braid around the head

24

I turned 24 on Monday. A lovely birthday in every right. I skipped work and made peach pancakes, went to yoga, ate pupusas and saw the Kerry James Marshall show at MOCA, which was as good as everyone claimed. I walked down to the flower district and bought a snake plant and took the bus home and drank a lot of peach sangria and ate chocolate cake. I wore my hair in two braids pinned in a crown around my head, and my favorite earrings, the ones that look like contour drawings of hands. Sam and I’s birthdays are one day apart, a fact we tell everyone. I’ve written that here before and I am writing it again. It doesn’t have much relevance to anything, but it delights us, and that alone seems like a good enough reason.

Every year on my birthday I feel like I should write something. The words for these posts don’t come as easily as my annual Thanksgiving and New Years ones, come June 19th I draw a blank. If I must, I would say 23 was a year of building. 22 was a year of leaving, of gathering the courage to do something new, to move forward. 23 required me to gather the courage to stay, the bravery to build a life. To say, I care and I want you to care too. I’ve built a life in LA, and I still feel surprised by it. I look around and realize I have friends, I have an art practice, I have dental insurance, I have half a dozen houseplants that are downright thriving,  a burgeoning art collection I’m excited to expand. I feel surprised and lucky, but I shouldn’t, because I worked so hard to get here. I tried so hard, and I still can’t believe it paid off. 

Of Hidden Talents (Feysand Fluff)

So this just popped into my head last night when I couldn’t sleep. Set post-ACOWAR and contains nothing but fluff.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Feyre found herself commenting, smiling slightly as she tried not to groan in pleasure under Rhys’ hands.

He chuckled from where he was seated behind her, the sound sending a thrill through her spine, even decades into their relationship. “I should hope so; I have to keep my High Lady entertained somehow. Wouldn’t want her eternity to get boring.”

“Boring? How could I ever get bored with a mate who thinks so much of himself?” She shot back, though its effect was lost when she leaned further into him, her hands running over the legs that were on either side of her. She could feel the delicious heat of his bare chest so close behind her, the thin nightdress she was wearing a poor barrier between them. 

Rhys’ fingers continued to comb through her hair, expertly separating it into three equal parts. “I take offense to that.”

Feyre let out an aborted snort. “No, you don’t.” 

“No, I don’t,” Rhys agreed, in a blithe voice.

They fell into a comfortable silence then, built on years of learning how to just be together. Neither of them felt the need to always fill the air between them with pointless chatter. Oh, they liked to joke and bicker… but they also knew when to let words fade away and just enjoy each other’s company.

It had been happening more of late, likely because Rhys had refused to leave Feyre’s side for the past few months. He was a constant presence at her side, though he did his best not to hover too much (he knew all too well how she loathed feeling locked in, how it still made her bones lock up in fear, even after all this time). He needn’t have worried; Feyre never, never felt tied down by her mate, never felt confined by him. She knew that even now, when he was so concerned about her, he would give her space if she asked.

(He’d once told her, in a fit of hopeless romanticism, that he would give her the very stars above Velaris if he could. Feyre had believed him, of course, if only because she said she would do the same for him.)

So Feyre was quiet, letting Rhys gently braid her hair as if he’d done it hundreds of times before. She’d been utterly surprised when he’d offered to do it for her earlier, after he’d heard her curse in front of the mirror while she struggled with trying to tame her wild locks into something more manageable. Feyre was so tired these days and sore too, the heavier she got. And she was constantly hot then cold, her hair always in the way and, Cauldron, she didn’t care for it much now and all the work it took to keep it neat, not when she was already so uncomfortable. She’d been beyond tempted to just chop it all off, had Rhys not stepped in when he did with his innocuous offer.

At first she tried to deny the existence of a problem but she really couldn’t hide anything from Rhys; he knew her too well, felt her struggles through their mating bond and tried to ease her discomfort as much as he could. (Rightly so, Feyre sometimes thought when she particularly annoyed with how limited she was lately, considering he’s the one that put me into this situation in the first place.) 

So here they were, Rhys’s gentle hands working wonders on Feyre’s nerves, his fingers softly tugging at her hair as he built the braid into something spectacular; Feyre herself was usually no slouch when it came her hair (at least when she wasn’t so cranky), but she had the feeling that Rhys was even better. So many hidden talents, this mate of mine.

“Where’d you learn to do this?” she finally asked, curiosity getting the better of her. She’d felt his hesitancy when he first offered, that pang of grief that he’d been unable to conceal from her.

“My sister,” Rhys said after a long pause. His voice had lost that light-hearted edge from earlier, filled instead with wistful regret. “She’d come to me when our mother was too busy for it. She could have asked the servants, of course… but she liked to spend a few moments with me, I think. She continued to ask even long after she could do it by herself. I never had the heart to say no.” 

Feyre’s own heart ached for her mate, for the family he’d lost so long ago. He rarely spoke of the little sister she’d never meet, even less so than his mother. From what she’d gleaned over the years, his sister had been quite a bit younger than him, had looked up to him in a way no one else ever had. Feyre couldn’t even imagine what it had been like for him to have to bury her broken body.

She rubbed her thumbs comfortingly over the sides of his knees. I’m sorry, she sent softly to him through their bond. I’m sorry

Rhys’ mind caressed hers. Me too.

Feyre kept running her hands soothingly over him, tempted to turn around and pull him to her, wrap her arms around those broad shoulders of his. She didn’t though; the act of braiding seemed to calm him… like coming home to something he’d thought he’d long forgotten. (Still, she wished she could protect him from all the pain he endured… but that same pain had made him into the wonderful male he was today.) 

When he was finally done, she saw his finished work briefly through his eyes, the image flashing through her mind.

“It’s beautiful,” Feyre said with a smile, reaching up to run her fingers over the intricate pattern he’d managed to weave her hair into. “Thank you.”

Rhys’ strong arms around wrapped around her body, finally pulling her back to rest against his chest. “I figured it was about time I got some practice,” he whispered in her ear as he moved one hand to cover her rounded belly. “I wouldn’t want our poor daughter to be left with an inept father.”

Feyre tangled her fingers with Rhys’, holding them over her stomach, where their unborn baby was slowly growing. “You could never be an inept father, Rhys,” she told him softly. Rhys only pressed kiss under her jaw in response, though she could feel his quiet gratitude for her faith in him. “Besides, how do you know it’ll be a girl?” Feyre continued, turning her head so she could arch an eyebrow at him.

Mischief lit his violet eyes. “Perhaps I asked Elain.”

Feyre leveled a look at him. “Elain would never tell you, even if she knew.” Her sister had become quite the responsible seer over the years, never revealing more than was necessary. (Well, that and Feyre had wanted it to be a surprise, telling Elain in no uncertain terms not to let Rhys charm the answer out of her.)

“Then let’s call it a father’s intuition,” Rhys replied now, unable to stop his grin.

Feyre laughed, leaning her head against the edge of his jaw. “She’s going to have you wrapped around her little finger, isn’t she?” 

“Of course,” he kissed her forehead, his happiness a near tangible thing. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Feyre could only cuddle in closer. She looked at where their joined hands were resting on her belly. Don’t worry, baby, she thought, we love you already, no what you turn out to be.

(A few years later, when their daughter runs up to Feyre, her hair braided in a crown around her head, little flowers carefully tucked in the midnight blue strands, she doesn’t need to ask who did it. Rhys’ proud smile is answer enough.)

Ecstasy. {Nessian}

Requested by @rowanismybae. Nessian, with some smut and a side of fluff. I always love getting Nessian requests, for I am trash. I apologize, it’s kind of short. Anyways, enjoy. :)

Originally posted by imaulusoyist

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

I felt as if time was going slower than usual. I’d been standing in the foyer, at the bottom of the staircase, for nearly thirty minutes. She was late.  The rest of the Court was on their way to the ball already, Elain having whispered good luck to me on her way out the door, arm in arm with Azriel. 

At this point, I wasn’t sure if her good luck was meant to be a warning for whatever mood Nesta was in, or if it was because she knew I’d be waiting on her sister for an ungodly amount of time.But, as the door on the second floor of the townhouse creaked open, all my anxiety faded. And when she came around the corner, all my complaints vanished. 

Her hair was up, braided in a crown around the top of her head. Her gown was long, trailing the wooden floorboards behind her, the color of the Velaris sky just before the sun began to rise. 

She was half way down the stairs when her eyes found mine, and she froze, her pink lips parting, slightly.

I held my hand out to her. “See something you like?”

Blue-gray eyes rolled. 

Moment over.

“I’ve never seen you in anything other than rags, is all,” she stated, continuing her walk until she met me in the foyer. “And you bathed, which is always shocking.”

My smirk made her roll her eyes, again. “I clean up well. Don’t act so surprised.”

And cleaned up, I did. Feyre actually suggested that I wore the tailored pants and the light grey button down. I drew the line at the tie and the shoes, however. So, I kept the top button loose and wore my boots. Nesta’s eyes scanned my hair, which was knotted at the back of my head, then my chest, then my waist where my shirt was perfectly tucked. Then-

“Are those your training boots?” she raised an eyebrow.

As I glanced down at my dusty, black leather boots, Nesta breathed out a laugh. 

Shrugging, I held out my hand, “Shall we?”

Her fingers grazed mine, but she didn’t move. The same ecstasy that I felt every time Nesta’s body made contact with mine consumed me, the feeling that I dreamed about, that I thought about constantly and could never get enough of. That feeling of ecstasy was my weakness, my downfall, my greatest accomplishment, my addiction.

“You look beautiful,” i said, brushing a stray strand of golden-brown hair behind her ear.

She opened her mouth, then closed her lips into a thin line before opening them again,

“When are we supposed to be there?” she whispered, running her fingers down my forearm. 

I glanced at the clock. “Ten minutes ago.”

She sucked in a breath as I took a step closer. “And ten minutes more?”

A grin spread across my lips before I could stop it. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

In my time with Nesta, I could honestly say that she never ceased to amaze me. I was constantly surprised by her – by her wit, by her knowledge, by her hidden kindness, by her talents, by the way she knew how to use her hands just the right way along every inch of my body.

Now was no exception.

She didn’t waste time dragging me upstairs before she slid her finger along the inside of my wing, just behind my shoulder blade. She knew what she was doing. She knew I was about to drop to my knees and beg for all she had to give me. She knew, and she enjoyed watching me in awe of her beauty.

She pushed me back against the leather couch and straddled my lap. With one hand running up her thigh, underneath the thin skirts of her evening gown, and the other trailing up her back to find the ribbon that held everything in place, our lips met in a soft, slow, tender embrace.

It was a dance, the way her tongue brushed mine every time we kissed, how she somehow managed to naturally make my hips move along with hers. I had been with many women, but none of them compared to her. None of them compared with the human who stole from the Cauldron, from the Fae that comforted me as death surrounded us both. None of them compared to the female who could make a suriel stop in its tracks, who could take away my fears and anxieties with just a simple smile. None of them had made me feel so unworthy, so alive. None of them were Nesta Archeron, and I never wanted to taste, feel, love anyone but her.

Her eyes stared into mine as she unbuttoned my shirt, one by one. I finally managed to find the ribbon tied neatly into a bow at the small of her back and yanked, allowing the dress to fall down to her waist. 

Her back straightened as I took her in, the same body I had witnessed day after day and only grew to love more every damn time.

My shirt had been pushed down my arms before I cupped her breasts, and ran my tongue along her bottom lip, up her jawbone, and nipped at her earlobe. 

She shuddered as she unzipped my trousers and her small, delicate hand found me in no small, delicate way at all. My head fell back against the cushions as she took control, her name a whisper that had found its way into the moans escaping my open lips. 

Before I could get too excited, she rose from her place on my lap and let her gown fall to the crimson rug. She watched me as my eyes slid from her toes, up, slowly, until they reached her own, and she grinned.

I watched her as she turned from me, as she walked calmly up the stairs. She glanced at me, once, when she reached the landing of the second floor then continued down the hallway. 

I waited a few seconds before I pushed off by boots, and sprinted to the upper level.

She was waiting for me in the doorway of her bedroom, a soft giggle the only sound in the otherwise silent townhouse. 

“Tease,” I mumbled, as my lips pressed into hers and I lifted her up by her waist, her long, slender legs wrapping around my lower back.

“You like it.” 

I could not disagree as her lips found my neck and I was completely undone.

Dainty feet pushed down my trousers until they were nothing more than a limp piece of fabric at the foot of the bed, just after I laid her down, her head resting on the pillow she’d stole from my room a month ago.

The first gasp would get me every time. The gasp she made when I would first enter her, gently, urgently. The gasp that told me that’s what she wanted, that’s what she’d been waiting for, that I could still satisfy her after all this time. I lived for that gasp, that expression on her ethereal face of pure adrenaline. 

Making love to Nesta was like being with someone who was not of this world. She was demanding, yet generous, she was confident, yet awestruck, she was quiet and cunning, yet moaned my name continuously as if she could not get close enough to me. We were one in the same. I couldn’t tell where her body ended and mine began, and I didn’t want to. It was not a meaningless act of lust, but a dance that was only perfected when two people who were meant for one another found each other.  It was like nothing I had ever experienced before, and something I wanted to experience for as long as I lived.

We lied there, breathless, her head lying on my damp chest when the clock struck midnight. 

She cursed, and I laughed at the sound of vulgarity coming from her proper mouth. We had been too busy talking, too busy exploring one another to join the others.

“What will we tell them?” she asked. 

“I’ll tell them you couldn’t keep your hands off me,” my hand ran down her backside as she chastised me, which only made me laugh harder. 

“You make me happy,” she said, quietly, after the sound of laughter and heavy breathing faded into nothingness.

I kissed her forehead, softly, as I pulled her blankets up to our waists and wrapped my wings around her. “You give me life, Nesta Archeron.”   

Padme’s Unnaturally Tidy Hair

Most of us Star Wars fans have commented on Padme’s amazing hairdos…and her ability to keep them looking as fancy before a battle as after. This offers some insight.

Well, I just read an article discussing how in old Celtic folklore (which, I believe, the Grizmalltians took a lot of their culture from, and later the Nabooans, their descendants) to join the elite warrior groups, one would have to have four braids done. Three were wrapped around the head and the fourth was kept long down the back, even down to the ankles. The individual would have to run through the woods, while being chased, and survive, without being captured, and without having the braids loosened by any branches.

Now, if Padme was trained in the Order of the Sacred Circle in a like manner, which I believe she was, and this was a sacred training ground for noble women, I guess it all makes sense now; Padme was literally trained to fight without getting her hair mussed up.

Oh, my!

The Protective King

Originally posted by tinysofia


A/N: So here is my first Thranduil x reader/wife. It’s super long but hey, the more the merrier. I hope you will enjoy this one and all the sandarin translation will be under this note! In the future I may do the translation in the text but that depends on how many elvish words I use. Now enjoy!

Word count: 1691

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All That I Am ; An Elucien Fanfiction — Part 1

a/n: so i just randomly got the idea for this fic and decided to start it. it’ll probably be 3-4 parts in the end. i’ve never written elucien before, so i hope that this is okay! thanks so much to @sarahviehmann​ for helping me edit and giving me constant support, i love you!

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,813 

Part 2 / Part 3

No one is there for Elain. Not with Nesta standing by, in all her loud, violent glory. Nesta screams for days, until her voice is hoarse, even after that, and Elain doesn’t know how anyone can bear to be around her anymore. But then one day, she stops. Elain is there to watch her, sitting on a bench at the edge of one of the many terraces in the House of Wind. Angry tears drip down her sister’s chin, her face contorted. She’s holding onto the metal railing, the only thing keeping her from vaulting herself over the edge. And then it melts beneath her touch, just like that.

Nesta pulls back quickly, staring at her hands as if they were something foreign. Elain thinks that maybe they are. A flicker of a flame dances across Nesta’s fingertips and she yelps. One of the warriors comes running when Nesta stops screaming, worried she’d been hurt, but Elain doesn’t care enough to see which one it is. All she sees is him leading Nesta back inside, talking excitedly about her new power, and a glimpse of Nesta’s teeth as she smiles. Elain is left alone. Forgotten. Ignored.

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Love is...Ensuring the Enduring Happiness of Katniss Everdeen

by: @finnicko-loves-anniec

Facing twelve weeks of summer without her best friend, Posy knows she needs a project. At first, hunting with Katniss seems like enough, but when she realizes just how lonely her new friend really is, Posy is determined to find a more permanent companion for Katniss. She’s even got the man picked out – Peeta Mellark. Now, all that remains is convincing them they need each other.


It seemed wrong that summer, the time of year where there were the fewest things to do, also had the longest days. At seven and eight, and for most of her ninth year, Posy had not thought much of it. Now that she was ten, however, that observation grated at her. Yes, she could have filled her days in the same way she had in past summers, with pick-up kickball in the town square or playing pretend in the meadow with Paige and Senna, but she felt too big to play kickball with the five-year-olds and she and Senna had gotten into a fight the last day of school that neither of them had yet apologized for. Considering that she hadn’t been the one who told Mrs. Clearney about the insect case, Posy had no intention of saying sorry first. Paige and Senna didn’t agree. Being right felt nice, but it was also boring when nobody else felt like being right with you.

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our love was made for movie screens;

pairing: riley matthews and lucas friar
word count: 1.5k
prompt: “day one: canon verse - something that takes place in the canon universe as we know it”
written for: rucas fanfic week 2017
summary: lucas friar loves the movies, but he love seeing them with riley even more.
a/n: so, this is my first rucas oneshot, and it’s probably not that great, have mercy. the fic is set in the summer between 7th and 8th grade. there’s been a lot of references to rucas movie dates in the show (gm texas pt. 3 and gm the new year) but we never saw any of it, so i imagined what one of them was like. the movies mentioned are avengers age of ultron (cursed) and inside out (which i haven’t seen dfgjdfg) and the title is from all i want by kodaline. 

There was something special about going to the movies. Maybe it was splurging on overpriced buttery popcorn and sugary sweet chocolate, or finding the perfect seat to settle into. Perhaps it was escaping screams and the crushing weight of expectations, the feeling of knuckles and the taste of blood– the distraction of being transported into another world and focusing on someone else’s problems. But the best thing, to Lucas, was the company. He wasn’t always the best at talking to others, unsure of his words, but he didn’t have to talk when he was at the movies. Lucas was allowed to bask in presence of his friends, listen to their laughs and watch them cry, just be. The movies revealed the little things that made his newfound friends tick or burst out into grins. It helped him understand the crazy people who were Farkle, Maya, and Riley; while he seemed to fit in well with the three, he still had a lot to learn about the native New Yorkers.

Lucas Friar loved the movies, plain and simple.

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Some Things About Leia Organa and Her Hair

So I’ve been considering doing a post about this for a while and since there’ve been a lot of discussions about Leia recently I figured ‘why not’?

So, some things about Leia and her hair from a person who is living with hair LONGER than Leia’s is depicted in ROTJ and has been for quite a long time.

Please bare with me while I learn to use this thing.

1. She is inevitably asked by someone if her hair is real every time she tries a new style.

2. As a child she would wear her hair down when she was at home but as she grows (along with her hair) it becomes a less common occurrence because her hair is to much to deal with down. (Exceptions are made for headaches. Sometimes.)

3. On the way to Bespin Han asked her to wear it down and she refused (5 times) until she finally un-braided it all for him to see how long it is. (Han stops asking.)

4. Breha taught Leia to do her hair and Leia keeps some of her pins to tuck into her hair, even once they’re worn out and no longer keep anything in place.

5. She never has enough bobby pins.

6. Or hair ties.

(She asks Chewie to buy her some while on a supply run. He brings back exactly what she asks for and refuses any payment.)
7.On the way to Bespin she teaches Han simple styles and techniques; how to divide hair for a braid, how and where to pin them, what styles are good for what, and, his personal favorite, how to find all of the pins.

8. Hair, on Alderaan is tradition and modesty and necessity. It takes Leia some time to learn this but it takes her even longer to realize that other places don’t share the same customs.

9. A particularly rude Ambassador once inquired as to why she wore her hair “like a common peasant.” She hit him. (She later discovers that the people on his planet only bind their hair if they must work. She never apologizes.)

10. Leia is distraught over Jaina’s refusal to have her hair done and she cries the night Jaina comes home with it chopped short. (She thought she was going to get the chance to pass on the things her mother taught her.)

11. There is a crisis (because there is always a crisis) on some midrim world they happen to be on and a law is passed saying that to leave any hair must be shaved to the skull. Han promises to stay with her until the decree is lifted and he teaches her how to wrap her hair in scarves the way he remembers his mother doing.

12. The Rogues tell her mood by her hair. Han tells the political climate. Luke tells the weather.

13. One time, trying to be helpful, Luke brings her images of various hairstyles from the holonet. Leia is forced to tell him that anything that is pictured with hair shorter than hers will never work like the pictures but agrees to try some anyway.

14. Her hairstyle on Bespin is not something she’s ever seen done before but Han created the beginnings of it one night when she allowed him to braid her hair.

15. The style becomes one of her favorite elegant styles. She wears it on their wedding day.

16. She’s not one for overly adorning her hair but she has a handful of decorative clips, two hair sticks in different styles, a circlet and a diadem, all of which are very simple.

17. Her circlet was created for her when she was born, elegant gold twisting and coiling with one small sapphire set in it. After the war it was thought to be lost. That is, until it turned up, along with jewelry that had been in an exhibit about the designer. They found the diadem there too. It had been her mother’s, and it was quite simple, silver with small diamonds. (Her mother always said it was a day diadem, for formal events before sundown.)

18. After the event with Jaina’s hair Leia says nothing. She sits at her dressing table and does her own hair, leaving the door open for her daughter just in case.

19. Han built her a stool for the ‘fresher on the Falcon so that she can sit in front of the mirror and be at just the right height to do her hair.

20. The Rogues timed her once on doing her hair. She took out two braided buns and turned them into four braids coiling around her head. It took her 20 minutes to do the whole thing. They were impressed.

21. Jaina eventually begins allowing her mother to style her hair again for formal events. It’s quite short but Leia is quite skilled. After Jaina turns 18 Leia allows her to wear the circlet but Jaina rarely agrees, saying she’s not the real Princess.

22. There’s a rumor that Leia can do her hair faster than Han can tear apart, clean and reload his blaster. This is untrue. They tried it once. Han was 11 seconds faster.

23. When her friends get married Leia does their hair. For Winter it was a traditional coronet that looks like a tiara with the right pins. For Mara it was a waterfall of braids that she has only ever replicated for Mara on she and Luke’s 10th anniversary. The list goes on.

24. When Jag proposed Jaina began growing her hair out while trying not to make it seem obvious. The morning of the wedding she waits at her mother’s dressing table until Leia emerges from the ‘fresher. With tears in her eyes, Leia braids the diadem into her daughter’s hair and realizes how much she wished her mother had been there to do this for her.

25. After Bespin Leia allows her hair to become a mess. Finally a kind Alderaani survivor comes and washes and braids Leia’s hair, saying that it won’t do them any good to find Captain Solo if he has no one to come back for.

26. Leia would never cut her hair. She won’t even consider it.

27. Han establishes a rule that if he takes her hair out at night he either has to rebraid it before they go to sleep or he has to help her brush it in the morning. He figures this is a fair rule since he’s usually responsible for the mess it is. 

28. She teaches Jacen how to do hair and he’s always excited when his daughter tells her friends that her dad made the elaborate twists and coils.

29. Breha used time together doing hair as a way to teach her daughter about the galaxy but Leia stopped dreaming of a daughter of her own during the war.

30. Jaina is stubborn and “far to like Han” but she learned far more from her mother than Leia ever thought she did. She always tells her friends that beauty is often seen as a softness and lack of strength but she’s never seen anyone look more beautiful, and still kick butt, than her mother. Being focused on ones hair or make up or clothes isn’t something to be frowned upon, because you never see it coming when they can win a fight in an alley.

(Hoping this makes sense, I have a major headache. (: )

Stumble Through Heaven- Part 1: The Calm - A Morrigan/Selene Fic

MAJOR ACOWAR SPOILERS AHEAD 

Sooo @tbhfangirl19 asked me for Mor/a lady someone basically. So now you have a two part Mor/ladies fic with Mor and…who is effectively my OC (she’s like…canon in five lines, she’s Viviane’s sister and this all definitely happened in canon) Anyway. I got carried away so now there’s lots of lesbian emotions flying around. Have at it. @king-havilliard figured you would appreciate the tag. Thank you for reading this/humouring my yelling about it @pterodactylichexameter

Title: Stumble Through Heaven - Part 1: The Calm 

Summary: (my timings are wonky, this doesn’t technically work in canon but it’s close enough and by the time I realised it didn’t work I was already attached to the idea and it was too much effort changing it for a relatively small detail) After her fight with Feyre Mor seeks solace in the Winter Court camp and runs into an old flame, Selene, Viviane’s younger sister. They revisit their history with one another. Rating will go up in the next part but this one is SFW. 

Teaser:  “How are you?”

There’s enough pointed emphasis in the last word that Mor knows the female can still read her as easily as she remembers how she prefers her tea. She turns away, looks down the sharply sloping hill to the battlefield again, churned and ragged and raw. A good mirror for the way she feels. All she says however in answer to Selene’s question is, “Fine.”

To her surprise, that response tugs a soft huff of laughter from the female sitting by her side, legs folded beneath her, back perfectly straight, “All these years, Morrigan,” she says quietly, taking a drink of her tea before shaking her head. “All these years and you still think you can hide from me.”

Link: AO3 

Despite the thick heat of the Summer Court, the air wet with blood after a day of battle and the mourning tears that followed, the Winter Court encampment still somehow feels cold to Mor. A sharp breeze lifts, tugging at her hair, stirring it around her face, as though trying to pull her away somewhere. She ignores it.

Still in the clothes she had worn when she’d descended down into the battle, not bothering to strip out of it. The armour feels like a lead weight now, dragging her weary limbs down. Exhaustion gnaws at her and she should sleep, should go back to her own camp, her own tent, curl up and let that fatigue drag her into tomorrow but…

She had needed to get out, to get away from all of it. Cassian’s injuries had rattled her, even if the stupid prick would be alright. She had been there, feet from him as he’d been torn apart before her eyes and she’d felt sure she was watching his death, helpless. Helpless again when she had returned to the camp and found Feyre gone, had to restrain herself from shaking that sister of hers to make her tell her where she had gone so she could find her and drag her back. Helpless as she had looked into Rhys’ terrified eyes and been forced to confess that she had been tricked, that she had been lied to, again, that those closest to her would rather go behind her back than trust her.

Then the fight with Feyre in her tent after she had returned. In one piece, thank the Mother, the things that she had said to her, the things she had heard come tearing from her friend’s lips. She closes her eyes, hugging herself, her fingers gripping onto her arms until it hurts. That breeze lifts again, carrying with it the tears that burn her eyes and fall as she bows her head, shaking, attempting to master herself.

They’re at war she doesn’t have time to sit here and feel sorry for herself, she should be in camp, helping, planning, doing something. Instead she’s sitting here, like a child pathetic and frightened and helpless all over again. She holds her head in her hands, shaking, not caring who sees. None of the Winter Court soldiers are likely to bother her. They would have to come seeking her, where she’s huddled on the edge of this war camp, over-looking the battle field that Feyre had tricked her onto, where Cassian had nearly died right in front of her, where-

She looks up at the soft, lithe footsteps that sound at her side. A beautiful Winter Court fae stands there, looking down at her. Selene. Viviane’s sister. It’s been decades since they’ve been this close to one another, not since before Amarantha. Yet she hasn’t changed. She remains the same. A tall, willowy pillar of frozen steel, cold and unyielding, precise and elegant as a sculpture. Her long silver hair restrained by a thick braid wrapped around her head like a crown. She looks strikingly like her older sister, except her eyes, they’re sharper, colder, and of a steely grey, a windswept mountain to her sister’s bright ocean sapphire.

For all they look alike however, there are no squealing outbursts and desperate hugs between the two of them. Only quiet. The same kind of quiet that always fills Mor whenever she looks into those pale, fathomless eyes, the same kind of quiet she wishes she could exist in for the rest of her life. The tension seems to bleed from her as that silence sweeps through her, a bone deep calm that she only ever feels around a few people in this world.

Wordlessly, taking Mor’s lack of brusque demand for her to leave her alone as acceptance of her presence, Selene carefully lowers herself down onto the ground, then passes over a cup of tea. Mor accepts it gratefully, holding it between her hands to warm them from the chill night that’s starting to draw in around her. She sniffs at the tea before she takes a sip. The mixed scents of citrus and apple draw a small, sad smile from her. All these years…All these years but Selene still remembers her favourite blend.

They sit in silence for a long moment, sipping their tea, Mor grateful for the other female’s company, despite the faint knot of tension that starts to pulse in her stomach at her presence. So long, it’s been so long since they were together, all this time, both likely fearing the other lost after Amarantha’s conquest and yet…Yet still the quiet embraces them, holds them tight, somehow more intimate than the tight embrace Viviane had swept her into when they had seen each other again.

It’s a gift, this respite that she offers her. But eventually, Mor finds herself asking quietly, “How are you?”

Selene stiffens almost imperceptibly, takes a sip of her own tea, mint, if Mor isn’t mistaken. Even without the scent she would have known. She remembers her too. Then she says, “Well.” Her voice is the same as she remembers it, like snow melting from a mountainside, cool and heavy and smooth, with that soft rasp to it that makes her shiver.

It had been a loaded question, a question asking after how she had fared all these years they had been apart, with the distance of grief and loss between them. That she had chosen not to answer it, to confine their discussion to the present…Says all she needs it to.

She turns to face Mor, her eyes seeming to glow a dark silver as the light from the camp behind them catches, “How are you?”

There’s enough pointed emphasis in the last word that Mor knows the female can still read her as easily as she remembers how she prefers her tea. She turns away, looks down the sharply sloping hill to the battlefield again, churned and ragged and raw. A good mirror for the way she feels. All she says however in answer to Selene’s question is, “Fine.”

To her surprise, that response tugs a soft huff of laughter from the female sitting by her side, legs folded beneath her, back perfectly straight, “All these years, Morrigan,” she says quietly, taking a drink of her tea before shaking her head. “All these years and you still think you can hide from me.”

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Practice run. Otherwise known as, rehearsal. Pretend. Not real.

But there are no practice runs in life.

This is a short snippet of my new story, written for the @loveinpanem new author’s month. I need to thank my wonderful mentor @booksrockmyface / @hpfanonezillion for her amazing guidance and cheerleading in this story. ❤️❤️

Rated T, Modern AU


By the time I step through the front doors of the church it’s almost 5:45. I hear Delly calling my name over the din of conversation filling the atrium, and I find her waving to me over by the t-shirt line. She’s standing with an absolutely beautiful, dark-haired young lady who’s looking around with trepidation.

As I approach the two ladies I notice that Delly’s friend has the most striking coloring that I’ve ever seen. Her hair is mahogany brown, with strands of auburn flashing in the evening natural light in the atrium, and woven into a single braid that reaches most of the way down her back. She’s shorter than Delly by several inches, but she has a presence about her that is proud. I’ve never seen anyone else like her before.

“Peeta!” Delly says excitedly as I reach them. “This is my friend and archery teacher, Katniss Everdeen. Katniss, this is Peeta Mellark.”

I stand there for a few seconds, gaping at her eye color, which is the perfect combination of silver and grey. “Peeta,” I blurt out. I feel the blush creeping up my neck as I gulp and hold out my hand. “My name is Peeta. It’s wonderful to meet you, Katniss.”

She eyes my hand suspiciously before grasping it in her own. “Hello,” she says. Even in that one word of greeting, I can hear how beautifully musical her voice is. I feel my heart skip a beat as I clear my throat, which has suddenly gone dry.

I can see Delly grinning as her eyes flick between Katniss and me a few times. “So Katniss,” she says. “Are you hungry? Peeta here makes most of the goodies that we sell in the cafe.”

A slight flush creeps its way up Katniss’s cheeks. “I didn’t bring any money,” she mumbles.

“Oh no, let me get it for you!” Delly exclaims. “Do you like hot chocolate? The hot chocolate here is better than any Starbucks you’ll ever have!”

“Um, I’ve never had it before, but-” Katniss starts to say, but Delly interrupts her.

“Then you’re in for a treat!” Delly says. “I’ll be right back!”

Katniss and I watch awkwardly as Delly practically skips across the atrium to the cafe. “Um, I’m sorry if Delly seems a little pushy,” I say. “She’s really a lovely person, she’s just a bit much for some people when they first meet her.”

Katniss looks up at me. Her eyes have flecks of hazel in them, and her intricate braid is twisted around her head and tied with a piece of leather string. She’s wearing a fitted green top with a plaid shirt over it, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and the bottom tied in a knot around her slender waist. Her fitted jeans have holes in both knees and are tucked into a pair of brown leather hiking boots. She is breathtaking.

“She also doesn’t ever take no for an answer, either,” Katniss replies. “She’s been bugging me about coming to church with her since I first met her.” She takes a long look around the atrium. “But I will say, this is unlike any church that I’ve ever seen.”

Delly returns then, holding two cheese buns and two paper cups of hot chocolate, which she hands to Katniss and me. “You didn’t need to get me anything,” I try to protest, but Delly cuts me off.

“It’s an apology of sorts,” she says, wincing. “Thom came up to me when I was waiting in line and said that one of his camera operators just texted to say he was sick and couldn’t make it tonight, so I need to cover for him.” She turns to Katniss. “Do you mind sitting with Peeta during the service? I’m so sorry, but we really need both cameras covered.”

Katniss shakes her head after a few seconds. “No, that’s fine. But why do you need cameras during a church service?”

“I’m sure Peeta would be happy to answer any of your questions, and I’ll meet you again after the service,” Delly says. “I’m sorry, I really need to get on the camera, we have less than five minutes till service starts.”

I take a bite of the cheese bun. Delly even remembered to have them heated a little, since they’re always better warm. Katniss takes a bite of hers as well, and I swear I see her eyes close and hear her sigh as she chews.

“This is good!” Katniss says once she’s swallowed her bite. Her eyes narrow as she looks at me. “You made this?”

I don’t know about kings, but I’ll help you

A sequel to “A gift for a girl who no longer exists”. I just couldn’t leave Sansa that unhappy! So here is Jon brushing Sansa’s hair. :) This is a bit of a remix of one of the first chapters of a WIP. Thanks again to @dragonchristianlady97 for the lovely “Jon likes to brush Sansa’s hair” headcanon!

***

Sansa tried to be scrupulous about appearances. They mattered. She knew that better than most. The Lannisters had wrapped her in lions, complete with teeth and claws, the day she wed Tyrion. She’d worn her own dress emblazoned with a wolf when staring Ramsay down, and she’d drawn strength from it.

So she was angry she’d let her hair get away from her. The past week hadn’t given any of them a moment’s rest. A raven had come to Winterfell heralding the arrival of Daenerys Targaryen. Sansa heard whispers of the queen’s beauty, even this far north. She’d thought herself past vanity. Apparently she’d been mistaken. She was vain enough to want her hair to shine like burnished copper, as it had when her mother brushed it, so she could greet the queen with confidence. But late nights and early mornings had forced her to braid her hair quickly, to keep it out of the way of the maps spread out hastily in Winterfell’s great hall.

Now it was tangled, hopelessly, in the back. She was standing, scowling at her reflection. I don’t have time for this.

She heard a knock at the door. “Sansa, it’s Jon. May I come in?” She almost turned him away. But the news he carried could be important, and she couldn’t shut herself in her room forever.

“Yes, come in please, Jon.” He closed the door, cutting off the colder air from the hallway. Sansa cursed as the brush got stuck once again. Jon seemed shocked. She’d probably never cursed in front of him before.

“Sansa, what’s wrong?”

Sansa was too tired to lie. She’d have to tell him. She sighed, setting the brush down. “Jon, promise, please, not to laugh.” Jon looked about as far away from laughing as possible, but then again, he usually looked solemn. “I won’t, Sansa.”

“It’s-“ Sansa gestured fruitlessly to the back of her head. “My hair, Jon, it’s tangled, and I can’t brush through it. And no, I can’t ask a lady’s maid for help, I can’t ask anyone for help, because I can’t let them-“

Jon strode across the room, and his arms were around her before she could get out the rest of the warning. Sansa stiffened, and Jon loosened his grip, ready to release her. He felt…good, warm and solid, and Sansa focused on her breathing. He won’t hurt me. He won’t. She gathered up her courage and leaned into him. Jon held her a little tighter, and waited. She sensed he was ready to stand there all night, even all week.

“Sansa, you don’t have to explain.” Jon’s voice was low, and soft, and she could feel his words reverberate in his chest. She held on to his shirt with one hand. “I just – if there’s anything I can do, to help you, please tell me.”

Sansa focused on the feel of Jon’s stubble against her cheek, and the scent of leather that clung to him. Maybe she could make a jest, to get out the mess she’d found herself in. “Do kings brush hair?”

Jon tilted his ear towards her. “Hm?” She couldn’t blame him. She’d spoken directly into the fabric of his shirt. She pulled back, and tried for lightness. “Kings. Do they brush hair?”

She waited for a hint of a smile. Instead Jon held her gaze, his eyes dark and serious. “I don’t know about kings, Sansa, but I’d try, if you wanted.”

Sansa didn’t trust herself to speak just then, so she reached for the silver brush on her table. Her hand shook slightly. She held it out to him. Jon took the handle from her. He still hadn’t let her go, and Sansa found she didn’t want him to. She felt safe, and wished she could keep him here, in her chambers. That thought led to other half-suppressed feelings she knew she had to ignore, so she turned, and sat.

Jon was at a loss, but determined. He cleared his throat. “Is it better if I stand?”

“It’s easier if you sit in a chair behind me.”

“I saw your mother and you like that, once.” Jon pulled up a chair behind her. He was quiet, which was a blessing. Sansa expected the large knots in her hair were intimidating. She was about to give Jon some advice, to tell him he might have to start with his fingers, when he made quick work of the first tangles. She looked at him in the mirror, surprised. “Have you done this before, Jon?”

Jon shrugged. “I brushed horses at the Wall,” he said, and then shut his eyes. “I can’t believe I just said that out loud.” Sansa was speechless. The chagrin on Jon’s face was too much, and Sansa couldn’t help a small laugh at his expense.

She covered her mouth, chastened. “I’m sorry, Jon, that was unkind.”

“No, it’s all right. It’s…I’m glad to hear you laugh.” The corner of Jon’s mouth turned up, and he kept working. “Your hair’s so fine, anyway,” he said gently, “the knots come out easily.” Sansa knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth. The tangled mess was challenging, but Jon was patient. Soon Sansa closed her eyes, tilting her head back. It was such a luxury, to have someone do this for her. It was such a luxury not to flinch at someone’s touch. She heard his chair scrape against the floor to get a bit closer. She felt his fingertips at her temple, lightly, at the beginning of each stroke through her hair.

“Is this too hard?”

“No, Jon, you’re gentler than mother was.” She yawned, and dimly realized he’d not told her where he needed to be next. 

***

When she woke the room was dim. The sun had almost set. She could feel Jon’s presence behind her. “How long was I asleep?”

“Not that long.”

He was a terrible liar. “Jon, the sun’s gone down, it’s been at least a few hours. Were you here, the whole time?”

“Aye I didn’t - you looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Sansa.”

“How did you get out that one huge knot in the back?” She couldn’t believe she’d slept through that.

“I just…concentrated,” he said, and something in his tone made her shiver. “Do you need me to braid it? You’d have to show me, it always looks so intricate, around your head, small braids and large ones.” His forehead creased. A man ready to lead an army to war, flummoxed at the thought of dressing a woman’s hair. She could only imagine what he would have made of the elaborate styles she’d worn back when she thought Cersei Lannister was the height of grace and beauty.

Sansa did want his help, and soon. She wanted to wear his gift, the hairnet he’d given her. But this wasn’t the time. “No, you’d better go, I’m sure Davos and Tormund are wondering where you are by now.” He looked at her in confusion and she sighed, inwardly. Think, Jon, you spent hours in your sister’s bedroom, unplanned, people see, they talk. He got up with a strange reluctance and paused at the door.

“Good night, Sansa.”

“Good night, Jon.” Her hair flowed like silk as pulled it over one shoulder. She looked down at the silver brush on the table. There was barely a strand caught in it. She wouldn’t have been half so careful herself. Sansa braided her hair back to keep it from tangling again while she slept and threw two extra logs on for light and warmth. She slept well, and long, that night, dreaming of copper and fire and Jon’s dark eyes.

gonzoponzo  asked:

I saw in one of your answers that you thought Tyrion will ride rhaegal and jon viserion. Ive always thought those would be reversed. Is there strong evidence one way or the other? Gut feeling? Thanks

The only reason I’ve ever seen anyone say why they think Jon will ride Rhaegal is that the dragon’s a namesake for Rhaegar, and Jon is Rhaegar’s son. (I don’t doubt that Jon will have to deal with the fact that Rhaegar’s his father, but I don’t think his dragon’s name will have much to do with it.) Generally they seem to give Tyrion Viserion by process of elimination, but sometimes they refer to the white dragon cyvasse piece Tyrion holds in his second TWOW chapter. (Personally I think the point of that scene is not that it’s white, but that it’s bloody, but anyway.) I don’t think that really works – if you’re matching namesakes, shouldn’t you find a reason to associate Tyrion and Viserys, then? – or if you’re going by color/foreshadowing, where’s Jon and green? – but that’s not my theory, so I won’t work at rationalizing it. 

For me, I have several reasons why think Jon will ride Viserion and Tyrion Rhaegal. Firstly, color symbolism: Jon is associated with white (Ghost, weirwoods, winter, snow), Tyrion green (Lannister eyes, wildfire, “money”). More symbolism can be found in the placement of the dragon eggs on Drogo’s pyre:

She climbed the pyre herself to place the eggs around her sun-and-stars. The black beside his heart, under his arm. The green beside his head, his braid coiled around it. The cream-and-gold down between his legs. –AGOT, Daenerys X

As I said the other day, of the three heads of the dragon, Dany (Drogon) is the heart (emotions, passion, id); Tyrion (Rhaegal) is the head (intelligence, knowledge, ego); Jon (Viserion) is the “sword” (strength, military, superego).

Also, @joannalannister​ (who may have thought about this more than I have) gives several more reasons, connecting the dragons with the first trio of dragonriders. To paraphrase, she has Jon associated with Viserion/Visenya, the temperamental warrior, and Tyrion with Rhaegal/Rhaenys, the wise counselor. (Dany is of course Drogon/Aegon, the conqueror.)

So, with all that, I hope that helps you see where I’m coming from. I hope that GRRM has been thinking along these lines as well. :)

Fic:  An heni a vez e grass ar merc’hed 4/?

Taking a leap here.  WWII AU, PG-13, wartime trauma and injuries, mentions of Nazis.  French puns.  Names changed to reflect the time and place.  The Syndicate are Nazi-adjacent but working for a different new world order.
Title is from a Breton proverb, but I just used the part that means “he who has the grace of women”.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

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TO WONDER; Chapter Two, History’s Greatest Wonder

Summary: Studying art history abroad was supposed to be easy. It’s the second semester of your Freshman year. Meeting a gorgeous woman was a thought in the back of your head. This gorgeous woman having deadly secrets of her own wad not a thought in the back of your head.

Word Count: 9,639

Pairing: Diana Prince x Reader; Wonder Woman x Reader

A/N: So, this will be a, uh, story? A series? I’m not sure yet. I do have the third chapter started. This is a long chapter. I just kind of went with it? Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy it! Thanks :)

__________________________________________

The Louvre is full. More so than yesterday. You patiently wait near the statue of Aphrodite. A quick glance at your phone lets you know its 10 minutes past 12. All the ‘what ifs’ run through you mind like a guinea pig on a wheel. You begin to think she stood you up or just plain forgot about you. You grab your stuff slowly, hoping she will appear if you go slow enough. No show once everything was in your arms. You venture to the exit.

Your walk was slow. Your hope slowly going away as despair and anger filled you. The crisp air couldn’t bother you with the sun beating down. A beautiful combination. A wonderful day for art. Your mood keeps you from staying at the Louvre, wanting to get as far away from there as possible.

The streets are full of people hustling around. Some to are going to work, others to breakfast. The teens are walking off to who knows where, then there was you. Walking slowly, with dismay on your face. She could have been flirting to make you feel better, playing at your heart strings you think to yourself. Even more crushing is the fact you won’t be able to see the behind the scenes and learn more about what the Louvre has to offer.

You slow your walking, to the point you just stop and stare. There is this wall on an old brick building, dedicated to the late Superman. Low quality photos civilians have taken of him flying by. Some from the conference that took a drastic right turn into turmoil. Grainy pictures of what seems to be an average man interacting with normal, everyday people. It really makes you think, how many amazingly talented, superhero like people you have crossed paths with in the past.

A simple memorial means everything to people who’s lives have been affected by this one man who never asked to be the world’s martyr. You guess this world is as much of your home as it is his. Well, was his.

You look around, realizing you have never been around here before. You notice across the street a vendor selling flowers. You dig in your pocket to see if you have enough change. Crossing the street you look over the selection of flowers being offered for sell. You pay the vendor for the bouquet of flowers and walk back over to the wall of valor for a single man. A simple bow holding the bohquet together. Laying down the flowers next to the others surrounding the large portrait of the godly man, you step back to take it all in. A man that you’ve never met affects your life more than you’ve ever could imagine.

“Chrysanthemum, meaning a wonderful friend, cheerfulness, and rest. Cattail, meaning peace and prosperity. Iris, meaning your friendship means a lot, faith, hope, wisdom, and valor. Tell me miss, did you know him personally?” The little old ladies curiousity brought the attention of the crowd to you. Panic begins to fill your chest as you try to find a way to dismiss the crowd.

“He’s a friend to everyone. A savior to all. He gave us hope, faith, and peacefulness. I may not have known him personally, but in my heart it felt like I did.” You clear your throat with the intense air surrounding the crowd.

You smile at the lady, and begin to push your way out of the crowd. Your feet carrying you faster than when you first started your journey to, well, wherever your feet take you.

You stop your journey at a little café on the corner of a busy street. You stare inside the window of the shop. You can see the reflections of everyone behind you and across the street. You watch them walk by, oblivious to everything as their heads are shoved deeply in their phones.

One woman is wearing brown sandals with a red, flowery summer dress. The wind blowing it gently around her. Her long blonde hair getting stuck to her glossy lips. Another woman wearing a baggy t-shirt with ripped jeans and dirty vans. A man business arguing with someone on his phone, French pouring out of his mouth like a rapid river.

A woman exits the building behind you, long brown hair that could be mistaken for black as it flows in the gentle breeze. Her face obscured due to her looking down at the ground mostly. A tan coat wraps around her long legs. What catches your eye is her shoes, they look more like boots. Boots covered in metal. Red and gold shine brightly as the sun danced against the metal. The lady walks fast, weaving in and out of people. You turn to watch her go, feeling a strange pull towards this lady. You soon realize everyone has stopped what they were doing, as if frozen in time.

You hear the sound of heels clicking fast towards you. You manage to turn to your right only to be surprised. Diana was dressed in a gorgeous white dress. Once again in killer heels that make you ache in sympathy. Her hair braid around her head in a crown with little diamond hair pins throughout the braid. The pins give the allusion of a crown for royalty, something she could definitely rock and deserve.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. Something came up and I was needed else where. Please accept my apology as I did not mean to make you wait. Or leave for that matter.” She looks at you with such sincerity that you can’t do anything but accept her apology.

“I just felt uncomfortable with all those people around. Needed some fresh air. Besides, I’ve never been around here before. Been site seeing actually. Quite interesting here. Also, if I knew there was a café near by then I wouldn’t starve the whole day while I was sketching.” You grin up at her, trying to ease her guilt. Her blinding smile returning, bringing warmth inside of you.

“Are you hungry now? We can grab something here. I hear they have quite fantastic food here. Would you like to join me for this meal?” She asked, grin speaking volumes of her emotions.

“What, in like a date kind of way?” You smirk at her face when she realizes what she might of implied. “Well, I thought you’d never ask. After you, my majesty.” Opening the door for her, you laugh at her expression. She’s most likely flabbergasted at your change of emotion in such a short time.

Diana gracefully enters the café, dominance flowing out of her. She commands the whole rooms attention and respect without a word being said. She crosses the room to a secluded booth towards the back of the room. You hurry to catch up as she gestures for you to take a seat on the opposite side.

Just after sitting, a small, bubbly blonde comes up to your table.

“Bonjour! May I take ya orders?” Her heavy south accent is something you haven’t heard in a long while. The states have people of all kinds. Not many workers here in France have an American accent. The accent is quite refreshing to hear.

“A coffee with lots of creamer and lots of sugar. Never can go too wrong with sweet coffee. Especially after a long day.” You look to Diana, as she stares at you.

She orders, not glancing away for a second. “Coffee. Black with two sugars, please.” Her eyes seem to turn golden in the sunlight coming in from the window. Once the waitress left, Diana set her hands on the table, gently folded.

“So, Y/F/N, how long have you been here in France?”

You think a moment, trying to remember when you arrived with your group. “I think around 2 months. Actually, no, 3 months. Yes, 3 months. The is my 1st month here. We’ve been studying at the Louvre. Of course most is on your own time while we go and do things as a group every other day usually. The professor is sick so some are meeting up as small groups while others do their own thing today. We’re here for another month before we fly back state side.”

The waitress comes back carrying both the coffees. “One black with two sugas, ‘nd one super sweet. A lady after my own ‘eart. Enjoy ladies!” She skips away, back behind the counter.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, I was wondering if we still get to do the tour? It doesn’t have to be today or anything. I’ll probably sketch something from the window of our hotel room.” You ask shyly, afraid to put a strain on your blooming relationship with this breath taking woman.

“Today is probably a bad day for me. Will tomorrow work for you?” Her relaxed body language maybe you believe maybe you didn’t mess it all up.

“Possibly. It would have to be in the morning. That afternoon I have class to go, hopefully.” You smile at her, hoping you get to hang out with her more and see all the beautiful art work he Louvre has to offer society.

You go to grab you cup when a sudden force shoves you out of your seat, sliding across the floor. Your ears ring, vision distorts. You try to focus on the moving colors. Suddenly everything comes back in force. Screams. High pitched screams everywhere. Next to you was the body of the blonde waitress who gave you and Diana your respected cups.

'Diana. Where’s Diana? She was right next to me. Across from me. Where is she.’ Your thoughts are sluggish as you try to look around, paining exploding all across your body. You curl up into a ball, sobbing in immense pain. You feel a strong arm grab around your stomach, sliding you back across the floor to the booth you were sitting at.

Someone is in your face. You manage to focus just enough to realize it’s Diana. Something about you’re safe here. Stay put and try not to move. Your senses dull back down as another wave of pain crashes over you. Red begins to fill your vision. Everything else has been shut out. 'Just survive. Just survive’ on repeat in your head.

You stare into the waitress’s unmoving eyes. Blue, blue as the ocean. On sunny days, the may have sparkled like the water. Now, now they are dull, almost gray. Your vision begins to tunnel, with only her eyes left in your site as you finally succumb to the numbing darkness.

The Sorcerer and Her Son

Paring: Kylo Ren/Reader

Tags: female reader, female pronouns, AU - magic, AU - medieval, AU - gods and goddesses, tailoring, sewing, religious imagery and symbolism, male-female friendship, friends to lovers, nicknames, POV reader, POV Kylo Ren, fluff, angst.

Summary: In the small village on the edge of the forest, the tailor’s daughter cannot stand by and watch her mother’s ailing health lead her her death. Taking it upon herself to ask of the help of the resident witch, and her son, she must follow the contract to heal her mother. But, all magic, comes at a price, and sometimes, that price is knowing a little too much about things that are unsaid…

Word Count: 5,431

Posting Date:  2017-05-06

Current Date: 2017-06-12


Originally posted by somethingalongtheselines


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Chapter Seven: You Win or You Die

Originally posted by admireforever

PREVIOUS PART

*there will be smut in this chapter


After a week filled with dress fittings and last minute wedding plans, the day had come. I hadn’t been allowed to see Robb all day, something about it being bad luck. But I had been preoccupied by my handmaidens, who were busy getting me ready for the small evening ceremony in the Godswood.

My long dark hair had been braided and wrapped around my head to create something like a halo. A small tiara that my father had gave me for my 13th nameday was nestled in the braided halo as well. He had told me that he’d had it made for his betrothed, Lyanna Stark, before she had been kidnapped. I figured it was fitting to wear it.

My dress was the most soft and beautiful thing I had ever worn. It was exactly meant for colder weather, so I would be a little chilly out in the woods, but I could deal with it for a little while. 

The flowers on it were just as I imagined, starting right under my breasts and wrapping around the back of the dress. I couldn’t be happier about how it turned out and I had thanked the seamstress profoundly.

The giggling of my handmaidens was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in!” I called out, turning around once more to look at myself in the mirror to make sure everything was perfect.

“Are you ready? Robb is making his way down to the Godswood, m’lady,” Maester Luwin asked as he stepped into the room, followed by Hodor carrying Bran and little Rickon trailing behind slightly, both looking adorable in their fancy coats and furs.

“I think so,” I answered nervously before addressing the two boys. “Don’t you two look dashing!”

“You look beautiful, Leina,” Rickon said softly, coming forward to give me a hug while Bran nodded in agreement.

“Well thank you,” I blushed. “Shall we get going then?”

We all made our way down to the Godswood, Maester Luwin walking ahead to tell Robb that we were on our way. Bran, Hodor, and Rickon then ran ahead to stand as witnesses to the wedding, along with my handmaidens and Theon. 

As I turned the corner to what we had determined to be the aisle I would walk down, I caught Robb’s eye. As soon as we made eye contact, I felt a few tears well up in my eyes as a huge grin appeared on Robb’s face. 

As I walked up to him, he grabbed my hands and held them between us.

Throughout the entire ceremony, I barely listened to a word that was said, only responding when prompted. I was too lost in Robb’s blue eyes. Before I knew it, the ceremony was over and Robb was kissing me softly as everyone around us clapped happily.

It was then when I realized how cold I actually was in the dress that I was wearing. I shivered slightly as we broke away and Robb rubbed his hands up and down my arms in an attempt to warm me up.

“I told you to wear your cloak,” he chided me as he took off one of his furs and wrapped it around my shoulders.

“And I told you that if I did wear my cloak, all the flowers on my dress would be covered!” I laughed at his incredulous expression.

He just laughed and kissed me again before leading me back inside the castle for the feast that had been prepared.


Later on, after a few hours of eating and dancing, it was time for the part of one’s wedding day that I was terrified of: the bedding ceremony.

I had heard some stories, and I knew that I would inevitably have to do this, but it seemed shocking to me that it would happen tonight. And to say I was nervous would be an understatement. I wondered if Robb was as nervous as I am.

Maester Luwin had told us that we needed someone in the room with us when we…. did it, I suppose. This was to ensure that we had actually… done it. It was tradition, he had said. I had become flustered after he had said that and Robb had gripped my hand a bit tighter in comfort. He had then suggested that maybe, if someone had to be there, one of my handmaidens could be the one to do it. That way I could be more comfortable.

So as Robb and I made our way to his chambers, Jane, one of my handmaidens, followed behind us and sat quietly in the corner of the room.

The fire was ablaze in his fireplace, well I guess it was now our fireplace. I was to move into his room tomorrow now that we were married. So it was a little bit warmer than the main hall where we’d had the feast, but still a little bit chilly over where the bed was.

As if he could sense my nervousness, Robb kissed me softly.

“Don’t be nervous, love,” he whispered. 

“It’s just… I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“And you think I do?” he chuckled softly. “I haven’t done anything like this either.”

I blushed then and he took off his remaining furs and I followed suit, taking off the cloak that he had given me earlier on. 

I boldly reached over and started to untie his shirt and he then lifted it over his head. I sucked in my breath at the sight. 

“May I?” he asked me, reaching for the delicate sleeves holding my dress up. 

I nodded and he slipped them down my arms. I covered my breasts as he laid the dress down on a chair. He kissed me again, a little more fiercely now. He pulled my arms away from my chest and I hesitantly wrapped them around his neck, pressing my bare chest against his.

His hands wandered down to just underneath my bum and he lifted me up. I made a sound of surprise and wrapped my legs around his waist as he carried me over to the bed. 

He laid me gently on the bed, pulling back so he could take his trousers off. I got a glance at his manhood and I sucked in a breath as I had never seen one before. 

He climbed onto the bed after me and pulled the sheer curtains around the bed so that there was at least some layer of privacy.

He kissed me again, squeezing one of my breasts in his hand. I moaned softly as he rubbed my nipple between his fingers. He shifted slightly and wrapped his lips around my other breast and my hands gripped the hair at the back of his neck slightly.

I squeezed my legs together slightly, feeling something that I hadn’t ever felt before down there. I could also feel his length hardening on my thigh and I lifted my hips slightly, earning a grunt from Robb. 

He kissed up my neck until he reached my lips, tugging at my bottom lip slightly, as his hand wandered down. His hand cupped my womanhood and I let out my loudest moan yet. 

“Robb,” I breathed out as my fingernails dragged down his back. “Oh gods, I love you.”

“I love you too,” he whispered. “Are you ready?”

“I… I think so… it’s going to hurt, isn’t it?”

“I’ll go slow, my love,” he reassured me.

I nodded and he pecked me on the lips once more before starting to press into me. It didn’t hurt at first, it was only slightly uncomfortable, but it did get worse as he pressed in.

I gasped slightly and Robb stopped abruptly. 

“No, don’t stop,” I assured him. “I’ll be fine.”

He kissed me as he pushed in the rest of the way, holding it there for a minute until I gave him the go ahead. He pulled out slightly, pushing back in again, and then continuing. It hurt a bit at first, but I got used to the feeling of it eventually. 

I encouraged him to go faster and he happily did so. Moans were flying freely now and hands were all over. I could feel something in my tummy building up as Robb thrusted. 

“Oh gods,” I moaned. “Robb… I-”

“Shhh,” he comforted me. “It’s alright. Let it out.”

I moaned louder as I rolled my hips into his. The ball in my tummy kept building until it was almost too much. And when that ball burst, it was the most euphoric feeling I had ever felt. 

I stiffened slightly and tightly gripped Robb’s curls. He grunted as his thrusts became sloppier as he came as well. I could feel him inside me and that made my orgasm last longer. 

He pulled me in for another kiss and didn’t stop kissing me until we had both calmed slightly.

I heard the door to the room open and close softly, signaling that Jane, my handmaiden, had left the room to give us privacy.

“I love you,” he confidently told me, pecking me on the lips one last time before slowly pulling out of me. 

He grabbed a towel from the table near the bed and cleaned us both up before pulling back the furs on the bed, letting us both get under the covers. 

I cuddled closer to his warm chest, resting my head on it as he laid on his back and wrapped his arms around me tightly.

The tiredness that I was feeling finally caught up to me right after Robb kissed me lovingly on the forehead.


I woke up the next morning to the sunlight shining softly through the windows. My legs were tangled up in Robb’s and my chest was pressed up against his.

I shifted slightly, realizing we were both still naked. I glanced up at him to see that he was awake as well.

“Good morning,” he murmured.

“Morning,” I whispered.

“How are you feeling?”

“A little bit sore,” I answered. “But I’m so happy that I’m your wife now.”

“And I am happy to be your husband,” he replied and then kissed me. I kissed him back, wrapping my leg higher up on his waist.

He gripped my thigh with one hand while the other stroked my cheek. 

“Unless you want to have a repeat of last night,” he pulled away. “I think we should stop.”

“What made you think I want to stop?” I smiled.

He grinned and pulled me in for another kiss before rolling on top of me.


A few weeks later, while getting ready to go to sleep, there was a knock on the door to Robb’s chamber.

“Come in,” Robb called. I continued to brush my hair, taking it out of the braids I had it in all day.

“My Lord,” the boy started. “I’m sorry it’s so late, but an urgent message just arrived from Kings Landing.”

The boy handed Robb the envelope before closing the door behind him as he left. Robb sat at his desk and opened the letter, quickly scanning it.

“Who’s it from?” I asked.

“My father.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Umm… everyone’s is fine,” he replied.

“Why does it sound like you’re lying?”

He was quiet after that. I turned around, setting my brush down. He was leaning over the letter, glancing at another piece of paper that looked like it had been ripped out of a book. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly shocked by what he was reading.

“Robb,” I said as I stood and walked over to him. “What is it?”

His only response was to hand me the letter that his father sent him.

Son,

I write this letter to inform you of some disturbing news. Tensions are high here in Kings Landing and I’m afraid that the news from your mother has contributed to that tension. I do believe that Cersei Lannister is responsible for Bran falling from that tower and I have discovered something else. Earlier today, I was directed to a book that Jon Arryn, the previous hand, had read just before he died. There was a certain page in that book that shows the lineage of the Baratheon family. I have ripped out said page and sent it with this letter. And as you can see, all children of the Baratheon line have had black hair. Never blonde. Even when the wife or husband of the Baratheon had blonde hair. The only children in the line that don’t have black hair are Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen. That being said, I believe Leina to be the only legitimate child of Cersei and Robert. She is the legitimate heir to the throne, not Joffrey. I also believe that Jon Arryn discovered this information and that is the reason that he died. I send this letter with great caution, but it was something that you both needed to know.

Your father,

Lord Eddard Stark

“Leina?” Robb asked, concerned after there was a moment of silence. “Are you alright?”

“I’m…. fine,” I replied.

The wheels in my head kept spinning. Was this true? I guess it would make sense…. My mother always treated me differently than my siblings. I just thought it was because I looked so much like my father. I knew she hated him. But if my father wasn’t my sibling’s father, then who was?

“Do you believe it?” he asked, grabbing my hand and pulling me closer to him.

“Yes,” I answered. “It would explain why she’s always hated me.”

“She’s your mother,” he tried. “She doesn’t hate you.”

“Yes she does, Robb!” I exclaimed. “She’s always treated me differently than my siblings and she has mentally and sometimes physically abused me throughout my childhood. The only thing that I want to know now is who her lover is.”

“Shhh, my love. It’s alright.”

“My whole life is a lie! And what if my mother finds out that I know!? She’ll kill me! She doesn’t want me to be Queen! Oh gods I-”

Robb cut me off with a soft kiss on the lips.

“Do not think like that, Leina! I won’t let anyone hurt you. I will protect you. I would die for you.”

“I love you too.” I said and kissed him fiercely. “No matter what.”


Leina’s wedding dress:

Leina’s wedding hair (obviously black hair):

Crown that she wore:

What she is wearing when the letter comes:

PART EIGHT

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