a nod to the squire passed onto you came to one thought.

If you left in a few hours, there might not be a chance to do so for who knows how long. You had to take the chance now and yet you had no idea what made the thought consume you. Your eyes scouring the camp and found no trace of anyone who would take much notice.

Your feet walked for you, before you mind had a chance and by the time you caught up to the idea you were already pulling back the entrance to the tent in question. “Your grace. Do you require my attention for something?”

As you stared at the man, you swallowed heavily. Eyes ready to sting like it was a mistake to do this, but you nodded. Grey Wind sitting outside the tent dutifully as you made your way inside.

The sky had fallen into a golden colour as you stepped outside finally. The beauty of the light made your eyes sting, and biting your tongue to keep your face steady. However your lungs found it hard to breathe, and your heart pounded harder trying to compensate. A dread you didn’t fully understand overtaking you as you felt the people around you slow down.

Your breathing the only thing you could hear and little in front of you that could be seen, not knowing if the world spun or if it was you. You supposed it was bound to be your turn, everyone seemed to find something to throw onto Robb lately and yet you didn’t think you had anything to add to it until now.

Unsure if you had been standing there a while until you were nudged over by Grey Wind. A whining sound leaving him as he nudged your torso before looking up at you. Tall enough even on two feet that you barley had to raise your arms to run your fingers through his fur. He seemed insistent about something as he nudged you again before you shook out head out of its spin. Narrowing your eyes at the direwolf, “What’s gotten into you, huh?” Whined again as you ran a hand over his ears. “Come, considering I’ve heard to screams to for a Lannister head I assume we’re heading out soon.”

Coming up on the bare bones of the war council’s tent, Robb was sat with Roose Bolton. His blue eyes looking up at you narrowed. You clearly didn’t realize your eyes still tinged with red and a crestfallen expression before you stepped inside. You could guess what this was about. “Still no word?”

Robb watched you still, but you only stepped closer to him on both feet and keeping your attention on the other man. “We’ve sent a dozen ravens. None have returned.”

Arms crossing over your chest you tilted your head with a heavy breath. “There’s no way he thinks we don’t already know, which means he’s trying to hide something.”

Robb finally peeled his eyes from you back to the issue at hand, as Roose nodded in agreement. “There’s an easy way to find that out. My bastard is only a few days from Winterfell, once he captures the castle-”

“Theon has my brothers. If we storm the castle-”

You’re glad Roose seemed to have some confidence, beacuse there was little to be found in either of you. “He wouldn’t dare hurt the boys. They’re his only hope of escaping the North with his head.”

Robb looked up to you, a far away look in your own eye trying to figure out what ever did he think he was going to accomplish with this? What could Balon Greyjoy possibly have said to him that was more important then the over half his life spent with Eddard Stark? Robb’s voice was low as he spoke. “Send word to your son. Any Ironborn who surrender will be allowed to return safely to their homes.”

Raising your eyebrows, you caught on easily to the path behind this thoughts. Bolton looked unconvinced, “A touch of mercy is a virtue, your grace. Too much...”

“Every ironborn with the exception of Theon Greyjoy. He betrayed our cause, he betrayed me and we will hunt him down no matter where he runs.” You didn’t know if your hand was shaking as it rose to run over Robb’s shoulder blade, but it took a lot of focus to pretend like it wasn’t regardless.

Roose nodded as you added, “Ironborn won’t stay locked to the land for long before they need any excuse to leave. They took Winterfell because it was open and Theon wanted it, not because they have any use in staying there. They get an easy offer of life, and they’ll turn on him the minute they hear it.”

“I’ll send word right away.”

Once alone with him, you knew you should tell him, you knew it was important to say it but for once you found yourself unable to deliver the final blow. As he raised his hand to grasp yours, he pulled you down onto his lap. Your hands finding his neck to rest around and him your waist as he leaned in for a kiss. “I want you to keep an eye on the Karstarks.” Meeting his eyes as you pulled back he squeezed your waist tightly, keeping himself rooted in clarity through you. “They’re grieving and angry, and if they take this too personally I can’t have that kind of dissension in my ranks. You have the best eye for that, and I need someone I can trust who won’t mince words.”

Nodding, you could see the struggle in his eyes like the only one he thought he could keep every faith in was you. He had so much on his shoulders from what felt like every corner of the realm and the second something goes wrong out of his control, it all falls to his blame. Stannis didn’t need to take Kings Landing just to turn the tides on this war, he needed to take the Iron Throne if just to give Robb a second to breathe for once.

You opened your mouth to speak, but yet only a sigh came out as you ran your fingers through his hair for a moment. “Most of the first troops are ready to head out, if I leave with them now I can have the scouts up by tomorrow night and we should be hitting them just as Edmure has the Mountains garrison crossed over.”

Robb shook his head, standing you both up, “I’m not sending you alone. Have Olyvar ready my horse, I’ll meet you there before the hour’s up.”

Riding through the night was easy, it was quiet and the only sounds hitting you being the chattering of night above and the trotting of hooves below. Not often anymore did it give you the chance to retreat so much into your mind, but you and Robb both needed that quiet together.

You couldn’t imagine him as such, Theon. Dressed in garb like the Ironborn and spouting their words like he’d always lived by them. You’d grown alongside him watching the surly teenager grow into a man and you couldn’t figure out where that man had went, or if he was never there in the first place. Had he hated the Starks the whole time?

It was the conversation you both had right as you had set out for war, not even crossing past the borders of the North when he brought it up. That Catelyn shouldn’t be treating you like you were not her family, only to bring up your real one. What reasons though, did you have to suspect that he meant it in the manner for himself?

You both had a unique perspective to the other, spent much time in the North without being one in your blood, and both of you had strained, or in Theon’s case non existent, relationships with difficult fathers who never treated you like one. Both had followed Ned Stark and understood the world from his perspective and worked by his side often on the same things.

He knew that you had chosen to go to Robb instead of your father and he tried to broach why you’d do it, maybe shutting down that conversation was a mistake. You knew what being Stannis’s daughter meant, and had you gone to him in the first place you knew what they would make you. Maybe to Theon, it seemed ludicrous to refuse the offer of being a Princess.

If he was Balons last living son, that would in their independence, make him a Prince. Was he really asking you why you would choose against a similar choice because he was already thinking that far beyond? Why swear himself so openly to another King, to someone like a brother to him if he was already considering this new path? The only answers you could come up with, were simply more questions.

What would he understand of such conflict? He wasn’t stuck between two choices from the start, there was nothing from Balon until Theon went to him. He brought the conflict on himself where you had no say in the position. The moment you were thrown in that cell, there was a choice you had to make and between life and death, and when life was chosen you had decide what the family that needed you the most was.

Theon made the wrong choice, and he chose the people that hadn’t known anything about him for so long he returned essentially a stranger. If he were smart, he would surrender with the safety of the boys and accept the justice of his sins. If he were smart.

“You’re going to scare it off.”

The sounds of the flowing water streaming down the river was as loud in your head as it was the memory which followed. It was your last visit to Winterfell before Jon Arryn’s death, over two years ago now but it felt far longer. A life that seemed now to never exist.

You and Theon were crouched down, leaning slightly over a thick tree log that had sat untouched by the riverside. Both with bows in your hand, you had been out there for a number of hours and there was no sign of stopping until he relented.

Close enough that he could whisper in your ear Theon leaned over, “You’re going to scare if off.” Not quite raising your bow, you moved it into position as you eyed the deer. “It’s way too far, you’re not going to nail it and then it’ll take what? Another two hours for you to get a better shot?”

Glaring to the side at his confident face you resisted the urge to shove him over. “I’m not going to miss.”

Raising his eyebrows in a playful jest, he shrugged. Watching you move your arms into position before reaching over to nudge your wrist up slightly. You whipped around to face him, dropping it entirely as you glared at him with a whisper, “I don’t need your help.”

“You’re too high, you’ll barley graze it’s head.”

It had been a number of hours now, the pair of you finding things to shoot at in increasing challenge before he came up with nailing a deer in the eye from such a distance away. Getting on the other’s nerves each time one of you did better then the other, until now as the sun set you both knew he was picking at your stubbornness on purpose. “Going to graze an arrow past your head if you don’t shut up, Greyjoy.”

He turned slightly, his back more resting against the log as you knelt perched forward still. “Knowing you’re aim, you’d have been aiming for my face and missed.” Ignoring him with narrowed eyes forward, you kept your hold on the bow light as you watched the deer kneel its head down to eat. “You can always just admit defeat, there’s no shame in it. Besides the mocking I’ll do ‘till your end of days.”

“And if I hit it?” You turned your head to glance at him with an amused smirk. “What do I get?”

Theon took full advantage of how quiet you were trying to be, knowing any other time you’d shove him right into the lake next to you. “Could think of a few things, pretty girl like you.” Riling you up more he pressed on with a grin you knew was smug as you were too concentrated to argue back, “Find a way to lighten up that attitude of yours real easy. I’ve never seen you with a guy, you’re probably wound up way too tight it’d be easy to get you to relax-”

In an instant, you raised up, drawing your arm back before releasing a shot. Landing it right on target with ease. Theon’s head whipping over to look with a disbelieving, “Shit,” You stood up before him, holding a hand out to yank him up as well as he looked a mix of impressed and shamed for being bested. “I was gonna get you to do all my inventory count.”

Finally, you let out a loud breath of a laugh as you peeled off your gloves finally with your teeth before shoving them in a pocket. “I thought of what my prize is too.” Nodding to the deer with a smirk, “You get to drag that thing back, yourself.”

“Since when did your aim get so damn good, Baratheon?”

You looked back as you walked away, “Maybe you’re just getting worse at it, ever consider that?”

By the time Theon had gotten back, it was obvious he and the river had a bit of an incident trying to get the deer across it, and failed. You and Jon had been perched just outside the walls watching Bran run around with Rickon. The loud slap as he tossed the furs around his shoulder at you was nothing but disappointing to him as it came nowhere near hitting you as he meant.

His face falling flat as the pair of you had a good laugh over it, until that was when Jon turned on you, grabbed you by the arms, holding you back against him as Theon proceeded to dump the contents of his skin of water all over from the top of your head. Lord Stark had come out at that point, seemingly unsure if he should laugh or scold you three for being more childish then the actual children you and Jon had been out there to watch.

Sitting around one of the small fires as you stopped for that night some days later, by morning you’d push onto Harrenhal, and you were far away enough that the men could catch their breathe first. Such days felt so long passed that you could see a different person entirely in them. You laughed, and joked, and still knew how to have fun and now everyday was a crushing pressure that could sent you deep into the earth should you let it.

Coming into your vision were a pair of feet before a body sat down next to you with a groan. “When’s the last time you got any sleep?” Glancing up to see Brynden Tully, you just shrugged looking back into the flames. “Neither of you are very good at that lately, it seems.” Following his eyeline to Robb who was just as tired yet distracted as you were.

“Hard to sleep when your busy chasing ghosts nowadays.” His twisted face seemed to lighten as he relented. The pair of you in quiet for a moment before you felt a twist in your stomach that spilled into your veins, leaving you more on edge as it flowed through you. “The longer the Lannisters hide from us, the more antsy the men are going to get.”

“We’re at war, your grace.” He gestured to the lot of them all around with a casual degree, “They’re going to be antsy until their back at home in their beds or dead in their graves.”

Your forearms rested on your knees as you leaned forward, just how long would either of those be at this point. How much longer could the men hold out on a war that your opponent refuses to fight. “Everything we’ve done, and I know they all look to us, to Robb, like it’s our fault we’re here. They feel like we’re losing, and I don’t know how to change that.”

Brynden leaned in to match your posture, “You can’t.” Glancing up with a raised eyebrow to him. “Most of these men, they aren’t leaders. Their soldiers. They don’t care if we’re winning the war, they want to feel it.” Pointing to Robb your felt that twist in your stomach sting more. “They’ll all blame the King because the Lannisters aren’t here to take their anger out on, but the smart ones know they’re nothing without him.”

Robb had a good mind for warfare, a great one in fact. But the fact of the matter is that war isn’t just bloodshed and battles, it’s a game of strategy and the side that has no patience is the side that starts to loose. He hadn’t lost his patience, but then you saw those like the Karstarks who didn’t know what to do with themselves if they weren’t taking their grief out on the enemy.

“And the ones who don’t figure that out?”

With a darker, partially far away look as you both met eyes, there was a mutual feeling that came to a similar conclusion. You knew it, he knew it, and Robb knew it but what were you trying to do if he sacrificed justice for morale? What were you fighting for if he didn’t lead his men with the values that shape a good man? And which of the discontent ones would be the first to break.

A hand slapped around your shoulder as another large figure sat beside you pulling you more into her side. Bless Maege for not having any issue with treating you with such a casualness when you were deep inside your own head. “I mean no disrespect, your grace, but you look like shit.”

Face twisting into a bemused grimace as you nodded, “Don’t know how I could possible take that as insult.” Two skins were in her hands, as she nodded to the other man with a look almost saying to leave if you weren’t mistaken. Brynden took no offence, as he unbeknownst to you, recognized the look on her face as one he’d seen many times before ‘leave the women to talk’.

Handing you one, Maege nudged “Have a drink,”

If anything was on your side it was the ease in which you just shook your head without a suspicious sort of pause. “Don’t really think that’s going to help at this point.”

Shoving it in your hands regardless, Maege bit open the cap of her own. “It’s not supposed to help, it’s supposed to trick you into thinking it’ll make you feel better when all you do is feel worse. Besides, yours is full of water, don’t worry.”

Opening it slowly, you peered inside and when finding no scent you took a good sip, the water feeling soothing as it ran gently down your throat. The unsaid words along them having burned you up on the inside for almost two days now. “Been a real shit few days, hasn’t it?”

Maege laughed, giving you a pat on the back as she did so. “Hasn’t been the best, but none of these fuckers have a clue what leading an army is like. They wanna kill something, good for them, that’s not gonna change even if we do get a fight. They’ll be hot for a night or two and then get that same itch, as long as we’re out here.”

Shrugging one shoulder you glanced to her, “What about you?”

Her expression was light, looking around the camp. “Doesn’t matter how I feel. We chose him to lead us, we chose you to lead us and my opinion ends there. King in the North says we jump into a fight, we fight. He says we stand back and draw them out quiet, then we do that.”

Pointing to the Karstarks she leaned into your side a tad quieter, “Either they smarten up, or they don’t but none of this shit is up to them. What the King does isn’t up for debate.”

You bit your tongue, taking another sip after to soothe the sharpness in your own mouth now. “No, it’s not. At least with what they’re arguing about. I’m pissed, furious at what she did but it’s not her fault that Torrhen was killed by the Kingslayer and I don’t think he has any clue how this is all making him look.”

Maege shrugged, “Aye. I can sympathize with what she did, really, and I know you can too. We’re mothers afterall, but that also means you and I know it’s not such an open and shut crime.”

It took you a moment, nodding absently before you felt a shiver run down your spine. Your hands tensed as they sat in front of you as your eyes flickered just enough to the side to see her leaning towards you. “I’ve had five of my own, your grace. I know what that expression you’ve been walking around with is saying. Or not saying.” Nodding subtlety to Robb she asked, “He doesn’t know?”

Your head hung down, a wave of strong crushing guilt slamming you in your heart all at once as it biled up towards your throat. You shook your head no, and Maege in a quiet tone, one softer and fair more consoling asked why.

You shrugged as a fake laugh made it’s way to your face. “Look around you, look what he’s been dealing with? Everyone’s fucked him over one way or another, he’s carrying this war all on his own and now his own mother’s betrayed him. You think he needs me adding that onto his shoulders?”

Her voice was still quiet but strict, her words slow and separate like enunciating a lecture to that of a child. “You are not a burden to that man. You wanna know what we all see?”

When you didn’t answer, she took it as a yes anyways. “He’s so in love with you it’s almost disgusting if it weren’t also so fucking endearing.” The taken back look on your face must have been something because she laughed heartily at however you just reacted. “He doesn’t just call you his Queen, he treats you like one. Looking for any excuse to have a hand on you in any way, kiss you just out in the open like he doesn’t care. Probably because he doesn’t.”

You didn’t have the bravery to look up at him, not just yet but she wasn’t done, “And it’s not just him. You might be the most tense, on edge person in this whole army but the second you look at him, you’re like a puppy.”

Flickering up to quickly glance, you felt your heart sink at the sight of him standing tall and powerful like he was. “Ah, see? That look there, the one on your face right now.”

Flattening it out quickly, you at up and took another drink, wiping the droplets off with the back of your hand. “We’re at war, we’re out in the middle of the West fighting the Lannisters and he needs a firm hand at his side not another thing to worry about.”

Maege looked at you for a good long while. Leaning forward, she took a sip of her own before inhaling deeply. “Do you know why the Mormonts have been so loyal the Starks as long as we have?”

Raising your eyebrow you dryly responded, “Because the alternative is breaking your oath?”

Smiling to herself, you looked up as she was almost lost in her own memory. “The King’s protective of you a lot, he lets it sit right on his face and in his actions how protective he is. All them Starks are really, real pack animals that defend their own. We’re not to different to that. We’d do anything to keep our own safe and damned what comes in the way of that we find a way to deal with it.”

Her eyes glancing to where you both knew Lady Catelyn was, “Even if protecting his own means going against others to do it. He’s not just pissed at what she did, he’s lost too much already and risking our position? Causing this shit in the camp? That just puts you in danger, and you’re the one thing the King has left and he’s desperate to protect it. You’re not a burden, your grace, you’re keeping a man together who think’s hes got nothing left.”

“Sounds like you know what it’s like.”

She shrugged, leaning back as the stress in your shoulders lightened a bit. “Sort of, I know what it’s like to have your family betrayed by one of your own.” Your eyes squinted as you thought to those early days in King’s Landing, “You know about my nephew? Jorah?”

“I know he ran off to Essos, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Her face twisting for a moment as she clearly recalled it. “It was all before you were born, but basically Jorah found himself a wife none of us liked, then when she got too expensive for him he racked himself up in serious debt. So how does he pay it back?” She huffed a bitter laugh. “Of all the crimes he could have committed he starts to trade slaves. Nothing gets him the money to pay off like the lives of innocent human beings, right?”

Gesturing lightly to Robb she continued, “It was Ned Stark who ordered it. Called him a traitor for committing one of the more reprehensible crimes the North ever outlawed, and sentenced him to death. No trial, no question, just called for his execution. You know what we did?”

She looked to her King once more, “We accepted it. Sure it hurt to hear, but not for a second did any of us stand there and argue with him over it. He disgraced himself and what else was there to do but trust in Ned Stark’s judgment? Didn’t make it easier, but we knew losing out shit would only make it worse.”

You looked up to the Karstarks before asking, “What did everyone else think, your men?”

“It wasn’t their business. It’s our family and it wasn’t our place to argue with Stark over it, and so it sure as hell wasn’t anyone elses business how we handled it. Honestly, I think if Jorah just faced his sentence like man maybe it wouldn’t have taken us so long to get our shit together again. Instead he ran off like a coward and now we all have to live with the fact that to everyone else it looked like we just let him get away.” Her eyes squinted as she shook her head to herself.

Being blamed for a crime you had no control over by a member of your own family, you looked up to Robb and yes, you thought. You do get why she hasn’t changed her opinion of it at all. “How’d you deal with it? At the time I mean, after he fled.”

Whistling in dismay she took a drink. “My brother always said I was the one with the temper, but let me tell you I’ve never seen that old fucker more angry then the day he found out Jorah fled to Essos. Fuck I had to be the one to give him the news, went all the way up North just to tell him what I knew would make him lose it.”

Your eyes narrowed in question, “Up North?” Considering where Bear Island was in your memory you came up short as to where this all would’ve taken place.

“Brother’s up at the wall. He gave up his seat and everything to join them and give his boy his chance as Lord, so you can image how mad the was to learn his son threw away everything he passed to him personally.” Given the temper you’d seen on Maege, you could only dream of what those day’s looked like. “It gets easier, you get used to the bad shit and you move on. You and him will move on from it as well.” Nodding to Robb.

For a minute or so you were quiet, a tiny voice telling you to ask and you found yourself vulnerable enough to let it overtake your logic of silence. “How’s he doing? Your brother?”

She smiled, a real smile. “That old bear’s Lord Commander now. So safe to say he’s doing well for himself. We kept in touch in the first few months of this shit, told him what’s happening and to pass that all onto the King’s brother.”

There was nothing to press on there, her brother was Lord Commander and so he passed details of what happened over to Jon. But as you looked up at Robb, part of you thought to yourself that he shouldn’t have to only have you to trust. His best friend, his brother, he should've had the chance to be here too.

It’s not fair Robb only has you now. The other man who was at his side betrayed him and it wasn’t fair because the one person who you know would stand by him better then you ever could was as far way as the brothers could be from the other.

“He has Jorah’s sword now.” You whipper your head to look at her totally confused as she nodded to Robb. “His brother. That’s why I was up there in the first place, Jorah had the decency to leave behind the family sword. Fancy thing, Valyrian steel. Longclaw we call it, been in the Mormont’s family for five centuries and for over twenty years it just sat at the wall mocking my brother.”

“But, then this dark haired Snow comes along and for the first time that fucker finally had a real emotion for once. Had the bear head hilt remade and everything. Carved it to look like one of those direwolves and gave it to Ned’s own boy. Funny how all this shit works out.”

You paused as you looked to the ground, like you could see the hilt in your mind, like somewhere in the mess of dreams that kept you lost at night, you’d seen a sword, the hilt with a white wolf and red eyes and suddenly for the first time in a long time, you almost lost yourself in thinking of how much you missed him. Only broken by Maege before it got too far.

“Anyways, you got me way off track, I came over here to tell you, to do him a favour and be the one scrap of good news that he hasn’t had in weeks.”

Not giving you a second to think, she stood up and nudged you away from her direction as you paused to turn around with a bewildered but amused look, “I’m sorry Mormont, did you just shove your Queen?”

“Please, the King’s about to do a hell of a lot more then just that in a few minutes.”

You’d feel flustered, but the closer you got and the louder the voices became from Robb and Roose, you lost any single sense of that courage. It all ran right out the window, “We should set the siege lines a thousand yards from Harrenhal.”

What were you supposed to do, come to him and distract from a tactical move he’d been planning in depth and so close to it? You weren’t beside him to distract him, you needed to be his support because none else would. Stepping to them you were noticeably distant, something almost high strung about you that set the air around you on edge.

“They won’t be able to hold a siege, not in a ruin like that. If the Mountain’s still garrisoned there, he doesn’t have enough fortification to withstand a siege.” Robb eyed you, something far away in his own gaze that you tried very hard to ignore.

His own voice was rough, like the stress was eating away at him on the inside. “The Lannisters have been running from us since Oxcross, the only way we get them to fight is to push them into one and they can’t do that in a castle that’s barley standing.”

Roose glancing to the pair of you, almost as if he hesitated to voice his thought before giving up and speaking anyways. “The men need a fight.”

Your eyes were sharp as they cut to him, “And they’ll get one when the Lannisters finally decide to give us one.”

What a fight it wouldn’t be. The sun shining over the forever smouldering castle ruins, there was nothing of Lannisters left in there, nothing behind but your own dead. The lot of you arriving in, something felt noticeably wrong. Dead Northmen and yet no single sign of the enemy and not even an inkling that they had drawn forward where Edmure was to lure them in. No, it was like they had just packed up and left.

Turning in place, the sights were ghastly. Blood of the dead, and the burning and rot of those there much longer, ones that weren’t soldiers or any kind but people. Your heart raced and your stomach twisted as you walked towards a pile of men slaughtered like sheep. Had this truly been the first time you’d faced this in months? Had it always looked this morose or were you just naive enough to think a bloodbath would be kinder then this when it wasn’t done by you.

Your gloves sticky as you peeled back the sigil sewn into the men, the flies buzzing around them spoke of a fight that took place too long ago to add up, how long had they been gone? An eagle spread over what looked like a dark field on their persons had you narrow your eyes.

Standing up, you could hear Lord Karstark in the background. “They rot in the ground while their killer runs free?”

You eyed the bodies burned and hanged so black they were like charcoal, the clothes of commoners still hanging off their remains so far burned there was nothing like flesh and meat for the insects to bite into. “The Kingslayer won’t remain free for long. My best hunters are after him.”

Catelyn from where she stood identified what you had as well, “My fathers bannermen.”

Your eyes shifted to Brynden, a tilt of your head in a dark curiosity that had him eyeing the dead with his own judgments in silence. You had been chasing ghosts, but this was not the nothing that was normally left behind for you. This was the remains of a battle you’d missed that had no place in Robb’s strategy.

Turning to his men, Robb indicated towards his mother. “Find her a chamber that will serve as a cell.”

Your eyes drifted before he could catch yours, making your way to a number Umbers clearing out a space below those hanging. “Let me.” Men nodding, as you climbed up multiple crates stacked, balancing carefully to cut down the bodies as they dropped to the ground with little resistance from the rope.

Your hands on your hips as you glanced to the others. “Start bringing down the rest of them I’m not leaving them all to hang for their loved ones to find.”

From what you could see there were at least twenty old ones, and maybe eleven more fresh that still held a burning scent if you got too close. You had been cutting down another pair, some smaller then the rest as your stomach begged you pay no mind to the size. The faces as unrecognizable as the anxiety in your stomach.

Others had begun to care for the dead soldiers around the court as some had names to identify, others had to be made note of their sigil and passed on. Blood weighed heavily in your nose and thick on your tongue, no solace was found in such a task but at least you’d find some use. It was some time later when Roose Bolton came to your side, “Your grace.” Nodding to him you both looked to the scene for a moment, a conclusion that seemed to come to his as well and no doubt had hit Robb.

“We’re waiting on word from Riverrun and Kings Landing.” You nodded, carefully trying to pull the leather from your hands without completely soaking the skin underneath. The attempt was fruitless.

Your voice was tight and rigid as you spoke. “The men you have, looking for the Kingslayer.” You ran your teeth over your tongue in a sting before you shook off the twisting and churning in your stomach. “You trust their loyalty as much as their skill?”

A curious look in his eye, “I do.”

“Good. Because if they catch him, he’ll offer whatever he can to walk free and neither me nor the King have the time for that.” You watched the half smile on his face as his eyes did not match the motion.

His chuckle didn’t either. “I assure you, your grace they have their orders and they’ll do whatever they can to follow them. They know the punishment for disobeying a command.”

Your eyes narrowed at him, he seemed off to you, but it was difficult to place where that was coming from. A suspicion ran through you like something you hadn’t pinned was running through your own mind. “If I may say, your grace. It seems like you’re more on edge then usual.”

Your look was harsh as it was blank as your arms crossed your chest. “I think all of us are more then agitated at this point. Some more then others.”

Whatever it was you were trying to find in the other just wouldn’t come out, but you had no question that there was something he wasn’t saying just as you were. Only the thing you weren’t saying couldn’t have possibly lived in the same area as what he could be ruminating on.

The ruins of Harrenhal were not what you had imagined. A great castle encased by a never ending smoulder that left it haunting and cursed with the dead burned alive inside. Only as you walked through the echoing halls, even as the darkness swooped over the sky, you felt nothing of it. Standing at it’s best, you could envision a mighty fortress. A hundred thousand men marching on these walls and a hundred thousand men would be repelled, now it was a place fought over to be ignored.

On a ledge overlooking one of the courtyards, the space ran as a bridge between once massive structures with carved arches in acting like windows. One foot resting up on the incline as you leaned back against the stone the other foot planted firmly on the ground as you looked high to the night.

Stars were bright, shining and the moon not yet full but bright as ever. No distracting red to shine with an ominous glow, no clouds looming over to pour down over the blood soaked grounds, just the yell of men below and the cawing of birds in the night above.

Maybe you could find the strength to prey to the gods, ask them to spare your sins and turn you into a bird and find a place to live out in painless quiet. You’ve heard Highgarden is beautiful in the summer.

Looking over the raven scroll once more you wanted to scrunch it up and toss it to the wind. Tywin Lannister was now stationed in Kings Landing as proper Hand of the King, the city still stands and Stannis Baratheons fleet suffered a great loss. Just as they were minutes from breaching the gates, coming up behind them in a last minute attempt were Tywins forces backed by that of the remaining Tyrells. Pushing what was left back to the sea.

A sea that burned, the hellscape this very castle is spoken so commonly of was actually that of the Blackwater Bay. Tyrion Lannister had set the water on fire, or more accurately, wildfire. A substance you heard much about, yet never had seen of your own eyes. Bright and green that burned so hot it could not be even stood next to without feeling it’s effects.

Created by the Targaryeans as the last of their dragons died to keep their fire and blood as true words to oppress with. The absence of any life in the West made sense now, they had moved to push on King’s Landing, because they were not drawn in on the other side.

The Riverlands did not draw the Mountain and his troops out, instead they were pushed back enough to give them all time to turn around and make a rescue of their captiol. Many thousands had died in the firestorm of the sea, and no words except that of Stannis himself spoke of any life. None other you knew from your life on Dragonstone had any mention and perhaps you didn’t have the right to it.

That wasn’t the only news though. No it continued to get worse. Roose Bolton’s bastard had gotten to Winterfell and there was nothing left. Just as your own troops had found. A torched castle with scours of a massacre left behind. Bran and Rickon weren’t found, and word from the men there seemed to speculate they were dead.

You could dream, but there were no demands, no rumour of them as a hostage and nothing of the Ironborn were that of kidnappers. Bran was around Shireen’s age, he didn’t even have the chance of life that could’ve meant much. Rickon was six, how much of this war did he even truly understand? No words of their wolves sighted either.

Six Stark children, and only four of them remained, as six direwolves and perhaps only three remained as well. As if he could hear you think, Grey Wind approached you with a nudge to your abdomen. He huffed resting his head there satisfied when you rested a hand over his head scratching his ears. You’d seen this beast rip the hearts of men from their still beating chests and bear battle with his master stained with blood. Yet now he lay across you, no more then a large dog.

The world saw fit to make the wolves stand alone in this world. But Stags? How long had they even lasted? Two were dead, and the third stands against the forth. Somewhere across King’s Landing you had known of Robert’s bastards and yet they were all as alone as the last of you.

Only, as Grey Wind looked up at you, your stomach twisted and suddenly were filled with the blackness of lightheaded sensations. Moving to pull your leg over the bend, you wavered as you stood up. One hand pressing against the stone wall as your eyes closed and a low rumble came from the large direwolf next to you. Nipping at the edge of your shirt he pulled you away from the window as you opened your eyes in shock. “Alright, alright.”

Looking at the dark eyes staring up at you, you ran a hand over his face. Some comfort finding itself nestling in the pit of your stomach as you did so. Nodding your head at him to the side, he turned on a dime and walked you through the halls of ruin.

Coming into the door, you quietly shut it behind you as Grey Wind slipped in. Robb sat on the edge of a bed, elbows on his knees with his head in his hands. Your heart yearning for the possibility of healing his with no hope behind such a wish. You were slow as you approached, saying nothing before coming to kneel before him. Raising his head, the redness was already passing and his eyes were the remnants of what was once tears.

You hesitated to reach out to him, this was a raw offence he did not deserve. His youngest brothers by what was once a brother to him. Your face was as fallen as it had been much of the day, only now you had to try and be the one there for him regardless. “If I ever see him again, he’d better be thankful that all I’ll do his take his head. Bran can’t walk, Rickon was six what does he think he’s proving to anyone by murdering two boys who can’t even hope to fight back?”

There was a choke in his tone that wanted to yell or cry but had no more tempered energy to do either one. Finding his eyes, you tried to kneel as straight postured as you could, keeping the shaking of your lungs to yourself. “He wasn’t trying to prove anything to anyone but himself. They found all the ravens dead, he tried to hide this.”

Robb sighed out, his hands falling to rest along his thighs as they curled into fists. “He knew Bran and Rickon their entire lives, they’ve known him their entire lives. They saw him like a brother,”

Catching his eyes, he finally looked into yours properly before closing them again. His exhale much shakier this time. “The Lannisters take half my family from me, and now Theon kills the other half. What am I even left with?” Opening once more he looked to you, a plead for answers in his eyes while his fists tightened in the rage of not having any control.

“Robb,” You started, a breathy whisper before he reached up suddenly. His hand finding the back of your head as he leaned to press your foreheads together. His breathe hot on your skin as he spoke.

“My own mother betrayed my trust behind my back, the only brother I even have left?” His jaw clenched as your hands gently found the courage to dance lightly across the part of his chest exposed to the air. “I let him vow himself to the end of the world because I wasn’t brave enough to stand up for what he deserved. I think the only one I have left anymore is you.”

One of your thumbs trailed over his jaw, as your heart raced. Pushing the images and memories of the other back down deep for Robb’s sake. You couldn’t keep this from him anymore, it was cruel. You didn’t breathe an inch as you spoke, “My love, you have more then just me. I promise.” With nothing but nerves and anxiety racing inside you, you gently opened the tight fist in his lap still, running your fingers along his until he could feel his tensity loosening.

Robb thought you were trying to hold his hand, his brow furrowing when you took it and pulled it off his lap. Barley able to hear you as your own voice was so small, so unsure of yourself as you moved his hand to brush lightly under your shirt over your stomach. “You have us.”

It took him a moment to even register what you had done, pausing before turning to look down at where you held his wrist that brushed over the sliver of bare stomach. “Us?” His eyes were bright as he whipped his head up to look at you, almost confused for a moment as you could see it all hit him.

The nerves in your head ready to make you pass out as he looked back down. “You- you’re really?”

Suddenly in his own mind, Robb put it together. The sudden distance in yourself that begun not long after you returned to the camp, the way you kept away from him and then compounding of everyone having found a way to wrong him and he felt angry. Angry that he had given you the slightest idea that he’d be unhappy with you, that he hadn’t paid more attention.

The way you hadn’t been quite yourself, more needing of physical touch then normal to the point you even commented. You stared at him, for once too scared to try and read past his narrowed eyes and lips parted in shock as he suddenly sat up, grabbing you and hauling you into his arms and straddling his lap as he buried your face in his neck.

He huffed out a laugh in disbelief, before letting out another. More came turning into a laugh of joy before pulling back long enough to press a kiss to your lips. Barley leaving them to speak softly, “My girl,” a smile a real smile that had barley been on his face in weeks painted over, “My perfect girl.”

Pulling you back into another kiss, passion exploding in your mouth as you held the sides of his face as you tried not to let tears fall from them. You failed. Robb sat you on him back a little, one hand on your waist as the other ran over your stomach, “Why would you keep this from me? Why would you think I didn’t want to know about this?”

Your chest rose with a bile that you didn’t want to form into a sob. Swallowing hard the tears did not give such an obey of order. He touched and looked at you so softly, you’d cry if you tried explaining yourself in full. All that came out as like a confession of a misbehaving little girl you once were, “I thought you’d be mad,”

His hand now smoothed over your stomach firmer, thumb running back and forth as he narrowed his eyes in guilt. “Mad? At what for giving me the one thing I’ve dreamt of having with you for two years now?”

Resting now on his shoulders, you held all the sadness for the both of you. “We’re at war, we have no idea when we’ll not be, the last thing you need-”

Your name came out surprisingly stern from Robb’s lips. “Look at me.” Moving to keep your face looking right at his with a warm hand on your cheek. “War or not, you’re my wife, the love of my life. Do not think for one second, that you haven’t just given me the happiest news of my life. War or not, it’s you and me. It’s us,” His hand running over your stomach, “Now and always.”

You wanted to say something back, anything that would return the love but all that came to mind was tears and the relief that he wanted this, he wanted this and through all of the noise inside your head? All you could do was wrap your arms around him back as he kept one of his around you and the other pressed against your stomach.

It had been a long time in this war since you’d thought about what you genuinely wanted, but right here in Robb’s touch you found that answer. This, you wanted this. His voice was deep and the wavering of his was heard over the other clear distinction of a smile. “I hope you like being with child, my queen, because we have a whole list of names to get through.”

The laugh you let out was choked in a sob that he yet was thrilled enough to make him laugh. “How about we have this one first, then we can go from there?”

Robb pulled back, running his nose along the length of yours. “Oh no you’re not getting off that easy. You should know by now, there’s nothing a wolf wants then to see his mate with a whole litter of pups.”

Your eyes crinkled in a mock protest before he kissed you again, rough but quick. “You’re that confident?”

He shrugged as you both grinned, barley leaving the other enough to not feel your breath on your faces as he jested. “My mother had five children and I don’t even think they were trying for that many.” Robb turned his next kiss more sultry. Moving your jaw to the perfect angle to bite at your lip before kissing you with a greed and a tone in his voice that made you shiver. “Me on the other hand, maybe I’ll just keep you pregnant long as I can. Help my perfect little wife make us a perfect not so little family.”

Turning you to lay you out flat on the bed, Robb pulled your shirt up and off, giving him free reign to run his hands and lips over your stomach. “May as well start now,” Crawling up the length of your body until he caged you in hovering over you. His lips brushing against yours in a soft tease, “No harm in practising for later, right?”

Nodding, you reached up to run your fingers through his curls as he consumed you with his kiss. All biting your lips until they were red and swollen before licking his way into your mouth. Pulling away suddenly, leaving a trail of saliva to snap between you as he yanked off his own shirt before moving to impatiently pull yours until you lay bare beneath him.

Your heart raced and your blood burned as he reached for the laces of his breeches only to catch your eye, the hunger in his must have matched what you felt in yours as he then knelt straighter up. Looking at you with an eyebrow raised as he ran a hand over your jaw, “Show me how a good girl treats her King.”

You’d collapse if you weren’t already laying down, a dizziness hitting you as you kept your eyes up on Robb, his blue eyes were as dark as the sky beyond his window. It wasn’t fair how easily he had you at his mercy, how much you wanted to be. Pulling the material down his legs until they reached where he sat on his knees, you braced your palms on his thighs before Robb tsked. Running hand through your hair before finally moving to lay you back down.

Standing, he yanked them the rest of the way off standing bare to you as your thighs clenched together at how thick and heavy his cock was. Coming to sit on the bed beside you, he reached one hand to gently slide between your legs and push a space for his hand. Fingers brushing your clit before gently running over it with a slightly firmer pressure.

“I’ve been a bad husband,” You opened your mouth to speak but he shook his head. “You’ve been upset, and I didn’t even pay enough attention to notice what was wrong.” Trailing down to run along your soaked entrance before sliding back up to your clit in a teasing pattern. “You’ve stood beside everything I’ve said and done, always supported my decisions, but I haven’t been there to take care of you back.”

This time you found your voice, stammering part way through as he slid a finger deep inside of you, “Robb you do take care of- me, fuck,” A gasp making you breathe out the rest in moan trying to hold back. “I don’t need you to be anything but exactly who you are.”

Head thrown back as he slowly slid his finger out before pressing a second in deep to the knuckle, his other hand running along your forehead to move your hair gently off it. “You don’t deserve to be pregnant in the middle of a war, so far from our home.” His thumb running tightly over your clit as your stomach muscles seized at the pleasure growing within. “I should be taking you in our bed, not having you on the battlefield where I can’t promise your safety.”

Your head felt as if it were sinking slowly underwater as your core screamed at you in addictive pressure. Reaching up, you grasped the wrist close to your head, running your thumb along his pulse as Robb picked up the speed of his fingers. “I, fuck, I belong wherever you are.” Robb’s chest rose and fell faster as he felt how wet and tightly you were clenching around him.

Moving to press his lips against yours you wrapped an arm around his neck and into his hair once more. “You stay by my side now, no matter what. We don’t leave the other,” His tone warm and yet a bit possessive as he bit at your lips to gain entrance to your mouth, his hand adding a third to make you whine as his palm rubbed against your clit roughly. Your thighs tense and shaking but just as he wanted, you kept them nice and wide.

Your breathe almost in needing high pitched pants when Robb pulled back, a smile on your lips that Robb could’ve melted at the sight of. You clenched around him and he could feel the pressure building inside you even despite your words. “From this day until our last day,”

Just as Robb ran a hand over the top of your head, he pressed his forehead to yours with gentle shushes as you felt your orgasm shatter. Throwing you off the cliff into the waters below with no warning as his touch kept you from arching right off the sheets. You burned and almost could cry at the waves swimming inside you as he slowly pumped his fingers until your cries turned into unspoken begs of mercy.

Giving no time, Robb kept them inside you as he kissed you again, “Turn over, my love.”

Only sliding out as he climbed behind you, not giving you the chance to get onto your hands and knees properly before sitting on his heels, pressing your back against his chest as he moved your hair. Leaving sloppy kisses down your neck as he slid his cock between your legs, running along the teasing entrance with your hands wrapping behind you. “Robb, please,”

With one hand on your hip, he spread the other wide across your stomach as he breathed heavily into your ear. “If only those men could see what perfect, needy little whore their pretty queen is.” You whined as he pressed his cock to tease more firmly against you. “It won’t take long, they’ll see how well their king fucks his queen soon enough.” Letting one of your hands fall to cover his on your stomach Robb grunted before sliding his cock inside of you. As he so loved to overwhelm you, he sunk as deep as he could go in one smooth thrust.

Pulling a cry from your lips and a growling of swearing from him as he dropped his face more into your neck. Slowly, Robb fucked up into you. Barley giving much force as he drew his cock out and pushed back in so slow that the sound of how wet you were around him was obscene. “Fuck, anyone’d fight a war just for a chance at this cunt, kill whoever it took just to be able to feel how soaked you are around their cock.”

His teeth leaving nibbles and his facial hair rubbing the sensitive marks raw and red as he moved his lips up and down. “Good thing I’m yours then, right?” You wanted to sound sultry but you couldn’t get through the words without almost breaking with a moan.

Robb so thick inside of you, the stretch was a sting you never knew could be so perfect. He slid his cock inside of you so smoothly without ever picking the pace up. Every vein and ridge of his cock pressing against the sensitive wall inside of you that had tears creeping out.

The hand on your waist moved, wrapping to force your face to turn to the side and let him capture your lips. His tongue meeting yours as gently and slowly exploring as his cock fucked you like maybe the world around you would stop as long as you two were intertwined. Only pulling from your lips long enough to slur out, his voice thick and accent strong as anything like he was to deep in how you felt around his cock to care if he was intelligible. “I love you, gods I love you.”

You tried so desperately to say it back, but it was like he teased you by kissing you harder each time or fucking you deeply to tear a gasp from your throat. He smirked when you whined his name and laughed as he could see your brows furrowing when he kissed you again.

Bodies covered in sweat, the coiling in your stomach build slowly as he took his time with you. Never speeding up, and always covering part of you with his hands, kiss, tongue, teeth and never letting go of your stomach. Instead choosing to press your hand down against the skin so he could rest it on top with his much larger hand consuming yours.

Your orgasm is what had the tears rolling down, it was slow and not wild like fire but a slow consumption that took your body into the flames limb by limb before you were engulfed. Your chest felt like it was floating and your head in the clouds as Robb fucked you all the same through it before he followed. Cock buried deep as he came warm and thick into you, pressing his lips to yours as you finally found a chance to mutter out, “I love you, Robb, I truly do.”

His muscles ached as he spilled inside of you before resting his face in your neck as you both slowly started to come down. “You don’t leave my side, either of you.” His hands now both running over your stomach as he knelt you more towards the bed.

Robb turned you in his arms to face you, one hand running over your hip and stomach while he switched between looking at your eyes and below once more. You snuggled as much as you could into his chest, Robb running his nose along your hair as you pressed into his neck.

Tomorrow, you’d have a funeral to begin leaving for, but maybe as cruel as it was, one life was given up for the other. His grandfather’s life leaving to join the gods, so that you and Robb still on the plains of the living could bring a new life together.

A few name ideas for boys rolled around in his head, but he worried not. Robb would share enough children with you to honour all of them. He’d make sure of it just as much as he could see in the hope in your eyes, that you too, wanted all of it.

It didn’t just startle Jon, it almost horrified him. His conscious mind desperate to justify his actions, fighting between telling himself what he knew was true, versus what he was lying to himself about to cope with the reality.

If he didn’t think about it, he could ignore how this was supposed to be with you. He could pretend that it didn’t matter how this played out, or lie to himself and say it felt good because he wanted it. The alternative outside the walls of the cave was death, prove your worth or die and this was the path chosen for him to do so.

As long as it felt good and he lied to himself, Jon could pretend as if he was fine with it. Until the image of you, dragging a hand to your stomach flashed before his eyes. The gentle brush of fingers against a stomach that he somehow knew was pregnant and he flushed with how clearly Ygritte thought such a physical response was for her.

Jon could feel his hand against your stomach, and he could see a dream of a baby. Eyes coloured just as yours but the hair was dark and curls that he knew all too well on himself. Let him think it was for her, and maybe Jon would get through this and just accept that lie as truth.

But Jon could see the child in his mind, the swell in your stomach and your breathless needy sigh in his ear that had been his only source of comfort in the rough beds at the wall. He could see all of it, and he felt shamed that on the other side of you, he could only envision himself, not the brother he knew it really was all for.

Jon could pretend he wanted this, when he knew the opposite was true, that he didn’t send his only protection left away at her demand. He could pretend that she was just like you when the opposites were the reality, and Jon would lie to himself as long as she was with him that he did want it.

Lying to himself about this was easier then admitting the truth, he was a grown man, he shouldn’t get to tell himself that he was forced into it. He should be better then that, and yet the only thought that kept Jon from cracking that resolve and leaving him broken, was the image of you with a child that should have been his.

The image of a pregnant wife that looked nothing like the wildling girl who acted as if such a role belonged to her. The need in the sounds in his head that belonged to you when they were being given to his brother.

He told you to love him, he wanted you to love him. But in this cave, Jon found no solace in the forced pleasure his body was having that you willing shared with his brother. His mind wasn’t settled and it burned him harder each time he could see the woman he was with.

Jon did this beacuse he had no choice, and he would lie to himself about not being forced into it for as long as he needed to to handle such a truth. But Jon couldn’t hide from himself, that every time he saw you as he touched the wildling girl, it fed her delusion of what she was to him. She forced him into it, and pretended as if his pleasure was the only consent she needed. You never did and never would force him into a single thing if you thought he doubted or hesitated in wanting. You respected him like none ever did or still does.

And it fed the pain that made Jon want to scream. This didn’t belong to her. It belonged to you.

#jon snow x reader #robb stark x reader #jon snow #robb stark #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #jon snow x you #robb stark x you #jon snow imagine #robb stark imagine #game of thrones imagine

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preciouslandmermaid · 2 years

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cold heart, warm hands (simon “ghost” riley x f!reader) - part 2/2

Hi, welcome to part two. My name’s blue. I’ll be your author this evening. Please stay seated for the entire presentation. Thank you. (and yes, I know ~canon~ says Ghost changes his mask at the end of the campaign but I don’t care!!! I like how much you can see his eyes! I like the paint/fabric peeling!)

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader!Assassin

Rating: Mature/Explicit (18+)

Fic warnings: Smut! (p in v, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, m!oral receiving, switch!ghost b/c i wanted to make him whiiimper, slight choking kink/some roughness, knife kink if u squint, lots of eye contact) sparring and knives as a form of foreplay, a smidge of jealous!ghost with a sprinkle of yearning. no beta/barely edited, i wrote this in 3 days.

No use of Y/N. Reader is described as muscular/toned with scars from active combat/torture, though no other descriptors are used.

Summary: It’s been three months since Ghost handed you off at the border to your American contacts. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d see you again. And then you waltz into the barracks, smiling, with Price announcing you’re joining the task force.

READ ON AO3 || 🔪🔪🔪

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Three Months Later…

He’s thought about his time with you on the fringes of St. Petersburg more than he cares to admit. The extraction took longer than planned after your insane plan to crash the snowmobile and fake your death. Or at least the death of the woman you were pretending to be for the past three years. He recalls your face awash in flickering, orange light and gripping that shiny, golden necklace. He doesn’t know its meaning. You left it behind intentionally. And your tone darkened whenever you mentioned Petrovich–your target, your mark, the man who left at least one scar (that he knew about) on your firm, muscled body.

When you left, your smile was radiant and grateful. The details of whatever you endured undercover he could only assume. He imagines it meant something to destroy your persona before leaving. A sense of closure, perhaps? Or a sense of control? He doesn’t know. And he’ll never ask. He thinks you’d roll your eyes at him if he did. He remembers the color of your eyes. And surprises himself with the memory of your laughter.

So, yeah. He thinks of you. Often. He does his best to push it to the sidelines.

He’s no good to anyone acting like a fool, acting like you were ever going to cross paths again. He had his task force. And you worked for intelligence agencies, focusing on espionage and covert operations. Your worlds weren’t going to intersect. You’re a spy for Christ’s sake. He’s sure the CIA is eager to drop you into your next life, your next persona, your next target. Ghost numbly shakes his head to himself and joins the others.

They’re all gathered in the training room to run drills. Ghost runs it. He puts them through the usual bout. There’s cardio, strength, and seeing how fast they can dismantle and rebuild their weapons. It’s going swimmingly until Price enters. Not because he says anything, or stops them, but because of who is following him.

His heart slams into his boots in a freefall. No parachute. No survivors. You smile warmly and make introductions as Price explains you’re the newest recruit (technically you’re on temporary loan for an upcoming mission in Spain). He’s never been gladder to stand outside the circle while his teammates crowd you.

They’re all mooning after you. Pitiful sods.

Yeah, yeah, you’re fucking fit. You’ve got a nice smile and you’re wearing a white tank that shows off the toned, defined musculature of your arms and shoulders and your collection of scars. But they’ve never huddled next to you in a snowstorm under a snow-packed shelter. They’ve never seen your eyes squint when it was your turn to collect kindling. They don’t know you mutter in your sleep. They don’t know you twirl something (usually your knife) between your hands when you’re thinking with your eyes dewy and distant. He doubts they know about your past and how your codename “volchitsa” - or she-wolf - was given because of your inclination to bite people during training.

“Sparring?” Your voice perks up. “I’m afraid I’d wipe the floor with you.” You settle your hand on your hip and ooze with easy, warm confidence. Whatever ghosts and shackles that weighed you down in Russia are gone.

Gaz grins. “I’ll take that bet.”

You stretch your arms over your head and Ghost notices a slip of your exposed midriff.

You ask Price, “is arrogance a prerequisite for the task force?”

Ghost averts his gaze from you, but he can feel your attention on him. He suspects you remember everything from the evac mission as he does. His stomach clenches at the memory of you bathed in firelight, your lips parted and your gaze traveling like an electric livewire across his skin. Fucking hell. He can’t be bothered with this.

“I’ll go easy on you.” Gaz offers before stepping onto the mat. You laugh. It’s the same laugh that has echoed inside his dreams for the past ninety days (not that he’s counting).

You step onto the squishy training mat. Ghost considers leaving for a half-second, but then you slide into a fighting stance, and he’s rooted to his spot. He needs to see how this plays out.

“Aye, give ‘em hell, lass.” Soap says, crossing his arms and grinning.

~~~~~~~

The sweat dripping from your forehead burns your eyes. Your muscles throb with a familiar, tingling strenuous pain. Gaz is a formidable opponent. He’s got stamina, but you’re faster. You’ve managed to either dodge or misdirect his offensive attacks. He hasn’t attempted to go on the defense. And that’s his biggest mistake. One that you intend to make him pay for. You dance backward away from his strike, grinning, and use his barreling momentum against him as your leg collides with a sharp crack along his jaw. Gaz stumbles sideways, cursing, and cradling his mouth.

“First blood.” You announce after noticing his split lip. “I win?”

“Jesus.” He says emphatically to Price, “where’d you find this one?”

“They found me as a baby in a cardboard box outside the CIA.” You joke.

Price chuckles low in his chest, “not far off from the truth.”

“You alright?” You peer at the rosy smudge of blood on his lower lip, “I might have a tissue.” You dig into the pockets of your baggy beige pants.

He brushes you off. “S’alright.”

“Let’s wrap it up,” Price orders. “Debrief in ten minutes.”

There’s a chorus of ‘Yes, sirs’ that you forget to join. You’re not accustomed to the military style of the task force. You’re not familiar with working in a unit. Being a team. Hell, you’ve hardly given yourself time to digest the fact that Ghost, aka Simon Riley, is your superior. He’s the lieutenant. He’s also the man who rescued you from a frozen lake and then stripped you bare to prevent severe hypothermia. You can compartmentalize all of it. You have done so for the past three months. You twist the bottom hem of your shirt between your fists. But it’ll be different, you think, now that he’s in the same room. He is no longer a memory or a fever-induced dream. He’s real. He’s close enough to touch.

While approaching, Ghost says, “that was hardly a clean fight, she-wolf.”

Fuck. You hadn’t realized much you missed the warm and deep droning of his voice, the way it caresses down your spine like a rough, calloused hand. Your pulse flutters in your jaw.

“I wasn’t aware I had to play fair.” You quip. He’s wearing a different mask, a black balaclava with the jaw painted onto the fabric, his eyes visible and surrounded by dark, smudged paint. He never took his mask off when you traveled together. And you never asked him to. You assumed it was for protection, to hide his identity during the mission, but he wore it–even among his teammates. Which meant whatever Riley’s reasons were, they went beyond anonymity. His dark t-shirt stretches across his well-defined chest. If you squint, you think you might be able to count the lines of his abdominal muscles, carving them with your eyes the way someone would carve a cake. Your blood hums with exertion and adrenaline.

You smile easily. “I’m open to a rematch.”

“I mean no disrespect to Gaz, but he’s not a match for you.”

“That sounded suspiciously like a compliment, Ghost.”

“I’ve been known to give them when they’re deserved.” He cocks his head to the side. His eyes, although darkened by the makeup or paint, are easier to perceive than they were in his original mask. His massive, hulking frame consumes every inch of your perception. His eyes are dark and guarded, but they follow the sweat glistening down your neck and pooling between your collarbones. His gaze snaps up to yours.

“Are you a match then?” You ask your tone breathier than intended. “Or am I to be woefully unchallenged in this task force?”

“I might be.” He replies in a cocky, husky tone that makes your heart flutter like a moth’s wing. You clench and unclench your fists at your sides. You’re talking about sparring, but you’re an expert in subterfuge, adept at reading between the lines, and your training has never led you astray before. Ghosts’ tone and body language scream with weighted and intense physical attraction. You’d bet all the money in your account that Ghost isn’t solely interested in sparring. The mouth can lie. The body cannot.

“We’ve got ten minutes.” You say breezily.

Ghost scoffs. “You think you can take me down in ten minutes?”

Oh, he’s definitely smiling beneath the mask. You bite your lower lip to stop your grin from spreading Cheshire-cat wide. You remember the church. The cemetery. You saw so little of Ghost in action. You are hungry and eager to see him perform without witnesses, without interruptions, and without the risk of death.

“I know I can. But, for the sake of our reunion, let’s make it interesting.” You lift your pant leg at the ankle and unsheathe your knife. “First blood wins.” The blade flashes beneath the bright, blue-white fluorescents. Ghost’s brow shifts beneath his mask. You suspect he’s raising an eyebrow at you.

He says, “don’t get pissy if you lose a finger.”

“I’d love to see you try.” You reply.

You circle around one another like hungry sharks, like lions fighting for their pride, like two koi fish swimming in a pond. You need to take him down in one move. His eyes regard you with a calculated coolness and you suspect his thoughts are similar to your own. There is a real, hefty threat of injury with your naked blades shining below the lamps. You’re trusting him not to slip up and accidentally kill you and he’s trusting you the same. His reach is longer, but he’s not going to make the first move because that would open him for a counterattack. However, time is ticking. You smile to yourself. You assume Ghost is acclimated to fighting soldiers. But you are not a soldier. You flex your fingers on the knife grip and dive into the first attack. Ghost shifts sideways, making himself a smaller target to hit, but you’re not interested in hitting him. Your knife deflects his with a sharp, shrieking sound like nails on a chalkboard. You drop, and your leg strikes outward and sweeps, catching Ghost off-guard. His spine hits the mat, but he rolls immediately onto all fours. He pounces on you. The breath in your lungs whooshes forcefully from your chest. Your heartbeat pounds inside your eardrums. A heavy ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. His offhand snatches your wrist and slams it against the mat. On impact, your shoulder joint pops, but you don’t release your knife from your grip. He holds your knife-hand down. You grin. His weight is crushing you, heavy and hard, pinning you to the mat, your hips pressed together, your legs caged around his waist. Your freehand touches the edge of his mask, Ghost grumbles harshly, and wrenches his face away. It’s what you wanted him to do. His flinch backward has created an opening. You curl your fingers over his knuckles, your arm and elbow trembling and straining as you hold his knife at bay.

He rasps, “playin’ dirty, are we?”

You say, “I just want to win.”

His eyes narrow. “You’ve already lost.”

“Let me up and we’ll see about that.”

He arches his spine forward, forcing your elbow to bend, though you’re still able to keep his knife away from your skin. Ghost looms over you. His chest brushes against yours with every inhale and exhale. Your clothes suddenly feel too tight, too constructive, and there’s a low, pulsing heat blooming between your legs. The nape of your neck tingles with warmth. Ghost pushes your hand–God, he’s strong–and your muscles squeeze with effort.

His eyes drop from your face to your clavicle. His gaze smolders on your skin. His eyelashes flutter and then his attention lifts to your face.

“Did you mean it?” He asks, “about first blood.”

If it had been anyone else, any other man, or anyone else on the team, this would be the moment where you backed down. But this is Ghost, this is Simon. You trust him. And his check-in is proof that your trust is well-placed. He remembers your scars.

“I did.” You gasp, breathless. Your grip relaxes until you're merely holding his wrist, feeling his pulse thrum like a wild storm beneath your fingers.

The cold, biting tip of his knife kissed your jaw. A pinprick of blood wells beneath the blade. Your eyes widen, not only because of the sharp, blooming pain but because of something else pressing into your body. At the juncture between your thighs, you feel the swelling, hard length of him. Your parted lips soften into a sly, smug smirk. You shift your hips, a subtle and teasing grind, and his diaphragm jolts against your ribs from his surprised inhale.

“Cheeky.”

You shrug, “playing dirty, remember?”

He withdraws his knife into the strapped sheath at his hip. But he makes no move to get off you (not that you mind. You’ve been dreaming of how he might feel on top of you ever since you saw him half-naked). Up close, you can count his long eyelashes and observe how his pupils have swallowed the rich, coffee color of his eyes.

He applies pressure to the tiny wound with his thumb. His eyes hold yours like a lifeline, like driftwood in a storm.

You murmur, “come closer, Ghost.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to give you something.”

“And what’s that?” His voice rumbles all the way to your core. Your thighs tighten around him and your inner walls clench. He’s no fool. He must know the effect he has on you. It mirrors the effect you have on him. You want him buried deep inside you, you want his hands on your body, you want his mouth–if he’ll give it. This job with his task force is temporary. It’s a blip in a string of chaos, a merciful offering from the godforsaken universe, a respite before you return to the agency and become someone else. But here and right now? You are fully and completely yourself. He is sharing your breath, your sweat, smearing your blood into the whorls and spirals of his fingerprint. You want to share this miracle with him. You want to selfishly enjoy the upcoming few months before you’re assigned to another country, another corrupt diplomat, or another unstable regime. You want him. You want Ghost. You want Simon Riley.

You respond nonchalantly, “a kiss.”

He breaks eye contact to roll his eyes. “You’re trying to get me to remove my mask again, aren’t you?”

You shake your head. “My whole life involved powerful men showing their faces but hiding their true intentions. You hide your face, but I’ve never doubted your honesty.”

“Give it time.” He huffs. There’s a snag in his tone that you pick up on, a thread of self-loathing, and your heart softens like melted wax.

“I want you as you are,” you reply and then whisper, “Simon.”

He tenses. You feel it on every pressured weight of his body leaning into yours. His eyes roam across your face, seeking dishonesty, but there’s none to find. The words you speak are the truth ripped asunder from your soul. He leans closer and his warm breath fans across your chin, muffled faintly by his mask. Your blood hums, electric and sparkling through your veins, and you instinctively tilt your jaw.

The sound of heavy footsteps carries down the hallway. Ghost springs agile and swift off you and to his feet. You stop the moan in your throat, missing his firm solidness, and the delicious sensation of his cock pressing into your clothed, pulsing cunt. While getting to your feet, you inhale deeply through your nostrils to calm your racing heart. You can feel the tension between you and Ghost like a living, breathing creature. It prowls through your attention span, demanding you to look at his veiny arms or admire the muscled, hard line of his shoulders.

Soap appears in the doorway, “debrief is about to start.” He looks between you and Ghost. You wonder what Soap sees beyond the shiny sweat on your face. Thankfully, he doesn’t make any comments. He offers to show you the way to the debriefing room. Technically, Price already showed you.

However, you’re restless from your fight with Ghost. Your blood boils with anticipation and desire. And for the sake of your sanity, you smile and agree to follow Soap.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He watches you go. His jaw is clenched. Nothing ever goes to plan when you’re involved, does it? You strike into his life like a viper, disappear, and then return like a thunderstorm that threatens to tear his house apart. He groans under his breath. You weren’t supposed to get under his skin. He is meant to be unattached, cold, and distant. You aren’t even teammates. You are on a temporary loan from the agency and will return to your proper life once this business in Spain is done. Yet, his resolve crumbled like a cheap biscuit when you muttered his name, breathless and sweet, and the sultry sound went straight to his cock. A fantasy flooded his mind: you, pinned beneath him on the mats, grinding your cunt into his cock until you cum inside your pants. Ghost forcefully pushes the fantasy into a dark cabinet. He can’t focus on the debrief if he’s thinking about the expression you might wear when you orgasm. Focus. He’s a special operative. He’s a killer. He’s got men relying on him. He can’t let himself get distracted. And he can’t let himself get comfortable. Your presence in his life is temporary.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your mission to Spain arrives in sweltering heat and blazing, white sunshine. He tracks your movements through the scope of his sniper. The street below thunders with car horns and civilians chatting, their conversations rise from the sidewalk to his sniper’s perch like a hum of bees. You effortlessly weave through the crowds.

Your voice croons through his comm, “got your eyes on me, Lt?”

He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked into the barracks two days ago.

“Affirmative.”

“Wonderful!” You chirp, “I’ve got eyes on our target.”

There isn’t a single ounce of nervousness or fear in your voice. He shouldn’t be so impressed by you, but Goddammit–he is. You were betrayed by your contact in Russia, yet you were willing to join the task force, and give your trust to a handful of strangers with a common goal. You played poker with Soap and Price. You laughed with them. And he can’t get your laugh out of his fucking head. He goes to bed at night, hardly dreaming, but your laughter still follows him. You didn’t spar with Gaz, but you showed him the basics of your own moves. Gaz tends to follow you around like a lost puppy. It’s embarrassing. He wants to tell him to get a grip, but he holds his tongue. You’ll be gone soon.

You never seek him out for a one-on-one conversation. But Ghost gets the impression that you’re waiting for him to make the next move. He adjusts his position. The scope hovers near the curve of your shoulder and is aimed at the heart of the man now sitting across from you. He watches over you less like a guardian angel and more like a 6ft mass of exhaustion and sexual frustration. In a brief moment of respite, you tilt your face toward the warm sunlight, and he notices the edge of your smile in his scope. Your shoulders tremble when you laugh.

“He can’t be that funny.” Ghost mutters to himself and is surprised by his own annoyance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re going to split apart at the seams. The heat and salt of Spain clung to your skin and your body buzzed with the feverish sensation of a job well done. There was something heady and unexplainable that traveled through your nervous system as Ghost watched you while you completed your mission. You can’t eat, you can’t think, and you realize you need to see him. Talk to him. Before your time is wasted like sand slipping through your fingers. Maybe Ghost is rejecting you, or maybe he’s trying to be a gentleman about it, but you won’t know until you have the conversation.

You disappear from the cafeteria while the others are eating and find your way to Ghosts’ room. Upon arrival, you expected all the operatives would need to share a room for team building or whatever. But that wasn’t the case with the Task Force. You rap your knuckles on the door.

“Hey, Ghost.”

The door opens a sliver. It’s dark behind him. He’s wearing his mask. Did he put it on before answering the door? Is he brooding in there? Shouldn’t he be celebrating?

“These are my private quarters, she-wolf.”

Your heart jumps into your throat at the old nickname.

“Ah,” You lean your forearm onto the wall and drop your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You must be busy reading dirty magazines.” You tease with an easy-going smile. Ghosts’ eyes narrow slightly.

“You should find me if you want to experience the real thing instead of a glossy photoshop with her tits out.” You push away from the wall. His door opens and his hand grabs your arm, pulling you into his room, and he shoves you against the closed door. Instinctively, you lift your knee to block him from crowding your space.

He rasps, “you trying to play games with me?”

“No games.” The single desk lamp behind him hums with light. “I’m being rather transparent about what I want.”

“What is it you want then?”

He’s either playing dumb or wants to hear you say it. You decide to indulge him.

“You.”

You drop your knee, snatch the front of Ghosts’ shirt, and pull him toward you. You press your lips firmly against the painted teeth of his mask. The fabric is rough and scratchy along your mouth, it tastes faintly of salt, and little white flecks of paint and black fibers cling to your lips. Ghost kisses you fiercely, his lips pinching and rolling the mask between your mouths until it grows wet with your joined salvia. His hands squeeze your hips, and your thighs, and then push beneath your thin t-shirt. He glides along your abdomen and your ribs before shoving underneath your sports bra. You whine into his mask. You’ve wanted him to touch you for days. You should’ve come to his room sooner. He kneads your flesh with his rough, large hands, squeezing your breasts and causing your back to arch. Your brain has fizzled and destroyed all coherent thought. There is only sensation and feeling. There is only his hand and the rough play of your mouths kissing against the barrier of his mask.

He breaks away, his chest heaving, “you’re full of bad ideas, did you know that?”

“My ideas have consistently saved our lives.” You reply, boastful.

“Are we countin’ the one where you tried ice fishing?”

“Yes.”

Ghost unfastens the front of your pants, “I’m inclined to disagree.” His fingers are warm and skim the waistband of your underwear. “May I?”

You nod. “Yes, absolutely, yes.”

You are not ashamed of your eagerness. To you, it’s more than simply sex or pleasure. Ghost - Simon - is someone you’ve trusted with your life on more than one occasion. He didn’t balk at your scars or demand their stories. He met you on equal grounds and few could claim to have your level of skill and talent. And with him, you are yourself. Fully, completely, and effortlessly. You can laugh as loud as you want. You can tease, flirt, and challenge. You can breathe. Your instinct of paranoia doesn’t disappear around him, but it does soften. He’s earned the precious and rare gift of your complete, golden trust.

He slides his palm down, into your underwear, and cups the front of your sex. Your head thumps into the door and your eyelashes flutter. His index and middle finger run along your folds and coat in your arousal. Ghost lets out a pleased, deep hum from the depths of his chest.

“Should’ve expected you’d be soaked.” He says “, especially after our sparring match.”

The memory of it ignites another wave of pleasure. His weight, his touch, his size, his lethal abilities, the depth of his eyes.

“I wasn’t the only one hot and bothered.” You quip before his fingers rub a circle over your swollen clit. Your hips jerk into his palm.

“Mhm.” He nudges his knee between your legs and forces them wider. His other hand cups your breast, fingertips digging into your side, while his thumb strokes idly across your hardened nipple. The light, teasing touch sends sharp, short shockwaves straight to your core.

“Did you get off?” You ask, genuinely curious, “thinking of me?”

Ghosts’ fingers plunge into your wet cunt. You gasp, feeling the delicious stretch, feeling his rumble of appreciation against your chest. You cling to Ghost with a keening, desperate sound that would embarrass and fluster your neighbors.

“Might’ve.” He replies, his voice dark and husky, like crushing black velvet into your chest. You imagine Ghost in his room, squeezing his cock, thinking of you. Your body quakes. He’s unraveling you. He’s pulling you apart piece by piece. His fingers slicken and deepen, his pace quickening, and your toes curl inside your boots.

“Oh god, oh god.” You pant, lost in the delirium of pleasure and chasing the rising crest of your orgasm.

“Name’s Simon, sweetheart, or have you forgotten?” His mask scrapes along your earlobe from where he’s buried his face into the crook of your neck.

“Is that what you want?” Your nails dig into the corded muscle of his biceps. “Gonna have to - ah, fuck!” Your words are cut off in a whine, and you manage to knock two brain cells together to finish your sentence “- hear you say it. Wanna hear you say it.”

“You tryin’ to give me orders?”

“I’m trying to come.” You smile briefly.

His finger crooks and you see stars. “Trying to boss me around as well.”

It’s a small mercy he hasn’t stopped touching you, slick and obscene, his fingers thrusting in and out of your weeping cunt. Your hips erratically chase his touch, and your clothes are restrictive on your skin. You want to touch him, feel his sweat, lose yourself in him. Your walls squeeze around his fingers.

He orders, “look at me,” and his other hand carefully squeezes around your throat. The pressure is perfect. It’s enough to make your blood pound, but not so harsh that he’s restricting your airflow.

“Atta girl.” He says when you meet his eyes, your gaze is heavily lidded and lustful.

“Say my name when you come.”

You gasp. The edge of your orgasm pounds at the apex of your thighs. Your abdomen muscles clench and tightness wounds at the base of your spine. He presses the heel of his palm into your clit, grinding in a small, circular motion, while his fingers shift inside you. Somewhere in the haze of desire, you realize he is kissing the side of your neck through his mask. The tension finally and wonderfully snaps.

“S-Simon!” You cry as your body twitches and your orgasm hits you like a flashbang. It’s disorientating. Your ears start to ring. You blink slowly until the world comes back into focus.

He speaks into the shell of your ear, “gonna be thinking about this for a while.”

“Oh?” Your frazzled brain and heavy tongue cannot summon any other grace or intelligence to your response. Ghost slowly withdraws his hand from your core. You exhale shakily like a baby fawn testing its legs. He pushes the front of your shirt toward your breasts, and you wordlessly lift your arms (there is some humor in the fact that this is the second time Ghost has undressed you). He peels off your sweaty sports bra and your skin prickles with tiny bumps as it's exposed to the cool air. Ghost is looking at you with pure, dark hunger in his eyes. He could swallow you in the depths of his eyes.

He touches your neck, close to your scarred collarbone, and gently lifts the charm dangling from your necklace.

“This is new.” He regards it. “What is it? A butterfly?”

“A moth.” You correct him. “It’s a reminder.”

“For what?” His tone is genuinely curious, and a tad surprised. You swallow. The truth of the necklace is another demonstration of vulnerability, of trust. Yet, offering it to him is as simple as peeling your clothes away.

You explain, “to go towards the light. ‘Cause moths always go to the light.”

He grumbles softly and releases the charm from his fingertips. “They end up dyin’ most of the time, don’t they?”

“You’re a pessimist, Riley.”

“I’m a realist.”

Your hands skim along his waist, fingertips dragging teasingly across the hard muscles of his lower stomach and his happy trail tickles the pads of your fingertips when you ghost over it. Your hand dips lower. You lick your lips, and his eyes track the flit of your tongue.

“Sit.” You tell him while palming the front of his pants across the impressive and weighty bulge of his straining, hard cock.

“I prefer to stand.” His thumb runs across your lower lip, pulling down and revealing the line of your gums. “Easier to watch.”

“Bit of a voyeur, are we?” You tease before pulling his thumb into your mouth and suckling softly. You can taste yourself on him. Though, you wish you could see more of his expression beyond his darkening, intense gaze. You release his digit and subdue your moan. His zipper sliding is somehow louder than the blood pounding in your ears. You push his trousers and boxer briefs down and are rewarded with the sight of his cock. Your inner walls twinge.

He yanks his shirt over his head once you kneel before him. He is uniquely beautiful in his lethality and raw protection. He is corded, with tight muscle and pure, chiseled strength. His thighs, his legs, his chest–you feel as if you can sink your teeth into him. You encircle his engorged cock in your palm. And he is girthy and warm in your palm. You tentatively squeeze him, working your hand from the base to tip, and Ghost hisses through his teeth. You drop sweet, open-mouthed kisses across the hardness of his thighs and the line of his hips. You suspect your jaw is going to ache later if you take him into your mouth. But fuck it. Life is short. You want to enjoy every second he gives you.

You flatten your tongue along his base and swipe upward. You play over him with your tongue and your lips and his cock twitches beneath your ministrations. He is so quiet. His breath shudders. You think you may have enchanted him.

You open your jaw and bring his tip into your mouth. Ghost - trained military operative, excellent at what he does, and feared by his enemies - gasps deeply. The sound is like he touched upon divine revelation. His palm settles on top of your head. He doesn’t pull or grab you. The weight and pressure are simply there. You inch your mouth over him, tongue massaging his pulsing vein, and draw him as deep as you can. Your eyes momentarily roll into the back of your skull. He’s big. There’s no other way to describe him. Your saliva drools out of the corners of your mouth and glistens in stringy ropes when you pull away. You swallow him once more, wrapping his cock around one hand and following the trail of your mouth, your grasp slick and slippery. With his cock inside your mouth, you imagine what he might feel like inside of you. How deep, how good it would feel.

Your cheeks hollow out. And Ghost whimpers from above.

Fuck. Your thighs rub together in an attempt to add friction to the building arousal and tension at your core. There is something insanely, deeply erotic about the filthy, sweet noise you just coaxed from his lips. You want him to do it again, and again until it’s all you hear.

You draw him out of your mouth momentarily, “say my name.” You glide your tongue along the side of him, “when you’re about to come.”

“Fuck me,” growls Ghost.

“Oh.” You smile, your lips tingling. “I’d love to.”

“Think you can take me?”

You moan around his length in a muffled, throaty, “mhm.”

“Fuckin’ hell.” His hand squeezes the nape of your neck. Your head bobs, drawing him in, letting him hit the deepest part you can handle before pulling away. Your wet fingers twist and squeeze as your pace increases and you manage to get Ghost to whimper again. Through lidded eyes, you see his thighs twitch and his stomach flex. You moan and feel the vibration through your mouth. Ghost mutters a string of filthy, debauched curses. Unable to resist or ignore the building tension, you push your free hand between your legs and rub at your soaked core through your underwear. You peer up at him through your eyelashes. He holds eye contact and roughly proclaims your name.

You suddenly release his cock from your mouth and hand, “Ghost, I want to fuck you.”

He grabs your elbows, pulls you from the floor, and nudges you to lie on his small bed. His large hands grab your hips, fiercely tugging your pants off and your boots thump loudly onto the floor. He prowls over you, his hands on your knees, but you scramble back, and your head lightly hits the wall.

You say, “not like this.”

“How then?” His voice is tight with constrained, desperate desire.

“Lie down.”

To your immediate relief, Ghost does as you ask. You swing your leg over his hips and hold the base of his cock, lining him up at your entrance. Your spine trembles with anticipation.

“You said you like to watch.” You grin. You sink yourself swiftly onto his waiting cock and Ghost’s neck arches back to reveal the straining shape of his tendons. You can’t read his expression, but his hands communicate more than enough. He kneads your ass and squeezes your hips or thighs.

“There, yes, like that–” You gasp, drawing yourself up and down over him, feeling the wonderful stretch, the wetness that builds on your inner thighs. He lets you keep control, letting you choose the depth, the speed, while his hands greedily roam the expanse of your skin and tenderly trace the outlines of your scars. There is not a single inch of your skin that Ghost hasn’t touched.

“Fuck, fuck, you’re so good. You feel so good.” You whine quietly, cognizant that the others could return from dinner at any moment. Your hands splayed across his muscled chest like two perfect stars. His thumb finds your clit and rubs in tandem with your thrusts. The world goes hazy, blurred, and perfect. Everything melts beyond you and Ghost and the smooth joining of your bodies.

Ghost says, “Look at me, sweetheart.”

It’s a struggle to open your eyes with the onslaught of sensation. His cock is buried inside you, rubbing against your walls, and his hand is playing with your clit while the other clutches your ass. If you open your eyes, you’ll shatter. You’ll lose yourself. You’ll fracture into a thousand tiny stars and be remade in the depths of the cosmos.

“Can’t.” You choke out.

“You can.” His voice is breathless, panting, and your ego swells with pride. You can make Simon whimper. You can make him breathless. How many others could claim that same honor? Very few if you had to guess. You pry your eyes open with sheer willpower. Ghost is staring at you through the darkened paint. He watches you with hunger, with admiration, with lust, respect, and perhaps–even–a touch of possessiveness. Ghost lifts his knees, planting his feet, and thrusts into you. You cover your mouth to muffle your sudden, bitten-off cry. You squeeze your fingers into your cheek and feel the ridges of your teeth. Your walls flutter around him, trying to pull him deeper, and your bodies shine with sweat.

“F-fuck, fuck, you’re gonna make me come.” You admit hurriedly. His cock pistons in and out of you, drawing stars at the forefront of your vision, and you clamp your hand over your mouth again.

“Keep lookin’ at me, she-wolf. I want to watch. I want to watch you come.” His gravelly voice tears any stubborn resolve to ribbons.

You hold onto his gaze for several more strokes, his fingers moving in firm concentric patterns across your clit, and then your orgasm takes hold. Your eyes squeeze shut, your body spasms, and you toss your head back in wanton and wild abandon. Ghost fucks you through it. His hands are on your waist. His cock is drenched by your arousal. Your body goes limp, and you feel akin to a ragdoll as Ghost rolls you over and pins you to the mattress.

“Fuck.” He rasps, bottoming out, and your hands grip the sheets and your legs twitch and kick wildly. “It’s like you were made for me.”

He rocks into you, deep and slow, savoring every inch with low, warm grunts. Your over-sensitive nerves pulse under his touch. Yet, despite the inevitable soreness, you buck your hips into his and groan. You want to remember this on a tactile level. You want to walk sideways for the next three days because he’s ruined you. You reach up, toward his face, and Ghost does not flinch away. Your chest swells with some unidentifiable emotion. You lightly grip his neck and sense his rapid pulse beneath his jawline. You apply soft, constant pressure to his throat. His chest rumbles with enjoyment and low, deep praise.

“I’m not your grandma’s teacup, Simon.” You tease.

“I rather like that about you.”

“Oh, you like me?”

He mutters, “I like you screaming.”

Ghost spreads your thighs wide. Your hip flares at the awkward, yet firm pressure of this angle. But then Ghost is moving again–not slow and deep anymore–but fast, and pounding, and your chest hiccups with lost breath.

He huffs, driving into you all his wiry, solid strength, his cock slamming into your cunt with ruthless efficiency. He maneuvers your legs to perch upon his broad shoulders. Your brain shuts off. You turn into a blubbering, gasping mess of clenched fists and quivering muscles. Ghost watches you, staring into the depths of your eyes, drinking in every single sound you make, every expression, everything. The sound of your skin slapping together fills the room.

You press your lips together, breathing hard and rapidly through your nostrils, trying your damnedest to not scream at the top of your lungs. The absolute last interruption you need is the rest of the task force barreling into the room. Your cunt squeezes him. Another orgasm rises from the root of your spine like a phoenix. Your clit throbs with oversensitivity. You can’t come again, can you? will you? You grab Simons’ wrists for the sake of an anchor. He is panting your name over and over again under his breath.

You keen, “fuck, Simon - ah - fuck.”

“That’s my girl,” He praises, voice scraping like sandpaper against every dark chamber of your heart, “you can come for me one more time.”

His hand slaps sharply against the swell of your ass. It is a heady combination of his timbre, his words, and the sight of him thrusting, his mask damp and the painted jawbone stark and shifting in the dim light. And you come. You trap your scream behind both hands, pressed to your mouth, and salty tears blur your vision as you gush and convulse around him. Your blood roars, a wild lion in your ears, and your inner walls flutter and pulse with the aftershock. Above the din, you faintly hear Ghost release a restrained and reverberating groan. You watch with fascination as his lower abdominals tense up. His cock slips wetly out of your throbbing, sore folds. He grips his fist around his cock, sliding easily and squeezing, before his cum spurts onto the bedsheets and smears onto your inner thigh. His shoulders quake and his breath hitch into a soft, elongated moan. The paint around his eyes is smudged and rivulets of his sweat have revealed parts of his face like glimpses of the sky through fluffy clouds.

His massive, sweaty form drapes over your body, arms caged around you, face tucked near your neck. He’s your very own weighted blanket with a pulse. And his heart hammers into your chest. Neither of you says anything. Your fingers lazily trail along his sides, catching ridges of his scars, gliding across his muscles and the swooping curve of his ribs. You sigh, content, exhaustion, and satisfaction tug your eyelids.

“I’m never going to be able to spar with you again.” You announce.

Simon chuckles. The sound vibrates against your chest and travels like thunder across your skin. It feels like a gift. His thumb is stroking one of your scars, the one near your hip, in a surprisingly tender gesture. It’s as if he doesn’t want to stop touching you.

He says, “I like this better than sparring.”

You slide your hands along his chest, savoring how his muscles ripple, and your hands wrap around his strong neck. His pulse pounds beneath your palms and fingers. You watch his eyes. They flutter and darken as you apply light pressure. You want to kiss him. You lean upward.

“Wait,” says Simon.

His thumb wiggles under the edge of his mask. Your heart gallops, breath seized in your lungs–is he really going to show his face? You don’t try to hide your awe-struck expression. Simon tugs the mask toward his nose, enough to reveal his mouth and chin, but no further. His lips are full and chapped, dark-blonde stubble shadows across his chin and jaw.

He drops his mouth onto yours. You groan breathlessly into him. He sucks your lower lip between his, nibbling softly, and you might just drown in the focused intensity of his kiss. You push your tongue into his warm mouth, claiming, seeking, your kiss desperate and filthy and smearing saliva across your chin and upper lip. Your fingers twist the hair at the nape of his neck, worshiping the short, soft strands, and idly wondering about their color. He is an enigma, but he has given you more than you ever expected–more than you deserved.

Your mind will replay this moment a thousand times in the days to come. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, a sweaty and whimpering mess, panting, repeating your name like it’s his prayer to salvation. You wish you could find the courage to explain how he makes you feel. The safety, the belonging, the respect, and admiration. You told a white lie earlier. Your necklace charm is a ‘Death’s Head Moth,’ and the specific creature has a vaguely human skull-shaped pattern on the thorax. The charm is your own private, secret tie to him. A delicate skull motif to mirror his mask. A reminder of your time together and your time apart.

His mask presses and scratches roughly against your cheek and nose. You don’t mind. You whimper, suckling his tongue, a distant far-off voice that doesn’t sound like your own begs for “More, please.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

At your honeyed little plea, Ghost gives all he can. He kisses you, though he logically knows it’s a piss-poor idea to deepen your connection, to give you what you want so willingly and without consequence. His hands firmly hold your hips, travel greedily along your firm thighs, and cradle your jaw in a possessive, squeezing grip. He doesn’t want to let you go. This is the exact reason why he shouldn’t have gotten close to you.

You writhe below him. Fuck it. He pins you deeper into the mattress, appreciating how your mouth opens for him, and the needy little sounds that he pulls from your throat. You are muscled, scarred, and firm but beneath his hands, you are soft and pliant, and you mold into his touch like you were built for him. He isn’t afraid of touching you, isn’t afraid that he might break you, or that you might become terrified of him. He’s read your file. He knows you’ve got plenty of demons in your own closet. You gasp into his mouth and latch your teeth around his lower lip. A burning sensation travels down his chest, straight to his gut, and reminds him of fine bourbon. His lips travel across your jaw in tiny, brief kisses, his stubble tickling your sensitive skin. His teeth and tongue find your pulse, suckling your skin between them, making your spine arch and your thighs clamp around his hips. He doesn’t leave a mark despite his desire to do so. A mark will lead to questions. You don’t need to endure any nosiness or gossip from his teammates.

Ghost sighs, drawing his mouth regretfully away, and rests his forehead against yours. Your eyes are glassy, face damp from tears and sweat, and his pride combusts like the fucking sun. He did that. He put that dazed, fucked-out expression on your face. How the hell is he going to cope with you walking around the barracks? His soft cock twitches between his legs.

“Have they given you a title yet?” He asks.

You shake your head. He suspects the others will grant you a nickname or codename soon (unless you come up with one on your own).

“Hm.” He presses his lips together. Your eyes drop to his mouth, not lustfully, but in appreciation and wonder as if you’re memorizing the shape of his lips. Your thumb reverently slides along the thin scar that travels over his upper lip.

He says, “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

A spark of light enters your eyes, and your smile cuts a fresh laceration onto his cold heart.

“I will veto any suggestion you come up with.” You say with that damned cheeky smile of yours. He thinks that smile is going to be burned onto his retinas. He thinks it’ll be the last thing he sees before a bullet or blade finally manages to meet his heart. His laugh is low and rumbling, and scratchy inside his throat from disuse. Your eyes widen. You glow from within. Ghost covers his lips over yours, smothering your smile, trying to ignore how you pull his heartstrings taught and threaten to snap them. He can feel your exhaustion in your kiss, the sloppy roll of your lips, and the lazy swirl of your tongue. He wants to applaud your stamina, to reward it, but the best reward would be rest. No one will disturb you here. No one will harm you, either. You are safe.

He rolls off your body and tugs his mask back down before propping his head up with his hand to watch you. This is familiar. He watched over you dozens of times when you escaped St. Petersburg. You turn your face, and the tip of your nose is pressed into his collarbone. You inhale deeply and slowly. Your necklace rests in the valley between your breasts and the little charm glows faintly.

“Lux.” He murmurs.

“Hm?” Your response is from somewhere deep in your chest, your tone sleepy and subdued.

“My suggestion for your codename.” He explains.

It’s the Latin term for ‘light.’ He’s not sure why you seek him out if you've always meant to ‘find the light.’ But he decides not to question it. Maybe this moment is his calm before the shitstorm. The world is offering him one final, precious gift before you’re ripped away. He traces an almost fatal scar near your heart. He shouldn’t care about who will watch over you once you leave the task force. He does, though. It would be messy, complicated, and risky if you stayed, but a selfish and smothered part of him wishes you could.

You grumble, “I suppose that one isn’t too terrible.”

“My next suggestion is PIMA.”

“Pima?” One of your eyes squinted open.

“Pain in my arse.”

You laugh loudly, your belly trembling beneath his palm, and Ghost shushes you. He doesn’t need his teammates asking questions about why they heard you in his quarters. You were quiet when he fucked you, but somehow–sharing his bed, telling jokes–it feels like a deeper sense of intimacy. It feels sacred and secret. In his eyes, you don’t follow the light. You are the light. And he’s going to blind himself like a tragic Greek hero, going to melt his own wings like Icarus flying too close to the sun. He’s already doomed, already cursed, so he might as well enjoy the ride. He draws his blanket over your naked bodies and pillows his head on his arm.

“I’ll smuggle you out later,” says Ghost.

You roll over, half-asleep, and curl into his warmth. He prepares himself for the inevitable pain of your departure. He watches the steady rise and fall of your deep breath. He traces the curves and angles of your body with his gaze. He commits the minuscule and remarkable pieces to memory. The shell of your ear that holds his whispered voice. The lush shape of your mouth that murmurs his name. The crescent moon of your nails that dig into his skin. The bumpy ridges and knobs of your knuckles, your elbows, your spine. He doesn’t sleep. He can’t. He lightly strokes his fingers down the middle of your back and hardens his heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two Years Later…

You scramble through the city with smoke and sand scratching your lungs. The ground beneath your feet trembles and a shrill whistle cut through the air. The dusky air tastes of dust and gunfire and acrid terror. Your pistol is gripped tightly in your hand, your ammunition is low, and your left arm is drenched in blood. A rush of civilians surge past you like a school of fish fleeing a shark, they bleat like sheep, and they see your gun and your blood and give you a wide berth.

A swirl of white spots dances in front of your vision. A helicopter whirls loudly above and kicks up another storm of loose trash and sand. You stubbornly keep moving. Another whistle, another vibration at your feet, and you collapse behind the cover of a dilapidated market stall. The hours of daylight are slipping through your fingers.

You should’ve gotten out sooner. But there’s no time for regret in this line of work. You can only roll with the tide, keep your head above water, tread the storm and pray you aren’t tossed against the sharp rocks.

After checking if it's clear, you run down an adjoining alleyway, and your heart pounds in time with your feet on the pavement. A chorus of gunfire bellows from behind you like an angry, destructive beast. You flatten against a building corner and peer around the edge. Your lungs freeze. A small retinue of soldiers is moving down the street. You swallow. You taste ash, smoke, and blood. Your fingers flex on your pistol. They’re carrying heavy artillery, equipped in tactical gear, though they’re too far away to ascertain if they’re friendly or not. You can’t risk it. You’ll need to sneak past them.

You lean back against the wall. A forearm suddenly slams into your throat and rips the breath from your lungs. You panic for a fraction of a second, body tensing, ready to fight, but then you recognize those warm, toffee eyes surrounded by dark paint and the chipping, paint-flecked skull mask. Ghost's chest heaves with labored breath and his eyes study your face like a starved man before a buffet. You lick your dry, chapped lips as a sense of relief floods you. If Ghost is here, then there’s a good chance that the soldiers are friendly, and you can extract yourself from the warzone.

You grab his wrist, “steady on, Ghost.” You say, repeating the first words he ever spoke to you. His eyes drop from your face to your neck, where your moth-charm necklace intimately rests in your bosom. He notices your wounded arm and a droplet of blood falls from your middle fingertip.

“You should’ve evacuated with the rest of the civs.” He lessens his pressure on your throat, “a helicopter is 2 klicks east of here.”

You nod. “Got it.”

“Avoid the fountain,” you say, “there’s a sniper in one of the buildings. I couldn’t get to him.” Your eyes flick to your shoulder. Either the sniper isn’t very good or you’re very lucky, but you have zero intentions of returning to that section of the city. You will not try to play hero or act beyond your skill set. Ghost relays the intel through his communication device and takes a step backward.

“Get out of here, Lux!” He admonishes. A crescent sickle-shaped moon rises slowly from the twilight blue horizon. There is no time for reunions, farewells, or good luck. You spare Ghost a brief, ash-tinged smile and follow the light, toward the moon, and toward your rescue.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You stare at the bland, white tile of the infirmary ceiling. Your left arm is wrapped and pinned to your chest in a sling. The air still smells like smoke, and blood, with an undercurrent of a stringent alcohol antiseptic. You close your eyes. The world fades to a muted, muddled gray. When you open them again, the room is dark, and there is a hulking black shape sitting in the chair beside you.

Your voice is dry and cracked, “you again?” You can’t believe he’s here. He came to visit. What did that mean?

“You ought to be sleeping.”

You roll your eyes. “I literally just was.”

Your fingers twitch on the blankets. You wish you could reach out, touch him, and confirm his realness and solidness. Ghost fills a paper cup with water and offers it to you. You fight the urge to guzzle it down and sip it slowly. This isn’t your first time in an infirmary bed and it won’t be your last. You feel Ghosts’ eyes on you.

“Penny for your thoughts?” You ask while crushing the paper cup in your palm.

“You should be dead.” He observes.

You shrug and bite back your wince. “I’ve heard that before.”

The silence stretches. Ghost doesn’t even fidget in his seat. You stare at him in the blue-black darkness and wait for the mirage to vanish. You recall rejecting pain medication, but maybe they gave you something that induces hallucinations. Your hand twitches again.

You ask quietly, “Ghost, can you come here?”

“Why?” He replies, gruff and suspicious. This is either an incredibly accurate and vivid manifestation of your subconscious desire or it’s really, truly him.

“Because I want to see if you’re real.”

He huffs and leans closer. You sit up slowly. Your heart thumps wildly. Your trembling hand settles on his cheek, on his mask, and you sigh–a broken, relieved sound. His eyelashes flutter. You have dreamed of him, thousands upon thousands of times. But your dreams are mere shadows, trickster illusions, a paltry and pathetic excuse in comparison.

“We can’t keep running into each other like this.” Your smile wobbles at the edges. His hands are clenched into fists on his lap.

“Got any mad ideas then?” asks Ghost.

“Not this time.” You laugh weakly and the sound rattles inside your ribcage.

He sighs. “Pity.”

“You never said goodbye.” You say unexpectedly, “when I left the task force.” Everyone else did. They shook your hand or clapped you warmly on the shoulder. You kept foolishly hoping he’d show up at the last second for a private farewell. Your thumb caresses the painted molar teeth on his mask. When Ghost doesn’t reply, you release a burdensome sigh and drop your hand away from his face.

He catches your wrist before it hits the bed.

“You don’t get goodbyes in this line of work.” His fingertips press firmly into your pulse point. His eyes are tired and hollow when he holds your gaze. He’s right. There are no farewells, no funerals, no mourners. You’ve come to terms with this. When you meet your eventual end, you’ll become a classified and closed document in the file cabinet. Or maybe they’ll burn your record. There are no happy endings. There is no quiet, civilian life for you. You are a honed weapon. You serve a purpose. Your time with Simon, brief, beautiful, and bright, is something you’ll cherish until your final breath.

“Well, then… it sounds like this is my last chance to say it…” A hot, prickly sensation tickles the back of your throat.

“Simon Riley…” You say with some difficulty, “goodbye.”

He bows his head, breaking eye contact and obscuring himself, but you feel his fingers tighten around your wrist. He brings your joined hands toward him. His lips, covered by his skeletal smile, press into your knuckles. Your nostrils flare in a shuddering, warbly inhale. Death is easy, you think. It’s quick. It’s the goodbyes that are difficult. Everything unsaid weighs around your neck and wraps shackles and chains around your heart. You hoped you’d feel better with this closure. But you don’t.

His chair squeaks when he rises. You turn your face away and stare at an empty spot on the freckled and shiny green-gray linoleum. You blink back your surprised tears and attribute them to a combination of exhaustion and receding adrenaline.

Simon’s gloved fingertips cup your jaw, and he guides your face to look up at him. The pale moonlight glowing through the window and the various neon-green flashes of medical equipment paint his mask in an otherworldly hue. His eyes are shadowed and fathomless and dark. They bore into you and erode every defense you’ve crafted.

His low, rough, and accented burr replies in a tender; “Goodbye,” he finishes the farewell with your name. He leaves the room with no evidence of his arrival or time shared with you. A ghost ‘till the very end. You watch the door until a reddish dawn creep through the slates in the window shade and you’re pulled to sleep.

You dream of ghosts, of warm and calloused hands, and a voice that pours like smooth whiskey through your veins.

( Part 3 )

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(tag list: @anonymousmay22 // @urisu // @sodbos // @confuseddipshit ) sorry if i missed anyone who wanted to be tagged LOL

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley fanfic #ghost x you #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon riley x reader #cod fanfic #call of duty mw2 fanfic #fic: cold hands warm heart

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qqueenofhades · 9 months

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hello! you asked for winter prompts? ❄️🌨

- first snow

- baby, it's cold outside

- holidays in the city

- hot chocolate

and i have a hankering for some Fivan but anything you want to write is lovely! 💙

The wind off the water stings like a whip, and the stormclouds roiling in the northern sky are laden with the promise of snow, the first of the season -- which in Weddle comes much later than it did back in Os Alta, where winter often lasted five or six months of the year. Fedyor isn't entirely used to the gentler, warmer, mistier climate of Novyi Zem, or Novyi Zem in general, but he can't say that he objects. In fact, it's nice not to freeze his arse off in a tent, or a battlefield, or wherever he was spending the latest campaign. Of course, Ivan is worried that it might turn them soft, but that's just Ivan for you. It's three months since they arrived in Weddle and got a small apartment in its city districts, settling awkwardly into their new life, but he still stays on his toes, tense and watchful, just waiting for something to go wrong. Even here, on the far side of the True Sea, far from Ravka, his face could be infamous, and if Queen Alina is inclined to pursue the vendetta that drove them into exile in the first place....

Fedyor sighs, shakes his head, and continues on his way. By the time he reaches the market square, the first flakes are swirling down, and he pulls up his hood -- it's still strange not to be wearing a kefta -- and greets the merchants politely. Neither he nor Ivan speak Zemeni particularly well, but Fedyor is a quick study and Ivan is extremely stubborn, so between the two of them, they've picked up enough to get by. There are enough immigrants around here that they can get by in a rough polyglot of Ravkan and Kerch, but it's better not to draw attention to themselves. You know. Just in case.

Fedyor finishes his shopping and heads home through the narrow streets, windows lit with candles and pine wreaths hung on doors, kids laughing and looking at the sky in eager expectation of snowballs with which to wreak generalized havoc. He likes the energy of it, the ordinary vivacity of living among regular people and not shut away behind the cloistered walls of the Little Palace, and he stops to savor it for a long moment. Then he ducks into a narrow stone doorway, fumbles with his mittened hand for the key, and opens it, ascending a creaky staircase to the second floor. Pushes the door open and calls, "Vanya, I'm home."

His husband glances up briefly, his scars looking particularly pronounced in the grey light, and silently satisfies himself that Fedyor is in one piece. Then he says, as usual, "Any trouble?"

"No." Fedyor knows why he asks, but he does feel that if there was, he could handle it, lingering parem hangover or otherwise. He carries the shopping into the crammed galley kitchen and begins to unload it, as Ivan pads in, leans against the doorway, and watches him like a lone wolf. Over his shoulder, Fedyor adds, "We could even go out and do something, you know. Something fun."

Ivan snorts. Ravka or Novyi Zem, it doesn't matter; Ivan and fun simply do not go in the same sentence. "Or not."

Fedyor raises an eyebrow, but decides not to press. Instead he fills the kettle with milk to warm it, melts some chocolate in the tarnished tin pan, and stirs it into two cups, handing one to Ivan. "Fine, then. Suit yourself."

They sip the hot chocolate for several moments, neither of them speaking, falling into that long-married silence where they don't need words to communicate. Then Ivan says at last, "I wish we could, Fedya. I just -- I don't think -- I'm not in the mood."

Fedyor could remark that when it comes to doing anything frivolous, Ivan rarely is, but he knows the feeling. Part of his eagerness to go out and socialize and make the best of it, in the way he habitually does as much as Ivan glowers in solitude, is to cover up that bone-deep pain, the sundering and the loss, the knowledge that it might be a very long time -- if ever -- until they go home again. He's grateful for the new life they're building in Weddle, even though it's decidedly out of the pulverized ashes of their old one, but that can't whisk away the ache. Then Fedyor finishes the hot chocolate and sets aside the cup, puts his arms around Ivan's neck, and snuggles close. "In that case," he orders, "keep me warm some other way. It's cold out."

Ivan smiles, just a bit, the way he does with Fedyor and no one else. He brushes a kiss over Fedyor's temple, slips his arm around him, and holds him close, and they stand there in the kitchen, listening to the shared echo of their heartbeat -- always, no matter where they are in the wide world, the one thing that feels like home. Then he shifts his position and lifts Fedyor up onto the counter, moving close to kiss him and let everything else fall away. "As you wish."

#anonymous #ask #fivan #fivan ff #heartrender husbands #sab ff #winter prompts

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ckerouac · 5 months

Text

Alright, for @spaceorphan18 my list of the books I’ve read in the first chunk of this year (Jan-Apr) that I’d highly recommend. My 4 stars & above.

Fiction

Paladin's Faith by T Kingfisher

Marguerite Florian is a spy with two problems. A former employer wants her dead, and one of her new bodyguards is a far too good-looking paladin with a martyr complex. Shane is a paladin with three problems. His god is dead, his client is much too attractive for his peace of mind, and a powerful organization is trying to have them both killed. Add in a brilliant artificer with a device that may change the world, a glittering and dangerous court, and a demon-led cult, and Shane and Marguerite will be lucky to escape with their souls intact, never mind their hearts…

Our Share of Night by Mariana Enríquez

A young father and son set out on a road trip, devastated by the death of the wife and mother they both loved. United in grief, the pair travel to her ancestral home, where they must confront the terrifying legacy she has bequeathed: a family called the Order that commits unspeakable acts in search of immortality. For Gaspar, the son, this maniacal cult is his destiny. As the Order tries to pull him into their evil, he and his father take flight, attempting to outrun a powerful clan that will do anything to ensure its own survival. But how far will Gaspar’s father go to protect his child? And can anyone escape their fate?

Death Valley by Melissa Broder

A woman arrives alone at a Best Western seeking respite from an emptiness that plagues her. She has fled to the California high desert to escape a cloud of sorrow—for both her father in the ICU and a husband whose illness is worsening. What the motel provides, however, is not peace but a path, thanks to a receptionist who recommends a nearby hike. Out on the sun-scorched trail, the woman encounters a towering cactus whose size and shape mean it should not exist in California. Yet the cactus is there, with a gash through its side that beckons like a familiar door. So she enters it. What awaits her inside this mystical succulent sets her on a journey at once desolate and rich, hilarious and poignant.

The Pisces by Melissa Broder

Lucy has been writing her dissertation on Sappho for nine years when she and her boyfriend break up in a dramatic flameout. After she bottoms out in Phoenix, her sister in Los Angeles insists Lucy dog-sit for the summer. Everything changes when Lucy becomes entranced by an eerily attractive swimmer while sitting alone on the beach rocks one night. But when Lucy learns the truth about his identity, their relationship, and Lucy's understanding of what love should look like, take a very unexpected turn.

Nonfiction

The Indifferent Stars Above: The Harrowing Saga of the Donner Party by Daniel James Brown

In April of 1846, twenty-one-year-old Sarah Graves, intent on a better future, set out west from Illinois with her new husband, her parents, and eight siblings. Seven months later, after joining a party of pioneers led by George Donner, they reached the Sierra Nevada Mountains as the first heavy snows of the season closed the pass ahead of them. In early December, starving and desperate, Sarah and fourteen others set out for California on snowshoes, and, over the next thirty-two days, endured almost unfathomable hardships and horrors.

Prequel: An American Fight Against Fascism by Rachel Maddow

Inspired by her research for the hit podcast Ultra, Rachel Maddow charts the rise of a wild American strain of authoritarianism that has been alive on the far-right edge of our politics for the better part of a century. Before and even after our troops had begun fighting abroad in World War II, a clandestine network flooded the country with disinformation aimed at sapping the strength of the U.S. war effort and persuading Americans that our natural alliance was with the Axis, not against it. It was a sophisticated and shockingly well-funded campaign to undermine democratic institutions, promote antisemitism, and destroy citizens’ confidence in their elected leaders, with the ultimate goal of overthrowing the U.S. government and installing authoritarian rule. While the scheme has been remembered in history—if at all—as the work of fringe players, in reality it involved a large number of some of the country’s most influential elected officials. Their interference in law enforcement efforts against the plot is a dark story of the rule of law bending and then breaking under the weight of political intimidation. That failure of the legal system had consequences. The tentacles of that unslain beast have reached forward into our history for decades.

Ice: From Mixed Drinks to Skating Rinks—A Cool History of a Hot Commodity by Amy Brady

In Ice, journalist and historian Amy Brady shares the strange and storied two-hundred-year-old history of ice in America: from the introduction of mixed drinks “on the rocks,” to the nation’s first-ever indoor ice rink, to how delicacies like ice creams and iced tea revolutionized our palates, to the ubiquitous ice machine in every motel across the US. But Ice doesn’t end in the past. Brady also explores the surprising present-day uses of ice in sports, medicine, and sustainable energy—including cutting-edge cryotherapy breast-cancer treatments and new refrigerator technologies that may prove to be more energy efficient—underscoring how precious this commodity is, especially in an age of climate change.

Entangled Life: How Fungi Make Our Worlds, Change Our Minds & Shape Our Futures by Merlin Sheldrake

Sheldrake’s vivid exploration takes us from yeast to psychedelics, to the fungi that range for miles underground and are the largest organisms on the planet, to those that link plants together in complex networks known as the “Wood Wide Web,” to those that infiltrate and manipulate insect bodies with devastating precision. Sheldrake reveals how these extraordinary organisms—and our relationships with them—are changing our understanding of how life works.

Toxic: Women, Fame, and the Tabloid 2000s by Sarah Ditum

Welcome to celebrity culture in the early aughts: the reign of Perez Hilton, celebrity sex tapes, and dueling tabloids fed by paparazzi who were willing to do anything to get the shot. Toxic tells the stories of nine women who defined the hell of celebrity in the 2000s and explores how they were devoured by fame, how they attempted to control their own narratives, and how they succeeded or (more often) failed. These women come from all walks of fame—pop music, acting, reality TV, and WWE wrestling. Some of them you think you know already, and others will be less familiar, but Toxic reveals these women neither as pure victims nor as conniving strategists, but as complex individuals trying to navigate celebrity while under attack from a vicious and fast-changing media.

Nuclear War: A Scenario by Annie Jacobsen

There is only one scenario other than an asteroid strike that could end the world as we know it in a matter of hours: nuclear war. And one of the triggers for that war would be a nuclear missile inbound toward the United States. Nuclear War: A Scenario examines the handful of minutes after a nuclear missile launch.

UFO: The inside story of the US government’s search for alien life here - and out there by Garrett M. Graff

For as long as we have looked to the skies, the question of whether life on Earth is the only life to exist has been at the core of the human experience, driving scientific debate and discovery, shaping spiritual belief, and prompting existential thought across borders and generations. And yet, the idea of extraterrestrial intelligence has been largely seen as a joke, banished to the realm of fantasy and conspiracy. Now, for the first time, the full story of our national obsession with UFOs—and the covert, decades-long search by scientists, the United States military, and the CIA for proof of alien life—is told by bestselling author and Pulitzer Prize finalist Garrett M. Graff in a deeply reported and researched history.

#books #reading list #all of these are excellent and I highly recommend #for a variety of reasons #which I’m happy to expand on if anyone is curious about a particular one

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georgiapeach30513 · 6 months

Note

So I don’t think Audi was an odd choice for him. He even personally has Audi vehicles. Again, I have thoughts on why Jinx pulled the ad, and I’m sure others do as well. Clearly there is a reason. /

Is it because he is all "business now and no personal"? Which makes no sense to me. Because Dodger is honestly more loved in his own fandom than him. So using Dodger wouldn't be "personal" in my opinion. If he was all business now, whyd he post the random Dodger snow video on stories? He keeps going back and forth it seems, but thinking that he's going to build back or more of a genuine fanbase on cars...yikes.

I get he drove one, drives one, but the shift for him personality in Hollywood wise is rather odd and it leaves me scratching my head. And sad. Majorly sad. Because why gives personal details in GQ, only to yank the more profitable avenue longevity wise (Dodger, Dog Dad, kindness) and to go quick buck route that will fade in time?

I'm just trying to see anyone has any advice on how to grapple or explain this new Chris. Cuz he didn't change when dating Minka or Jenny, in fact, we took those days for granted. I don't care if he's married; he is different and that's a choice.

Dodger in conjunction with Jinx I would consider business. And he has removed most of his posts. He did have 101 posts and now he’s down to 7. Don’t ask me to figure out the thought process on what to delete because I’m confused on that one. Now the Dodger in the snow video…it’s funny how he sometimes wants to show exactly where he is. Even if it’s a few months later *ahem* golf photo *cough*. I think most of his fans recall him not knowing much about cars, so that recent interview was a choice.

As far as that GQ interview when everyone was saying that he was quitting or going to pull back in acting…he’s done this song and dance in the past. And I have said from the get go that 2022 most likely burned him out a bit. Filmed three movies, did voice over work, he did two huge press tours for Lightyear and TGM. You know how many times I say I’m ready to quit? That’s how that feels for me. He also said he wanted to do one movie a year and here he is with two projects, and…R1 is going to be a trip.

As far as the quick buck goes, listen for $3M+ I’d do a campaign for Audi, too.

And for advice we haven’t seen Chris publicly really since this time last year with Ghosted promo. We’ve seen the Pete Holmes podcast, but that was one day. I guess our next round of press will be R1 and we may see more of his personality. Never forget that Hollywood is a business first and foremost and he’s got a lot of bills and overhead to pay. He’s trying to maintain his way of living and I would assume he does enjoy acting. I hope his break gave him some clarity.

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captainsspnanon · 1 year

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C3E56 reaction

I have to go on CR stats to remind myself! I watched most of it last night, then crashed because I was so tired, and finished up with the fight aftermath today.

There have been a LOT of episodes recently where the cast is just full giggles for a lot. It's not a complaint, it's just fun to see the comparison versus how they are .... less frequently doing episodes full of giggly for C2. Had to phrase that carefully, because they certainly were giggly for a lot of C2 as well, but usually more in chunks of episodes rather than being fairly punchy throughout.

I am ALWAYS excited to see the snow background! Confirmed light snow and 'heavy' snow, but I personally would have loved to have an even heavier version. I suppose it might be too distracting, but I'd love to see lots of blizzardy action behind them, or heavy downpour.

The frost giant bit was fun, but I would have enjoyed even a more 'encountery' encounter. It wasn't a theater of the mind combat because initiative wasn't rolled, and while it was enjoyable, I could have enjoyed it more.

GOAT BOAT! I, like the party, completely underestimated the size of the goats! It turned out well that they were being more sensible about the raft, but the sheer hilarity of the concept was glorious.

Matt was ON POINT with voices today, Donnie Boy's voice, and double catfish voices were HYSTERICAL and AMAZING.

I'm still a bit iffy of the robit romance. I'm enjoying the players having fun, but it'll feel just a bit weird to me if this ends up being long term end game romance. It really does feel like Rushed First Crush, and there's no saying how it will go, so Imma just enjoy the ride. Christian is definitely playing this to the max, and Sam is 'yes and'ing away, leading to fun scenes.

CHANGEBRINGER CHANGEBRINGER CHANGEBRINGER

Look. Sometimes - Sometimes Matt makes decisions. And sometimes those decisions, I can't quite understand how he got to. Mike Hunt is my usual example for that. But having the Changebringer be visible on the horizon an impossible distance away? As soon as he described it, I knew Sam/FCG was going to use it as confirmation of flat Exandria. As SOON as it was out of Matt's mouth.

Aside from that, what an absolutely beautiful scene! From all three campaigns, I highly appreciate how Matt portrays the gods, each one unique and for the most part never 'speaking' but giving the essence of the meaning regardless. (Exceptions being when Vax communes with the Raven Queen in the pool of blood, and when C1 is off on the god-fetch-quest in the last arc.) Using the distance to emphasize how the gods are pulling away, using the coin to convey a clear yes (both the Changebringer and Matt get props for that choice), it was all so visually and emotionally striking.

WHY DID DEANNA KILL THE GOAT! WHAT. WHAT. WAHT.

got an immense number of laughs from me, but doesn't seem to match with how she's been played at the moment. It definitely shows why she clicks so much with Chetney, I'd like to see this very impulsive violence more.

FROG-HE-MOTH. FROGHEMOTH. YES YES YES

We are at Molaesmyr. WE ARE AT MOLAESMYR.

(Do I have to look up the spelling EVERY SINGLE TIME? yes. yes i do)

As soon as the elk showed up I was so excited to see more Protectors. I WAS WRONG AS FUCK. I cannot WAIT to see how this continues!

...is it bad that I like all the new art except for Imogen? Something about the face, chest, and hands just look a bit off to me.

Missing team AOL, I expect we won't see them for maybe another month at least. For me, this is the biggest 'expect the unexpected' from the pre-C3 video. Extended guests were fun, destroying gods plot has been thrilling, but extended splitting the party has been the most unexpected for me.

#cr spoilers #critical role #bells hells

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brionysea · 2 years

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what is possessiongate, I want to know!!

if you have the time to read 11 thousand words about season 4 mike, it's this

the short version: it's a theory that mike wheeler has been possessed by vecna at varying levels since prior to season 3

he's so hung up on el and uncharacteristically ignoring all his friends (the same friends he writes ten hour campaigns for and would literally jump off a cliff for) out of nowhere because he's being used as a spy/agent to push el where vecna wants her: distracted by the so-called romance, just like the audience, and not at full fire power, which ultimately led to the fall of hawkins

this is why will kept getting spidey sense moments around mike in season 3. because vecna was right next to him

but mike, being mike, has been fighting it. which is why he's gone from weird to normal and back again a million times instead of just sticking with the personality shift, which he would have done if he was just like this now. he's incredibly headstrong and not even in the ballpark of fickle enough to be this much of a behavioural yo-yo. when he makes his mind up about something, he sticks to it. he was on the same level of confidence as joyce in season 1, but by season 4 he's at the other end of the spectrum for some vague reason that we're never explicitly told beyond the last year being "weird" for him

it probably got started some time around the snow ball. the most noticeable moments of mike being under vecna's influence are the six months prior to the rain fight with will in season 3 (count of people who think mike's acting weird: hopper, lucas, will, joyce through her reaction to how hopper describes mike, dustin, el, kinda max although she was trying to defend his behaviour as simply romantic at first), when he's in california at the same time as el in season 4 (will, argyle, el, joyce, jonathan, murray) but particularly during the monster/superhero fight, and during the pizza freezer monologue (el, jonathan)

mike is very, very smart, and he seems like he's trying to figure out what's happening to him throughout season 4, but this is something that by definition cannot be fixed alone. he needs to trust other people to help him if he wants to survive this. and i think he's starting to get there, helped a lot by will's speech about the painting

that was the realisation that mike wheeler disappearing would not be a good thing, like he'd previously thought, which was possibly something put in his head by vecna to try and limit how much he fights back. during and after the speech he looks happy and accepting in a way he never really has before when people show that they care about and missed him (will, el, karen, hopper) or try to take care of him (argyle making him a pizza and el tag-teaming to get him to eat)

"but why is this on me? why... why am i the bad guy?"

"she's totally fine" "she didn't look fine"

"so, what? we're just supposed to trust that you're the good guys? whoever you are?"

jonathan and el figured out that the weirdness is due to possession near the end of season 4. lucas was in the same room as mike for literally ten seconds when they got back to hawkins before realising something's wrong with him like he did with max (who also had vecna in her head). the wheelers are none the wiser, but no one's surprised

i think season 5 under possessiongate is going to be very mike heavy. he's going to be kept away from the plans so he can't be used as a spy for vecna, he's going to spy on vecna and retrieve vital information for the party (like where to find max and/or how to kill vecna for good), and he's eventually going to need to be saved before his consciousness gets consumed completely and vecna is the only thing left. for will, that involved a whole lot of emotional speeches about who he fundamentally is and how loved he is, which the painting speech really reminds me of

if there's a 2 year time skip, that's going to mean that mike's been fighting off possession for three years, and kind of winning at times, when the longest time frame we've seen of it before was only about a week and vecna had gained total control in a couple of days, both for will and the flayed. mike's mental strength honestly astounds me

if i was in charge, i'd have el eventually go into his head to try and save him, just like she did for max, but with way more memories involved because he's in much deeper and she has to search longer. this is how we finally get definitive answers about what the hell's been going on in mike wheeler's head this whole time

#possessiongate #inbox #stranger things #i do recommend the full analysis post though #and not only because it takes a lot of work to write 11k words #st posting

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sanguivor · 1 year

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Okay. I can't take it any longer. I NEED to ask you to tell us more about Velthryn, if you'd like to just. Dump anything about her, her backstory, campaign, art, what she looks like, whatever. I wanna KNOW.

I am so incredibly happy for this ask because Velthryn is my pride and joy, she's the best thing I've ever done, and she breaks my heart.

she's my very first d&d character and I played her for over three years in a campaign with my friends, we finished it last year actually and I'm still thinking about it. everything about the campaign was homebrewed, from the setting to the lore and the history of the people that live there, and it's so incredibly rich and detailed it's incredibly impressive considering that was the first time my friend dmed anything, so the story and the plot are entirely him but everything Velthryn was like the weirdest love letter between the two of us. I'm so incredibly proud of how her personal story played out.

I've talked a bit about her before (I have a tag for our campaign here) but never went into detail because I managed to keep her backstory a secret for THREE YEARS for plot reasons so this is the first time I'm going in depth about her like this I'm excited.

Velthryn is an assassin rogue moon elf from the far north, a land constantly blanketed in snow and ice even in the summer months, and under near constant night for most of the year. she's specifically from the Black Cathedral (Astaeran in Mavel'en, the archaic language moon elves speak) which is one of only two places inhabited in the far north, the other being the city Leirion, and both are inhabited solely by moon elves - the rest of the continent is separated by mountains, superstition, and sometimes the moon elves blades.

the Black Cathedral is a cult where generations of moon elves are raised in isolation to make offerings and prayers in blood for the Night Father so he might usher in what moon elves call the eventide, endless night and sleep not just for them but everything and everyone. a gentle end of the world. Velthryn was one of five moon elves called Nightdaughters, who are chosen every half a century to bring death to what the Cathedral call the five fated to die on the continent. just before the start of the campaign she and her sisters (Maevan, Ylaria, Helle, Honoria) found the first of the five; a farmer and his children still asleep in the early hours of the morning, and their deaths were not gentle. Velthryn, raised with the belief that death was a gentle mercy, could not reconcile the bloodlust she shared with her sisters so she did what no Nightdaughter should ever do or has ever done. She fled, and by sheer luck or fate ended in the company of the three others who should have been her sworn enemies but ended up being her greatest and only friends.

knowing full well a Nightdaughter who abandons her pilgrimage and her sisters should take her own life or be hunted by her sisters Velthryn stayed with what became our d&d party not because she thought the Cathedral was wrong but because she thought she could fix what she and her sisters had done. She was going to give a proper end to the five fated to die, give a proper prayer to the Night Father.

and for the next three real life years I got to figure out how Velthryn would navigate a strange world without the safety and familiarity of her sisters and their pilgrimage, how she would come to terms with the knowledge everything her Cathedral taught her was a lie, from the pilgrimage's purpose to the very existence of her gods, I got to make the heartbreaking decision in session where she sacrifices herself in place of one of the five fated to die in an attempt to save them and to atone for leaving her sisters, her pilgrimage, her god and her belief, only to come back from the gentle peace of death by the very god she died for who wanted more from her. she watched and felt most of her sisters die, dealt the killing blow for Maevan, she and Ylaria spared one another but went their separate ways, and Velthryn returned to the Cathedral alone. the campaign ended with Velthryn realizing the only mercy she could give the Night Father was the gentle peace of death, and as his last Nightdaughter she was the one who held the blade that brought the end to the old gods, whether they are or ever were gods no longer mattering.

she also once did 144 points of damage in a single attack. I LOVE assassin rogues <3

she's incredibly quiet and soft spoken, a good liar not because she's charismatic (the opposite actually) but because her expression is as unchanging as ice, she's intimately familiar with death and killing but she's not cruel, does not abide needless suffering. the first time she spilled blood on solid ground free of snow she slipped on it. she killed an oni single handed in two turns of combat (my dm is STILL mad at me) before anyone else had a turn. she's so unnerving she spooks horses just by being near them, and she hates them for being foolish and clumsy. she's so unused to sweets she thinks they're gross. she has a passive perception of 24, absolutely nothing got the drop on her. she's a rogue but she can't pick locks or pickpocket to save her life. her party had a paladin and a cleric and she was somehow the most devout of all of them. her fave colour is purple because of the purple in the arctic lights. she's my babygirl she's a murderer she's my everything <3

visually I've always had Vel compared to a ghost, piercing white eyes and hair with unnaturally pale skin in constant contrast to the black garb gifted to Nightdaughter's and her uncanny ability to disappear (+17 stealth by the end of the campaign lmao) she's often likened to a specter in appearance and thematically throughout the campaign. she was fully supposed to die but post campaign she's replaced the previous Elders of the Cathedral who she and the party killed in revenge for what happened to her and her sisters, it's the only time she was never merciful in her killing, and with centuries ahead of her she means to ensure the old gods rest is not disturbed.

I have a tag for her: x

two playlists: x + x

and a pinterest board: x

also a tag for her complicated love and rivalry with maevan: x

and a playlist for them too: x

there are so many different things about her I haven't even touched on, like the fact she and Maevan took the places of the fourth and fifth meant for sacrifice, but soooo much of the lore and campaign plot ties into the other party members and those aren't my stories to tell (though feel free to ask @mismageus about Áine, the little sun elf cleric who's saved Velthryn's life in more ways than one I know she'd love to talk about her)

anyway thank you soooo much for the ask I love talking about Velthryn <3

#this was so much longer than I expected lol #lipsie #asks #heretics campaign

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humanoidtyphoons · 3 months

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sugar apple fairy tale vol 2 / episode 5-8 comparison thoughts:

-it's so interesting that kat is only mentioned in a couple of lines right at the beginning of the light novel -- he asked for anne's help and gave her a cape in return. whereas the anime is like. let's dedicate the fifth episode to them meeting each other and working together, bc kat thought anne broke his sugar candy, whereas anne is thinking five steps ahead on how to catch the true culprit. in the author's notes of the light novel, the author states that they met three days after vol 1, and she wrote what happened in another magazine. and i'm like. i want to read it. (might want to reread the first manga too tbh, to see if kat makes an appearance there.) but also: challe immediately making cat puns, much to kat's dismay. that's challe's twisted sense of humour for you!

-the anime also skips people wanting to take advantage of anne's money situation. a lady in lewiston wanting to pay less than the original offering price, the innkeeper being inconsistent on charging prices bc he wants to buy challe. i can see why the anime cut this, but i... hm, i do like the reminder that people do see anne as a fool, and will try to take advantage of her, even tho she will speak out against it. and also that anne is unusual to most people who are like 'well, she obviously owns the fairy, why would she be friends with it?'. also just. challe offering to sell himself to make money. oh man. yeah, no wonder anne is horrified, and challe just doesn't get why. no wonder they cut that part.

-it's a definitely harder to tell how much time has passed in the anime, yeah, it's snowing but. i like that the light novel states 'two months passed since book 1'.

-there's something about the rollercoaster nature of jonas&anne constantly running into each other that makes me ship them. like they keep trying to avoid each other, but oh no! fate has a plan for them! they gotta keep on meeting! even when both of them are like why did i have to run into you again??? and that's really all of s1/v1-3, that makes me laugh, bc it's different arcs for them every time! and part of me, still wants that au where yeah, jonas was lying about being in love with her to begin with, but... the more he finds himself in these situations with anne... the more he actually is falling in love with her. what is his life!!!!

-(oh i still massively prefer anne/challe, dgmw, but i'm also. i love shipping and what ifs. and anne/jonas is dear to me because of how much it changes throughout the books.)

-i felt so bad for jonas this time around, watching the anime. like it is there in the light novel, that jonas is--kinda desperate and out of his depth, anne looks at him and constantly feels that he seems as if he's cornered, but i really think the anime did a great job at making him succumbing to this pressure and knowing it's a lost cause and making him look wild eyed, but he cannot escape, so he has to throw anne under the bus in order to gain his freedom. tbh, i think jonas is arguably worse in vol 1 than vol 2, bc i just think. jonas getting beaten by the duke, and being like 'I have to get out, I have to escape, I don't understand his feedback, I am creatively drained, anne can do it i cannot, please just let me go' gives him a lot of sympathy points. he's awful, but this time, I think he knows it and feels guilty, but he doesn't really feel like he has any other choice. this time, he does concede that anne is the better sugar artisan, anne can do what he cannot, as opposed to vol 1, bc jonas... why are you spinning such a smear campaign on anne, when you know that's not true! and it's such a contrast when they meet again at the end of the light novel, and this time jonas is not nearly so spiteful. a lot of it is hurt pride, but. i think his actions in duke albarn's castle shook him a bit, like he knows it's a personal low for him, even for him.

-i think i prefer the light novel's aftermath when the duke decides to set free jonas and anne remains slightly more. in both the anime and light novel, lots of people point out that entertaining the duke's delusions is pointless: he's asking for a ridiculous task. it's anne's pride and confidence in her abilities that make her want to see it through to the end. but i slightly preferred that the light novel points out that jonas did look burnt out, and at his wits' end, and it was better for him to go, anne had not reached the wall that he had. the anime... hm, something about anime!anne saying "i don't want to be someone like you, who abandons things halfway" was a little insulting?, but. y'know what. anne in general is nicer to jonas than she needs to be, i don't really blame her for rubbing salt in his wounds that much, and to be a bit bitter that she's effectively trapped with a madman if she doesn't get it right... but. anne wasn't physically attacked like jonas, and i have respect for characters who go 'i've reached my limit, i admit i'm not suitable for this task, it's time to cut my losses and know when to quit'. but i do think part of it is because anne's pride is on the line, and it's her stubbornness that won't let her back down, bc even challe is like. why. why are you still trying to fulfill his request??? but my point: LN!anne seemed more sympathetic to jonas, and i think i prefer that tbh. but i'm being nitpicky, tbh!

-i'm so curious to know why the anime doesn't make it clear that only liz loved challe romantically? i actually do like the ambiguity of it in the anime, bc you don't know how challe feels about liz, but he must have been close nonetheless. but there's no reflection that challe thought he loved liz the same way, and liz shakes her head and says he doesn't -- and that is true, it's reflected in the way how liz and anne are thought about by challe. there's no doubt that liz holds a special place in his heart, but it's not the romantic love that challe so blatantly and obliviously feels for anne. so probably: mystique, the anime didn't make it clear to make challe appear more mysterious, and like. i'm not going to lie, that's so right up my alley too. bc i do like speculating on challe's relationship with both, and i want more history with challe/liz to be revealed tbh.

-(not exactly an kikinukag situation from inuyasha, but i feel like the first time i watched the SAFT anime, i... maybe thought it was the case, in some ways it's pretty neat that the light novels immediately go 'challe has never been in love, he does not even know he is in love with anne even at this very minute.' i also thought anne & challe maybe didn't know that they were in love with each other, both too dense to figure it out, but actually with anne acutely aware of it and thinking she doesn't have a chance, and challe genuinely doesn't realize it bc he's emotionally stunted, their body language is even more of a delight with how these two give themselves away to how they're feeling with this in mind when watching the anime. like the subtext is there, but i just wasn't sure if the characters themselves knew it, bc so often love is foreign and they don't know what they're feeling, why they're feeling and... that's just challe for you! the most touchy-feely one of them both! dear god, anne, you gotta be strong! your mental fortitude is stronger than mine, i tell you that much!)

-i super liked vol 2 for being a dark parallel to what challe/anne could become, if challe disappeared on her, and anne not dealing with it well. but i also like that it's fairly reminiscent of a darker version of anne maybe not coming to terms with her mother's death in book 1. like the william alburn is scary by the end, and tho anne never really gets that bad, but it could have been be a possible future for her, lest she doesn't take care. luckily anne had friends, whereas alburn did not, and let his obsession consume him. but y'know. it was an interesting mirror to think about when reading/watching, and anne does draw inspiration from that as she compare situations when making the sugar candy for him.

-you know, i kinda get why the anime changed hugh's appearance in this arc. tho i'm so sad we didn't get the moment of hugh hugging anne, and challe being grumpy, so hugh teases challe for being jealous, and challe is just what do you mean jealous?? of what? but i get why hugh doesn't steal challe's wing in the anime. challe let his guard down! hugh could have been talented pickpocket had he chosen not to be a sugar master! but it -- certainly was an interesting turn to how hugh keeps challe around for the last third of the story, tho i wonder if challe does try to get revenge at some point? again, not bad, and it wasn't really necessary, but i do think it gives interesting characterization to hugh and his sneakiness, once again.

-the anime might have moved the last section of the light novel for another episode, idk. but i really love the return of jonas and the radcliffe workshop boys, jeering at anne, afterwards. and jonas is just. not into it anymore, too ashamed of what's happened to really continue it. and keith appears and puts a stop to their behaviour!!

again, overall solid adaptation, i enjoy the changes the anime brought, i enjoy the extra detail the light novels gave.

#anime blogging #book talk #currently: sugar apple fairy tale

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arpov-blog-blog · 9 months

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youtube

..."Today, the topic of my speech today is deadly serious and I think it needs to be made at the outset of this campaign.

In the winter of 1777, it was harsh and cold as the Continental Army marched to Valley Forge. General George Washington knew he faced the most daunting of tasks, to fight and win a war against the most powerful empire in existence in the world at the time. His mission was clear: liberty, not conquest. Freedom. Not domination. National independence. Not individual glory.

America made a vow: Never again would we bow down to a king.

Months ahead would be incredibly difficult. But General Washington knew something in his bones. Something about the spirit of the troops he was leading. Something, something about the soul of the nation he was struggling to be born. In his general order, he predicted, and I quote, with one heart and one mind, with fortitude and with patience, they would overcome every difficulty, the troops he was leading. And they did. They did.

This army that lacked blankets and food, clothes and shoes. This army, whose march left bloody bare footprints in the snow. This ragtag army made up of ordinary people.

Their mission, George Washington declared, was nothing less than a sacred cause. That was the phrase he used. A sacred cause. Freedom, Liberty. Democracy. American democracy.

I just visited the grounds of Valley Forge. I’ve been there a number of times since the time I was a Boy Scout years ago.

You know, it’s the very site that I think every American should visit, because it tells the story of the pain and the suffering and the true patriotism it took to make America.

Today, we gather in a new year, some 246 years later, just one day before January 6, a day forever seared in our memory because it was on that day that we nearly lost America, lost it all.

Today, we’re here to answer the most important of questions. Is democracy still America’s sacred cause? I mean it.

This is not rhetorical, academic or hypothetical. Whether democracy is still America’s sacred cause is the most urgent question of our time.

And it’s what the 2024 election is all about.

The choice is clear.

Donald Trump’s campaign is about him, not America, not you.

Donald Trump’s campaign is obsessed with the past, not the future. He’s willing to sacrifice our democracy, put himself in power.

Our campaign is different. For me and Kamala, our campaign is about America. It’s about you. It’s about every age and background that occupy this country.

It’s about the future we’re going to continue to build together. And our campaign is about preserving and strengthening our American democracy.

Three years ago tomorrow, we saw with our own eyes the violent mob stormed the United States Capitol. It was almost in disbelief as you first turned on the television.

For the first time in our history, insurrectionists had come to stop the peaceful transfer, transfer of power in America. First time.

Smashing windows, shattering doors, attacking the police.

Outside, gallows were erected as the MAGA crowd chanted, “Hang Mike Pence.”

Inside, they hunted for Speaker Pelosi. The House was chanting as they marched through and smashed windows, “Where’s Nancy?”

Over 140 police officers were injured.

Jill and I attended the funeral of police officers who died as a result of the events of that day.

Because Donald, because of Donald Trump’s lies, they died because these lies brought a mob to Washington.

He promised it would be wild. And it was.

He told the crowd to “fight like hell” and all hell was unleashed.

He promised he would write them, write them, everything they did. He would be side by side with them.

Then, as usual, he left the dirty work to others.

He retreated to the White House.

As America was attacked from within, Donald Trump watched on TV in a private, small dining room off my oval, off the Oval Office.

The entire nation watched in horror.

The whole world watched in disbelief.

And Trump did nothing.

Members of his staff, members of his family. Republican leaders who were under attack at that very moment pled with him.

Act. Call off the mob. Imagine had he gone out and said, “Stop.”

Still, Trump did nothing.

It was among the worst derelictions of duty by a president in American history.

An attempt to overturn a free and fair election by force and violence."

#Youtube

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onenakedfarmer · 9 months

Text

PRESIDENT JOE BIDEN Speech Given January 5, 2023

Today, the topic of my speech today is deadly serious and I think it needs to be made at the outset of this campaign.