#his cup runneth over with sleep

[a-libra-writes]

i’m so happy your requests are open again omg!! i think i’ve read pretty much everything you’ve ever written on this blog sdjfgifakskfk

i’m asking for any type of romantic headcanons involving brandon stark. like, a marriage between him and a lady from the stormlands, family/kids hcs, jealousy hcs or literally anything you want. i’ll literally read anything you write <3 if you don’t have the muse for this, that’s completely okay too !!

Oh, my cup runneth over with choices! Hmmm .... for now ill do a little bit of everything? Mostly relationship and domestic HC's 🤔

To start with! When it comes to an arranged marriage, he's initially huffy about it ... until he realizes she's pretty and interesting and whoops he's like a boy trying to impress her before the wedding. Lyanna especially teases the hell out of him for this change of heart. Ironically a lady whose more closed-off, shy or nervous will get a much gentler side to him, whereas one whose more outgoing or friendly will get his full gregarious self. He isn't really aware of it, but a lot of this trying so hard is because he'd like her to be comfortable and happy in Winterfell. Brandon's parents were happily married, and if he really sat with himself about it, he'd want his relationship to be the same - but he knows that's a pipe dream in Westeros, so trying to start off on the right foot with his new bride is important to him.

Now, if this was someone he was familiar with for a while, like a lady whose also a Northerner, Brandon is much less anxious. If anything, he's probably more boisterous and himself because he feels more comfortable. He "gets" Northern girls, and he gets you. You're more familiar and therefore he's less nervous about "messing up".

And the thing is, Brandon can become very attached with the right lady. Even if she doesn't fully feel the same yet, he's finding himself wanting to do things for her. He wants to be lordly and gallant and all those things he used to make fun of in the songs. He wants to get flowers delivered to her (isn't that what ladies like?) and help her up on her horse (he's pretty sure she rides ...?) and carry her over the snow and mud (though, the Winterfell yard is well kept, so ...). Alright, maybe that doesn't pan out, but he can still impress her with his hunting and swordsmanship and show her all over Winterfell. The Stark siblings are having a field day with all this and his father is just happy he's too busy to sleep around.

There's also the matter of jealousy, and it's something that shows up early. It's a childish sort of jealousy at first, especially if his lady is lovely and not from the North, therefore many lords want to see her and speak with her during feasts. He wants to interrupt them and take her away, and if he's drinking he's only more obvious about it. It's gotten some of the court to whisper, look how taken the wolf lordling is with his bride. He just frowns and sulks if you, his father or Lyanna scold him about how boyish it is.

(Now, if there was a serious breach of etiquette, like a lord taking too many liberties during a feast or Brandon was feeling some fierce insecurity ... Yeah, the dueling swords are coming out, if he doesn't just wring the man's neck with his bare hands. In the North, you fuck around and find out).

He's the sort of person who really needs to be in love with their spouse, or at least fond of them, even if he knows that's childish to expect. He'd start to become lonely and listless otherwise, his eye prone to wandering to other women, wondering why his house isn't like the warm and happy family he was raised in. He'll always love any children, though he's not always the most attentive father. Twins? Oh, he won't tell them apart until they're ten. His daughter wants a sword? Sure, sure, let her have steel, that's what he practiced on. A child wants to ride? Well, why not come up on the warhorse with him, no need to start with a pony - you get the picture.

Now if he is in love with his spouse, it's utterly obvious, just like his early infatuation and jealousy was. He'll trust her completely and be grateful to her for many things, not just raising children and helping him with the more infuriating parts of running the house, like numbers and logistics for guests. He doesn't like leaving his wife for a long period of time, even if his brothers are there to protect her. He'll give her a tight, long embrace before leaving and takes her in his arms once he's back. He always wants to kiss and touch, even in inappropriate places (old servants warn the new people about which rooms and halls to avoid). It's not hard at all for the new Lady Stark to get Brandon wrapped around her finger.

#im proud to have gathered these like ten brandon fans hahaha #me writing salt and snow like 'eh yeah ill throw in a brandon crush for drama' and people actually liking him OH NO #its me im people #brandon stark x reader #libra headcanons #game of thrones x reader #got x reader

[inthewindandinthewater]

If I Could Hold You for a Minute

I’d tell them put me back in it

A/n- Another Remus one shot, I just finished fully listening to Unreal Unearth and my god. I have no words. This just kinda came out and I didn't reread it, so I hope it makes sense.

Warnings: Mentions of injury and death.

He lay still and motionless in his hospital bed as you brushed a damp cloth over his forehead. The full moon hadn’t even come to pass yet and Remus was already very poor. Chills and aches racked his frame and he struggled from class to class until you ushered him away from the walls and into the hospital wind. 

Madam Pomfrey had accepted the both of you quickly and quietly, she assessed the damages, provided him with potions, and you with instructions for his care. You’d done this more than enough times to know how to help him through his transformations, but they had been worse recently. Taking more than their share from the boy who had almost nothing left to give. 

But, if his cup runneth empty, you were always there to pour into it. 

⋆⋆⋆☆✦☆☆✭☆☆✦☆☆✭☆☆✦☆⋆⋆⋆

You met Remus in first year, you sleepwalked horribly. Your parent’s called it an anxious habit, your nervous, shy demeanor running over into a nocturnal form. It had led you to the edge of the grounds one night. You’d been shaken awake by Professor McGonagle, her panicked voice asking you where you’d come from. She’d taken you under her arm and pulled you back into the castle. 

It wasn’t until you were inside that you took stock of your surroundings, on the other side of her being partially carried by Madam Pomfrey was a lanky, sandy haired boy. He was covered in cuts and bruises, and only half conscious. You recognized him after a bit, he was a boy from Gryffindor; and though you didn’t know his name you knew he was in your year, much too young to be in the condition he was in. 

He had been taken to the hospital wing and you had been escorted back to your own dorm room, but you couldn’t sleep. Sick with worry about the boy and wondering what had brought him into such a state. 

The next morning you went to the hospital wing after your classes. That’s where you found him, sleeping soundly in one of the beds closest to the wall. You approached carefully, not wanting to wake him and unsure of just what you were doing there. As you neared the bed the boy began to stir and you froze in place. 

One of his eyes blearily opened to look at you, catching your eye he sighed and closed them again. “Whatever you saw, just forget it, okay?” Your eyebrows knit together and your thoughts screeched to a halt at his words. Forget it? 

“No.” 

That was all you said in return. His eyes opened slowly as he shifted them in your direction, not moving a muscle from his position in the bed. “Pardon?” He replied, “no.” You said simply, “I won’t forget it. You kept me up all night worrying, so you owe me an explanation so I can sleep tonight.” You sat on the edge of his bed, careful not to shift or push him in any way that might cause him more pain.

“Why do you care?” He asks, his face pinched like he smelled something foul. “My mum says I care too much, says it’s in my nature.” You offer with a sympathetic smile. One that says ‘I’m sorry I have to bother you’ instead of ‘I’m sorry your so fucked up’. He appreciated that. 

“I’m Remus.” He said. 

⋆⋆⋆☆✦☆☆✭☆☆✦☆☆✭☆☆✦☆⋆⋆⋆

That’s how the two of you went on for the next five years. You became one of his closest friends, and his crutch to lean on each month. As the other boys started to join you in assisting him, starting with Sirius, then James, and eventually Peter as well, you found that he never needed you less. Someone needed to read to him when he couldn’t hold the book to his eyes, someone had to feed him when he refused to eat. Those were jobs reserved especially for you, branded with your name alone. 

He does his best to be gentle with you in his worst moments, although he doesn't always succeed. You meet him with the same fierce tone and bullheaded stubbornness if he tries to push you away. There was something so comforting in your insistence to stay, he stopped trying to understand it a long time ago. It was easier to revel in the feeling over having someone who wouldn’t leave, even if given every opportunity. 

“You know I love you, right” 

He looked at you so gravely in that moment, like he was willing you to understand how serious he was. You smiled down at him, wrapping the bandage securely around his forearm before resting it in your lap, “of course I do.” His face dropped, his eyes falling to his lap, “good.” He said firmly. “What’s wrong?” You ask, a little knowing smile playing on your face, “Nothing-” He looks up at you then, seeing the small smirk playing upon your features, “nevermind, I take it back you arse” He says with a huff, still allowing his forearm to rest in your lap playing with your finger and tracing the lines of your palms. You take his hand in yours then, “you wouldn’t do that, just like I don’t need to say it back.” He raises his eyebrows at you then, his fingers stilling in yours. “Oh- well I suppose you don’t” he pulls his hand out of yours, but you’re quicker, taking it back in both of yours.

“I tell you all the time. Everything I do for you is because I love you, Remus. Every night I spend here, every bandage I’ve changed and every second I give to you is because I love you. Haven’t you noticed?”

Your voice shakes as you tell him the truth you’ve known for four years now. He just stares at you for a moment, and it’s that moment you’d like to live in, because the next few seconds spelled your demise so clearly. 

Remus leans forward, pressing his lips to yours in a quick fleeting kiss. Your eyes are blown wide when he pulls away, you can’t stop the movement of your body as your lips connect with his again. It’s pure and sweet, it’s exactly what you wanted your first kiss to be. 

⋆⋆⋆☆✦☆☆✭☆☆✦☆☆✭☆☆✦☆⋆⋆⋆

The two years to follow were the happiest of your life, you had amazing friends and the sweetest, most doting boyfriend you could ask for. Remus was always good to you, but after you had started officially dating he only got better. He hadn’t changed much, but all the things you loved about him were amplified. 

When you graduated the war was raging on, it was whiplash. The efervescent sun of your youth burned out into a darkness that showed no mercy. It devoured you friends and everything you loved in an instant. You didn;t know what to believe, or who to trust and it made you feel weak and helpless against the world crumbling underneath your feet. Everything you knew was lost to you. Everything except Remus. 

He wasn’t the same, but neither were you. It would take time and effort to rebuild yourselves into versions of the people you once were. But you were doing it together. In your darkest moment, when you asked him why. Why he even bothered with you? His response was simple: 

“I care too much about you, it’s in my nature.” 

That was your mantra and you pulled one another through the years. The dragging became less of a herculean task and more of a loving embrace as you lived for one another, day by day. Year by year. 

Even now, as you lay next to him one last time, clasping his hand in yours, turning your head to find his face, scarred and torn from years of transformation and the wounds from the battle coming to a close around you. 

You had a good run, your boy and you. Looking into his eyes then you see the little boy from the woods that night, his big brown eyes peering into yours, resigned to fight no longer. He looked back at you, he saw the eyes that looked into his and changed his hold world in one night, in that moment he knew he was content for those eyes to be the last thing he sees; and you knew if anyone asked, was it worth it? Would you do it again if you knew this is where it would bring you? You’d tell them 

“Put me back in it” 

#remus lupin #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x reader #the marauders #harry potter #hurt #just hurt #I've cried too much today

[benwvatt]

my recent kataang fics!

hi! I’ve written a few kataang stories recently and would love to share them. AO3 links included! And there are more fics under the “read more.”

my darling, how long do you want to be loved? is forever enough? is a rated-G oneshot about the two of them bonding over Katara’s pregnancy.

Katara laughs and buries her head in the crook of Aang’s neck. In bed, he’s been tracing lazy figure eights across the small of her back. “How did we get here?”

“Well, we left the Earth King’s party after thirty-seven minutes-”

Still laughing. Aang can feel her head shake against his chest, like a magnolia raining leaves in a storm. He wants to close his eyes as long as possible and memorize the ebbs and flows of her joy, the imprints it makes in the air.

“Oh, right! And we stole dumplings,” Katara adds gently, “wrapped in napkins in my purse! I’ll never get the grease stains out.” If only oil and water were similar, she could lift the marks with a swish of her hand.

“I guess you’ll just have to use regular ol’ soap and water. Like a peasant.”

“Like a fool!”

in reverence, my cup runneth over for you is a rated-T one-shot about Katara and Aang dancing in their kitchen.

They will raise children here someday. Aang wants a daughter with whom to dance in the kitchen. Together they will shift, clumsy under skeins of moonlight; he’ll toddle around, practicing steps by letting their girl stand on his feet. She will teach him the extra-extra-cool dance moves, picked up from magazines or some technology not yet invented, because grown-ups simply don’t understand.

Aang kisses Katara. Oh, she is going to be the rest of his life. The sheer notion of this runs through his mind like a horse unbridled.

“I love the kitchen,” she finally murmurs, hugging him closer. “No need to worry, not with me.”

He already knew, but a reminder never hurts.

He talks to her about the wilder dreams (not wildest, for those have already come true) and they waltz over dusty floorboards that leave speckles on the bottoms of their shoes. The kitchen will be furnished another time. Tonight is for dancing.

you’ve got me more than clumsy, but you’re my yellow lovely is a fluffy rated-G oneshot about Katara taking care of Aang while he’s sick. 

“Honey,” Aang murmurs, two full syllables this time. Voicing anything hurts at the moment 一 he’s taken ill this week 一 but he has to catch her attention. “Katara.”

She groans. “Yeah?”

“You gotta go. I - I’m gonna get you sick if you stay any longer.”

Her head shakes ‘nope’ and Aang can feel the brush of her hair against his neck. You could hear a pin drop. Even the crickets have ceased chirping tonight.

“I’m not fun to be around.”

“That’s a lie,” she whispers. “Can I kiss you?” He’s been trying not to get her sick all week, and she ought to ask before moving any closer.

“I miss you.” Aang wraps his arms around her and leans in. “I don’t think I should kiss you. Germs. Disease. Y’know, plague and death.”

“How did we get to death?”

i’d paint a river of stars for you (cross the ocean sapphire blue) is a romantic AU about Kataang getting together in the South Pole, set in a world where the war never happened and Aang routinely visits Katara and he’s super in love with her. Rated T!

Aang looks down at her hand. She’s still wearing the friendship bracelet he wove for her out of linengrass.

He wants, not for the first time, to press his hand to her face and kiss her. He wonders if her cheeks would be cold against his. Hasn’t ever been close enough to check. Aang moves his thumb an inch until it’s over hers.

He looks at her. Is this okay?

Moonbeams wash into the bedroom through the ice. She might be blushing but he can’t quite tell.

Do you want this? Do you want me? he tries to communicate with his gaze. He was never very good at this. Monks are taught to let go of desire, not harbor it deep inside.

when the ice forgives is an AU in the works. In which, post-series, Kya is discovered sleeping in an iceberg and Katara’s whole family bond over the discovery that she’s alive. Katara & Aang are also engaged in this story and they’re very sweet.

“Were you preparing something in the kitchen?” Aang asked. He’d slept in, and he was hungry.

“I… might have been.” She pursed her lips for a moment, then let the grin wash away any hint of neutrality on her face. “Okay, there’s some baozi. And I was wondering if you wanted to eat hot pot for lunch? That was, uh, the noise you heard.”

She was so comforting. Everything about it, from her culinary plans to her one morning cup of tea, stolen from him, was predictable. He loved her. He told her, and they curled into the bed. Katara laid down, absentmindedly stroking her thumb across Aang’s cheekbone, and reminded him he was a sap. An honest, lovable one, but still.

“I like you,” she whispered. The words hung in the white, almost silver, morning light. They were predictable too, and Aang couldn’t get enough of them. “I like you very much.”

He kept his gaze on her and ran his thumb over the curve of her eyebrow, down her cheek until he was tracing her bottom lip. “You’re so…” and he kissed her before saying, “special. I didn’t think I could meet somebody like you. Someone so uncommonly kind.”

#kataang #kataangtag #katara #aang #aang x katara #katara x aang #atla #atla fanfic #kataang fanfic #kataang fic #benwvatt

[indianamoonshine]

“Yours.” | Reader x Knight!Din | Knight!Din anthology

Summary: Reader has been hiding something life-changing. Din is the first to notice.

A/N: As always, minors DNI. 18+. This is a one shot regarding my Knight!Din universe. Reader is the queen! It is a forbidden relationship! All the good stuff!

It first began as a kiss.

Something stolen in the midnight hours. Meet me tonight you’d written him in a note, small and compact in your hand as it was slipped under the backband of his horse’s harness.

That abandoned hallway on the east side of the castle was a lighthouse; a safe-haven for lovers of the highest caliber to exile themselves to. You knew it well, but only with Din. The two of you had etched yourself in its stone walls, growing with ivy from years without societal use.

Din had you pressed gently against the curve of the wall, lips tracing the shape of your collarbones. The stairs underneath you led to an attic with a makeshift bed good enough to endure for a few hours before your spine ached. But while you were used to luxury - of downy feathers and silk throws - the sleep you managed to steal in this attic was the greatest you’ve ever had.

It was also now a place of sacred ritual.

You’re waiting for Din to whisk you up the stairs, to slowly uncover every inch of frivolous pageantry this nightgown has to offer. His hands slide from your cheeks to your waist, inhaling the delicate part of your neck that meets your shoulder.

“You smell different,” he whispers.

His tone is that of sheer arousal, desire dripping from his very lips. He pulls back far enough to cast a glance at your lips, plump from the onslaught.

You raise a brow, chest heaving with breathlessness. “Oh?”

He can’t possibly…

In the flickering candlelight, Din’s expression turns to puzzlement. His hand, that had been wrapped gently around the curve of your waist, falls to the plush part of your belly. You’ve always carried a bit of extra weight so it wasn’t discernable to anyone else. The heavy fabric and stay of your gown hid all bumps and ridges on your natural-borne body. Who would be able to notice? Phillip? He hadn’t seen you naked since last month. Besides, he wouldn’t notice; it wasn’t outstanding.

So far, this secret belonged to you only.

Tonight was the full moon - you still had not bled. But Din knew your body like he knew his own creed.

He presses very gently against your stomach and you inhale sharply. It doesn’t hurt, but it does feel odd; you were a fortress now.

Penetrable. Alive. Trembling.

The resistance against his touch is all the proof he needs.

Din raises his eyes to yours and, for the first time, they are wetting. “You’re with child.”

You nod fervently, touching his hand upon your belly with a gentleness meant to calm his nerves. The two of you take a few moments to register the proclamation. It’s been said aloud for the very first time.

How beautiful it is, to announce life in halls such as these.

Din struggles to keep his composure. “Is it…”

Last month, above your heads, Din had taken you with such urgency, such fire, that it took. Phillip wasn’t capable of having children - you’ve tried. But Din, as it turned out, was capable of quenching a burn within you - a void you were terrified would remain and make its home.

“Yours.” You grip his hand, bringing the other to rest at his cheek. He leans into your touch, allowing his eyes to spill over with tears. “They’re yours.”

You can’t help but cry as well, the insurmountable joy in your cup runneth over. In your arms, the true father of your child lets out a gleeful laugh. Never have you seen him smile so brightly - not in the five years you’ve known him.

Din kneels, balancing unsteadily at first, his hands still cradling your belly like it is the heart of the world. He leans his forehead against you before pressing a delicate kiss against the slight swell of it.

He wraps his arms around you, ear pressing against the softness. “You are the most important being there ever was,” he says. “And you will do amazing things.”

For now, it is just the three of you. And that is enough.

#din x reader #din djarin x reader #mando x reader #knight!din

[gingerbreadmonsters]

five more minutes

or: so, i start a revolution from my bed.

gn!reader, standard imperium warnings, angst that’s just a bit more bitter than sweet. i’m so sorry. heavily inspired by Not as nice as he was by @/The_Honey_Cy on ao3 - thank you for letting me put my bizarre little spin on your concept! everybody say thank you to rae @sri-rachaa ​ for choosing our byline of the day, and i’m told that @morgansplace ​ and @10000-angry-bees ​ might also want to know what’s happening here… inspired by ‘i wish i knew how it would feel to be free’ by nina simone. vindemiator slipping inside the eye of his mind in 2400 words or less.

“I’ll find a way. Even if it’s just for a short, precious while. I will.”

Magic, they say, is simply the next step after emotion.

It makes sense. Feelings and magic, the inescapable cause and the inevitable conclusion. The cup runneth over, and the magic swirls forth. Flame, dreams, flesh. However small or weak or unknowable, in all things, the magic persists. It has a funny way of hanging around, of sticking to things it shouldn’t, of hiding itself in places where it shouldn’t belong. It has a funny way of knowing you. It has a funny way of showing it.

…No, that’s not right.

Maybe there’s a better way of putting it.

Demons, you see, are made of magic. They understand it instinctually, its ebb and flow, its push and pull. They’re weaved into the Spellsong, feeling every chord and harmony, feeling every tug at the web. Nothing is ever really alone. And so when little troublemakers try to have their fun, when they try to bend the rules for a little while - it doesn’t go unnoticed. Some things are worth fighting for. That all-consuming flood of magic that swept across the known reality, screeching and tearing and splintering. The whole world turned inside out, blood everywhere, spilling out across the universe. Foolish little creature. Did you really think nobody was watching?

The mirror can only handle so much. Six marble faces in the moonlight. Sometimes, things slip through the cracks.

“...Mm.”

What’s that sound?

It can’t be morning already - god, he really doesn’t want to get up. Especially not if there’s going to be noise. It’s not normally so loud that he can hear much from this godforsaken cell. Ugh, please don’t say Avior’s started arguing with one of the Enforcers already.

Although his eyes are closed, he can tell that it’s brighter than normal, too. Have they changed the brightness of the lights? Even more of a reason not to wake up. It’s not like there’s any sunlight in here, so it can’t be that - the window is only a few inches tall, right up by the ceiling, and you can’t even see the sky, let alone get any sunshine.

That’s funny. The mattress is softer than usual. What happened to that spring that always digs into his side? It’s always cold down here on the floor, too, where the draft seeps under the door - why is it so nice and warm? He could almost believe that-

Wait.

Is that breathing?

There’s someone here. His eyes snap open, a sharp inhale, power crackling and building beneath his skin in panic, but it’s no use. What is this? The magic fizzles out uselessly under his palms as he reels, sleep-heavy mind struggling to reconcile what must be true with what’s right in front of him.

It’s you, here in his arms where you belong, but not when you’re supposed to be. Your face against his chest, your arms draped around his waist, your legs entangled with his under the blanket where he can’t see. How are you here? Rewards for good behaviour be damned, you’d never be allowed to sleep here in the haven, ever - you’re monitored more closely than most, and there’d be Enforcers down here quicker than you could say ‘President Moore, please don’t kill me’.

You don’t seem to notice his confusion, thankfully, still slack and comfortably heavy against his body. He can feel you dreaming, the emotions soft and muffled against his senses. Happy dreams, it seems like. Sweet and kind and beautiful. Good. You deserve happy dreams.

He’s strayed a little bit from the matter at hand. Sorry, what were we talking about? Oh, yes, that’s it. Where the hell is he?

This must be an illusion. Vega must have got bored again. Avior must be trying to practice something for the plan. There’s no way this can be real.

It must be morning - soft sunlight peeks through the curtains when he turns his head towards the window, and he can hear birds outside, not too far away. How unusual. He didn’t think you could really get sunlight like that anymore. It’s so lovely and warm. The room itself looks like a fairly standard human bedroom, or at least what he imagines one would look like. Despite what you might expect, he’s not really been invited into one for a very long time.

It looks lived in, in a way that somehow makes his heart start to ache. Empty glasses of water on the bedside table, socks and books and headphones, a chair half-buried under clothes that haven’t been worn enough to be worth washing yet. A backpack hanging on the back of the door, a stack of textbooks on the desk. The wardrobe door is slightly open, and the wall on the left is covered in photographs. Him, his love, a handful of strangely-familiar faces. Kisses and birthdays and trips to the beach, nights so late they become mornings, the once-in-a-lifetime waves to the everyday. How does he know? All kinds of places and clothes and things to do, and every frozen face wears a brilliant smile.

A home, a proper one, a real one. Vindemiator wakes up, here in this most sacred of places, and it’s all he can do not to cry.

It’s an incredible illusion. Vega’s outdone himself. Every detail is perfect, immaculately disarrayed, masterfully created - even the Spellsong sounds… different. Lighter, livelier, happier. He doesn’t want to think about why. This world, what little part of it that exists in his mind, is not the same as the real one.

He’s thought of everything, even you. How would Vega even know you so well? Your face is mostly hidden, but from what he can feel, you’re almost exactly the same. The body he loves to know, and he knows it by heart. Breathing in, he nudges your aura with his own - perhaps Vega hasn’t got you quite right in this regard. You’re not so tense, not so jumpy, that undercurrent of fear that he’s used to soothing is all but gone. Here, in this place, you’re safe. Contentment and satisfaction and peace, sitting on his tongue, a mellow, pretty flavour he wishes he could get used to. Remind him to thank Vega when this is all over.

Speaking of things he’s not used to, what’s happened to his body?

This form. It feels…

Well, it’s not exactly the same as normal, but it’s close enough. The limbs are the same length, the teeth feel the same in the mouth, the shade of the skin is ever-so-familiar. It’s without doubt the form he coalesced in, same as ever, so why does it feel like there’s something different?

Huh. His horns are glamoured. That’s weird. How is that even possible? The wards over the haven don’t allow demons to change any parts of their physical bodies, even as part of an illusion like this one - some decree by that godforsaken air elemental maniac to stop anyone from ‘forgetting their true nature’. And to think they have the nerve to call this place a haven. Experimentally, he tries to relax the magic - and just like that, his horns flicker back into existence, familiar weight at his temples. Weirdly, they feel a little more balanced than normal, and when he reaches up to feel them he realises why. It’s still there. All of it. No splinters, no cracks, no dull ache in his skull.The left one is whole again, as if Kody and his god complex and his baseball bat and that awful, awful night had never even happened.

His horns, smooth and shiny and perfectly intact. Forget an illusion, this must be a dream. A lovely dream, to be sure. His horns. He’d almost forgotten what this felt like.

“...Hmm?”

Startled, he looks down as you groan into his shirt, clearly still half-asleep - he just about has the presence of mind to smooth his hand over your back, shushing you gently. Even here, where you’re not real, it doesn’t feel right to wake you up. You should be allowed to dream happily for a little bit longer.

“It’s alright, love. Go back to sleep.”

You protest, jumbled words falling out of your mouth, but you make no effort to move - instead, you relax back against him with an airy sigh. From here, you look a bit different than you normally do, and it takes him a while to place it. You look healthier - your hair a little shinier, your eyes a little brighter, your lips not so painfully chapped. Is this how you were supposed to look, before everything? Before the world thought to crush you under its heel, tried to grind you into powder, left the pieces of you out in the rain to rust? It’s not fair. What does he have to do to make this real?

His human deserves to live like this, he thinks. Back in the real world. Doused in sunlight, heavy with sleep in a bed that you own, face half-hidden in the pillows that you chose. Somewhere soft and warm and kind, where there are no sharp teeth and no cameras in the bathroom, where the scariest thing in your life is the sound of your alarm clock.

“Fine,” you concede. “But only if you stay.”

“Of course.” In a world like this, why would he ever want to leave? “I’ll always stay with you, my love.” It feels good to say it out loud. Here, he might even be able to make it true.

Your hazy brain seems to think that’s good enough, and before long you’re drifting off again. Have sweet dreams, beloved. If only he could join you. The corners of the world aren’t quite as sharp as they should be, the Spellsong on the edge of changing key, and he has the horrible feeling that if he goes to sleep you won’t be here any more.

Sleeping means waking up in a world where this isn’t real. Is this real? Could it ever be? Probably not. Reality has never been so kind to him.

He’s so tired.

He can hear your voice in his head, as clear as anything. Maybe this is a dream. Sleep, love. It’s okay. We have time.

Would you say that, if you knew? Maybe you wouldn’t, you’d hold onto him like he wants to hold onto you, like if he looks away for a moment you might turn to water in his arms, spilling helplessly out of his reach, soaking into his skin and his soul and the vanishing earth beneath you. Or maybe you would, you’d tuck him against your chest where neither of you can see the other cry, folding him into you like he’ll fit right through your ribs, and for a single, blissful moment, he’d be able to pretend that he believes you.

In your sleep, your arms tighten around his waist ever so slightly. Do you feel it? Do you know?

You have always wanted to protect him. Even here, even now, in a dream that will always have to disappear, you protect him still. Please, don’t do that. Can’t you see? You’re too strong. You’re too safe. He wants to hide behind you forever, shield himself from the world in the safety of your soft body, let your voice in his ear and your hand on his face be the only things he knows. Nothing else is real. Only you, just you, it’s only ever been you, and what then? Don’t indulge him, please. It’ll hurt too much when you have to let go.

He doesn’t want to go. Will you make him? Maybe you should. He’d do anything, if you asked.

Please. Wake up, my love. Save him, ask him, command him, and eternally you shall receive. Heaven and earth, sea and sky and fire, it shall be done. In this world, where he’s never failed you, make it true. Speak the words into reality, bend the universe to your will. Please. He’ll do anything. Make it true, make it true, make it true. Ask for the impossible, just once more, and know that he has never been able to resist you.

He kisses the top of your head, just once, and it will never be enough. The tears gather, but they don’t fall. He wouldn’t want to wake you. A tired mind struggles on, head spinning and spinning, the world folding in on itself until the whole, wonderful room is as dense as a star, until he’s crushed under its weight and the blackness takes over.

It might be hours or days until he wakes again, and it’s the grim inside of a haven holding cell that greets him.

It’s too much. He cries like the child he never was, endless, aching sobs as the wave crashes over him, the lonely demon mourning the loss of a world that was never his, that for all he knows has never existed. That place, that room. What does he have to give to make that real? Could it ever be his? Vindemiator and his human love - was there ever a world where they could have been happy? There must have been. You were made for more than this, for more than a broken, empty, bloodied incubus, for more than this place and these people and this dying, shattered world. Marble under moonlight. Don’t wake up. If you can’t see it, it’s not really there. Bring it back to him. Choked tears, closed eyes, rinsing away the ghost of a kiss that shouldn’t ever have happened.

You deserve more than this. Please, please. If it’s the last thing he ever does, if he has to tear himself to atoms to do it, dissolving into nothing, half-melted in the River. Reality is nothing to the determination of a demon with something to protect. Let him give this to you, and no being in existence will ever die happier.

It’s all he’ll ever do again. Love you, hold you, protect you, with all he has, with all he’ll ever be. You are his, and he is yours. Surely, that has to be enough.

A promise, made not for the first time. God, I never want to let you go. Perhaps it really is impossible to outrun your own nature. Vindemiator is no exception.

masterlist

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted gavin #redacted vindemiator #redacted imperium #redacted freelancer #redacted angst #ginger writes #gingerbreadmonsters

[olive-oil-poetry]

Sensuality

The sensual dwells in ponderous forests; Its nests of bustling be honey comb sweet in agonized musings; Starved of shower beit surface sleep, there's no rest in clouds Cloy entanglements embower, overwrought reclines, conciliatory tweets; once repressed estranged now, noises from the bough stir the branches of passionate pleas These pines anneal shadows dew and stark as the

Silence,

It lingers the air about the dwelling the ghost of beat wings in quivering heft It alludes to where the bee has been, a prelude to where the floor will be The tryst that awaits its awakening The priest ushering us to our breathe Teasing miser, silence is un-bereft Stowed, a secret blushed; it wizened flush Hushed he gives but takes as much, and such is

Silence,

Lest the cup runneth over drunk nestle upon the suckling breast Rest its lip, the rim in waiting e'ry motion duly cherish the dazing, the loom; she blooms subdued by humming murmurs and tremor swoons Quips in lieu of vests, the sensualist lulls his song then stems an air's heiress Lives on full in boisterous hush from the notions of the mellowing doves

Silence

If cerement beknownst us, beit die blush Our release, eases as snow in slumbers A clime of quiet whimsy settles as dust from a fairy mother mettles So are our psyches unencumbered to slip into the peaceful dreaming poured unto the coals of one another We hold much and yet nothing of much in the eyes of the lusty sybarites

Now as I wander forests ponderous sweetly agonized, I recall the showers fore and far Beseech the trees being in long for the savior in our shadow with silence carrying me along I await you in the grassy meadow

#poemsbyme #my poem #original poetry #original poem #daily poem #poemsdaily #poetry #my poetry #poems and poetry #poetry on tumblr #writerscreed

[theheadlessgroom]

https://www.tumblr.com/beatingheart-bride/722508703617728512/theheadlessgroom-beatingheart-bride

@beatingheart-bride

Dorian Gracey was not having a good morning.

“Another difficult night, sir?” Beauregard Ghast, the Gracey family’s butler, asked gently as he poured the young master a generous cup of coffee, which Dorian gratefully thanked him for, groaning, “Yes...another nightmare. At this point, I’m thinking of swearing sleep off entirely.”

“You probably just ate too close to bed,” his mother said knowingly (if still somewhat dismissively), taking a sip from her cup of tea while his father, who was only half-listening, was reading the morning paper between puffs of his cigar and swigs of coffee, as Mrs. Gracey continued, “We had a very late dinner last night, and dessert wasn’t your friend, I’m sure.”

I dreamt I was hanging by my neck until I was dead, Mother! Dorian thought to himself, as he took another long sip of coffee in a vain effort to wake up, as well as keep himself from snapping his mother. I don’t think that was caused by ice cream!

“You should go on more walks,” his father commented from behind his paper, still only half-paying attention. “A little fresh air will do you some good, my boy. You’ve been cooped up in the house too much-especially in that stuffy old conservatory, you should get out a bit more! Why, whenever I needed to get a little fresh air to clear my mind, I used to go horse-backing riding...”

Dorian sighed as he let his parents voices wash over him, rubbing his temple as he drained his cup before reaching for the pot to have another: Why was this happening to him? The dreams just didn’t stop keeping, dreams of dying, being dead...they were to make him want to stay up all hours, lest he experience the same nightmare over and over...he wished he had an answer, or at least someone to talk to them about, someone who’d understand...

Lizzie would understand.

No, no, he told himself silently, as he caught himself before his cup runneth over. I don’t want to worry her...God, I wish I could talk to her, really talk to her...I wish I could tell her how I really feel...but what’s the use? We could never be together...

#((i would too! they're about to leave town anyways; so they spend their last night in new orleans in randall's childhood home)) #((which come to think of it emily didn't get to see in canon! she's only gotten to see it in aus!)) #((as far as i know; they spent most of their courtship at the haberdashery; with randall sneaking over to emily's home only once)) #((so this would be interesting; her visiting it on their last night in town-and i love the idea of them feeling his parents' presence)) #((while they're there; finding more signs that they're around; watching over them!)) #((and y'know; i hadn't thought of why dorian is dreaming of the future while only emily remembers the future!)) #((it's a very good thing that he is; since it allows him to believe emily when she tells him of what's going to happen)) #((if they don't do something about it; but still i haven't landed on an answer as to why it happened at all!)) #((maybe it's a weird byproduct of wilhelm and june's assistance in bringing emily back to the past; a side effect?)) #outofhatboxes #beatingheart-bride #V:Days of Future Past

[kataang-dungeon]

Can we get a list of all the fics in the survey please? I saw a lot that I've never read before and would be interested in reading.

Hi! Going to presume this is referring to the nominees for the 2021 Flameo, Hotman! Award, and that you’d prefer links to all of them, not just the ones by people in Kataang Dungeon. Sure!

By Mod Mooning (@bluemooninglight):

Black Sand Beach | 0.6k, 1 chap 

Firsts, Lasts | 1.0k, 1 chap

It’s in the Water | 1.6k, 1 chap

Mad World | 3.1k, 1 chap

Ready | 1.2k, 1 chap

By Mod Vanilla (@vanillabutspicy):

Cup Runneth Over | 6.3k, 1 chap

Work, Eat, Sleep | 0.6k, 1 chap

Collabs by both Mooning and Vanilla:

Real | 6.8k, 1 chap

The Face of Fire | 8.5k, 2 chap

By Mod Waterbear (@waterbearwaltz):

Cover Me | 25k, 9 chap

Read To Me | 1.0k, 1 chap

Together, Apart | 10k, 5 chap

By Mod Tofu (@tofuandtattoos):

Just a Taste | 5.3k, 1 chap

Swollen | 5.8k, 1 chap

By Mod Nettie (@nettie-sprinkle):

Stuffin’ Tattooed Muffins | 13k, 2 chap

By Mod Sifu Grapefruit:

The Tide Commands | 1.9k, 1 chap

By Flameohotwife (@flameohotwife): 

Hopeful Again | 5.1k, 1 chap

Reborn In New Love | 5.2k, 1 chap

By korvidae (@korvidaee):

Hunger Hurts | 7.8k, 2 chap

By Dallying (@dally1ng):

New Ground | 3.0k, 1 chap

By Marjojo02:

When It’s All Over | 354k, 103 chap

Yes, Sifu Katara | 3.8k, 2 chap

Happy reading!

#sex seminar #mod chalk

[bloginthegardn]

Motherhood

Hi mama. New mamas, middle year mamas, mamas with babies who are grown-ups, grand-mamas. Hello to all of you. We’re a sisterhood, us mamas. You may look at the season I’m in as being the baby years, or maybe you’re a first-time mom and you look at me as a seasoned member of the tribe. Each person’s station in this journey is relative, and it doesn’t help anyone to condescend or minimize any mother’s reality. I couldn’t stay silent on this point after the valid conversation I had with someone, while relevant and true, was also alienating and condescending. 

There is a constant evolution of stages in the motherhood journey. My mom who had five kids is now a grandmother. There are moms like me who have only been a mom for two years, and there are moms who have been a mom for just under three months. I am no less of a mom than my 61 yr old mom, who raised five children of her own and now has 12 grandchildren. There are stay at home moms (SAHM) and there are moms who work full-time jobs. 

We’re all moms, we’re all in this motherhood. So what is with the mother wars? Why do we feel the need to prove ourselves or compete for whose job is harder, more demanding? 

I am not in the middle years of motherhood yet. My two kids are under the age of three. Even though my children with their rosy cheeks, messy hair, and chubby feet are incredibly precious, please don’t call me precious. I can assure you there’s nothing precious about the amount of human excrement I have to deal with, or the long emotional nights I’m having with my 5-month old, or the negotiation tactics of my strong willed two year old. Please don’t minimize the hard, exhausting, physical strain of my season of motherhood, simply because you’re doing something harder, or you’re a graduate of this season. It’s similar to high school when the seniors look down on freshman. We all hope for our kids to behave better than that, right? Please don’t condescend me and tell me, “I work longer hours than you, what you do isn’t the same as me..”, etc.

Moms need other moms in their corner. We need each other’s wisdom. I could sit here and tell you all of the physical demands of my day, completed on insufficient sleep because my baby’s belly can’t make it through the night yet, but I won’t, because the truth is, we all get it without having to be told. Motherhood is hard. No one said it would be otherwise. But you know what makes it harder? Feeling like other moms are rolling their eyes at you.

You can list your never ending demands and I will say, I see you and I understand. I know your car is racking up the miles; drop offs, pick ups, games, shopping. I know your center console runneth over with receipts, empty coffee cups, empty sippy cups, permission slips, and whatever else is taking over your life. And while you are running around doing your motherhood things at a break-neck pace, I want you to know that like your children, the younger moms are watching you. We’re learning from you, both how we will act when we’re in your shoes, and also how we’ll treat the moms that come after us. We’re learning how to navigate these waters, and often times our waters are deep and murky. Our world is hard and messy, and at times hilariously simple, and even though we’re surrounded by bodies, it is ironically lonely. I always say to my husband on date night, all I need from him is his undivided attention, because I miss and long for adult interaction. 

We’re all sometimes overwhelmed, at times we’re lonely, tired. But what we must always be, is supportive. Of each other, our kids, our partners, and of the village. We’re all doing the same thing and it’s hard enough without being patronized. 

I hope we all get a moment to sit with our mom friends with our wine glasses and toast to raising not only our kids but one another. 

[reesevanriper]

NEXT SHOW MAY 26TH @petshopjc!!! with @cantations @nickmarat @papishiitake! Cant Wait! photo dump 1 Flyer 2 thanks to @knightfight and @pineappleexpressbarbecue for an awesome show we have another planned for Sunday June 12 @ 4PM 3 Caught @abirdmusic’s first performance in a while at @prohibitionriver it was fantastic and im excited to attend more of his shows! one being FlyFest on July 9th at @stoshs! 4 was good to see @iggysix outside of the @brickhousecigarshop and later at our show. im excited to hear his next musical project on the horizon. 5 Mama Mhysa Sleeping on her sofa 6 cool rock i caught with my feet in puerto rico 7 beautiful flowers that keep blossoming on my window sill my cup runneth over with love family and friends! thank you for all the blessings! peace be with you all! (at Pet Shop JC) https://www.instagram.com/p/CdWbc2AvYfT/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[anstarwar]

Tired

#commander fox #his cup runneth over with sleep #fox is tired #commander thorn #commander stone #nothings off about fox #why do you ask #my art #tcw comic #silly

[tuiccim]

Almost Had Me Believing It - Part 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader    

Word Count: 1.2K

Warnings: Angst, Discussion of drug addiction, mutual pining

Summary: An undercover operation playing Bucky Barnes’ wife is a dream come true. Playing house in the suburbs while trying to take down a drug ring brings you and Bucky closer but a nosy neighbor causes trouble in paradise.

A/N: This began as a drunk drabble for the HBC @the-ss-horniest-book-club  but the response has been overwhelming! I had originally intended to make a two parter but your enthusiasm for the setting has gotten my creative juices flowing and the story is coming together to be multiple parts. It will definitely be at least five. / Divider by @whimsicalrogers​

Almost Had Me Believing It Series Masterlist

You sit up in disbelief, “Bucky!” But he closes the door. 

Bucky immediately turns on the shower. He has to get some relief after the show you just put on. Good God, you were sweet. You had kissed him back as if you meant it and your body had cradled him like you were made to fit together. His cock was so hard it was painful. He was sure you had felt it as he had rutted against you. He was ashamed of his actions. When you had moaned he had nearly lost it. He knew you were only putting a show on for Frank, but he couldn’t keep himself from taking advantage and now he feels like the asshole he knows he is. Then the parting remark he lobbed at you as he retreated to the bathroom, he was sure cemented your loathing of him. Punishing himself, he strips and steps under the freezing cold spray.

--

You sit staring at the closed door. You aren’t sure for how long but, when you finally snap out of it, your movements are wooden. He had dropped you on the bed in the master bedroom. This was his room. You slept in another of the bedrooms. You had assumed since he brought you into his room he intended to finish what you had started in the living room, but now you felt sick as you realized he had only been playing the part. His parting remark had filled you with shame and as did the memory of calling his name as he walked away. You had been wanton, arching into him and moaning. Obviously, Bucky thought little of you.

In your room, you let your tears fall. For three weeks the two of you had tiptoed around each other. Shy smiles and conversation revolving around work had been most of your time together. You thought it was simply because he didn’t know you well, but now you understood that he didn’t want to. That was why he always kept you at arm's length. You tried to sleep, but the phrase he had thrown over his shoulder as he retreated to the bathroom haunted your dreams. 

You woke early the next morning feeling as if you hadn’t slept. You head to the kitchen, put coffee on, and gather ingredients to make coffee cake. You needed comfort food.

An hour and a half later the coffee cake was cooling on a rack, you were drinking your second cup of coffee, and Bucky had yet to make an appearance. A soft knock sounds on the front door and you open it to reveal your neighbor. 

“Morning, Frank.” You say, confused at his appearance. 

“Good morning. I come to beg a favor from a benevolent neighbor.” Frank grins winningly. 

“And what would that be?” You laugh lightly. 

“A cup of coffee. My pot runneth dry.” 

“Sure. Come in. I just made some coffee cake. Would you care for a slice?” You ask as you lead the way to the kitchen. 

“Sounds great, Suzie Homemaker.” Frank quips. 

“Hardly.” You motion to the table on one side of the kitchen and Frank takes a seat. You move to the counter, slice cake, and pour coffee for both of you. Arms wrap around you from behind and your eyes widen until you realize it’s Bucky. 

“Morning, Doll.” He hugs you from behind and kisses the side of your neck. 

“Morning, baby,” you sway in his arms before turning in them to grin at him. “Would you like some coffee cake?”

“Mmhmm,” Bucky’s mouth captures yours in an impassioned kiss and he begins to lift you as if to place you on the counter. 

“Babe, Frank’s here. He came by for a cup of coffee.” You pull away. Bucky knew Frank was there but he was continuing the show from last night. 

“Sorry, man. Didn’t realize.” Bucky grins at the man. 

“Don’t feel you have to stop on my account,” Frank chuckles. 

“I don’t like to share.” Bucky smiles stiffly. 

Frank laughs, “Can’t blame you. How’s work? What is it you do again?”

“Mechanic. It’s good. Business is steady. What do you do, Frank?” Bucky counters.

“Landlord. I own several properties that I rent out.” Frank accepts the plate of cake you set in front with a smile for you. “What do you do, gorgeous?”

“I’m in between jobs right now.” You say demurely, feigning embarrassment. 

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll keep an ear out for anything coming available. What did you do before?” Frank asks. 

Bucky pulls you into his lap, “She was a nurse, but she’s looking to get away from the medical field.”

“Why?” Frank digs. 

“No reason.” You say quietly. 

“Frank’s our friend, Doll. Maybe it would be good for him to know. Have someone else to help?” Bucky whispers in your ear loud enough for Frank to hear.

You nod and look at Frank with shame written across your features, “I’m an addict. Pain meds. I, um, lost my license because of theft. I went to treatment. Been clean for four months.”

“That’s one of the reasons we moved here. To get a fresh start.” Bucky squeezes you and you smile at him sadly. 

“I’m sorry you’ve been through that.” Frank looks as if the wheels in his head are turning. 

“Thank you.” You say. 

“No, thank you for the coffee and cake. I’ll let you get on with your morning.” Frank stands up. 

“Another cup for the long walk back?” You quip. 

“That would be great. Thank you.” Frank accepts the cup before heading home. 

When you return to the kitchen you sit across from Bucky at the table. “That was well done.”

“Yeah. You played that perfectly.” Bucky said.

“And you steered expertly.” 

Bucky looks at you surprised at the compliment, “Thank you.”

“Bucky, about last night…” you stare at him, biting your lip. 

“Yeah?” Bucky’s gut tightened remembering how he had taken advantage of you.

“What did you mean by that last comment?” 

“Comment?” Bucky was stalling, unsure of what you were asking. 

“The ‘you almost had me believing it’ comment. It… hurt. It felt like you were shaming me or something.”

“No! I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant it was convincing. That’s all.” 

“Oh, okay. Sorry, didn’t mean to overreact.” You fidget with your hands. 

“Are you okay? With what we did last night? I didn’t want to overstep…” Bucky trails off.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Nothing happened that I didn’t… It was fine. A good show, right?” You are near squirming in the chair remembering how he had kissed you and feeling his body pressed against you. You squeeze your thighs together.

“Right.” Bucky says but his thoughts were on how sexy you had sounded when you moaned his name and how much effort it took not to strip you naked in his bedroom. “So, um, what’s on the agenda for today?”

“Gardening. Planting gladiolus bulbs. You?” 

“I was gonna do some work on my bike. Maybe go for a ride.” Bucky smiles tightly. 

“Sounds good. I’ll see you later.” You put your cup and plate in the sink and head for the doorway. 

“Do you… wanna go on the ride with me?” Bucky asks suddenly. 

You turn back to look at him,  “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Okay.” He smiles.

“Okay.” You smile as you head to your room.

Part 3

Masterlist

Permanent: @bubbabarnes​ @badassbaker​ @thefridgeismybestie​ @strangersstranger​ @cherthegoddess​ @buckyluvrs​ @sherlocksmanwatson​ @cap-n-stuff​ @finleyjayne​ @caplanreads​ @connie326​ @daydreamerinadazedworld​ @bugsbucky​ @chrisevanscardigan​ @harrysthiccthighss​ @palaiasaurus64​ @rebekahdawkins​ @maaaaarveeeeel​ @tllynn15​ @learisa​ @jelly-fishy-babie​ @fistmebuckyskywalker​ @nerdy-bookworm-1998​ @liebs82​ @honestly-dontknow​ @a-really-bi-girl​ @saiyanprincessswanie​ @baddie-barnes​ @aikeia​ @paleo-runaway​ @marvelgirl7​ @starlightcrystalline​ @xxloki81xx​ @slytherinambitious​ @sallycanwait68​ @slytherdorxmd​ @fangirlforever2412​ @rainbowkisses31​ @whisperlullaby​ @thejemersoninferno​ @thehumanistsdiary​ @supraveng​ @dispatchvampire​ @teamarvel @sxbby-barnes​

Almost had me believing it: @farfromjustordinary​ @iheartsebastianstan​ @7minutes-tomidnight​ @thechaoticargonaut @marylimlp​ @buckybarnesdevotee​ @janaienaae​ @its-a-simply-me-thing 

Strikethrough could not be tagged. 

#Bucky #Bucky x you #Bucky x reader #Bucky series #Bucky fanfic #Bucky fanfiction #Bucky Barnes #Bucky Barnes x you #Bucky Barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes series #Bucky Barnes fanfic #Bucky Barnes fanfiction #The Winter Soldier #Winter Soldier #Winter Soldier x you #Winter Soldier x reader #Winter Soldier series #Winter Soldier fanfic #Winter Soldier fanfiction #marvel #avengers #tfatws #captain america

[everydayescapeartist]

JB Fic Exchange Recs - AU Multi-Chapter

Our fanfic cup runneth over, it really does!  Fics so good I want to marry them (sorry hubs).  You should definitely check the following @jaime-brienne-fic-exchange fics out as soon as you have a chance (along with all the others available too)!

Teach Me the Courage of Stars - Jaime is a Duke who is left to care for his niece and nephew on his own.  Catelyn, Duchess of Winterfell, is an amazing friend who has the idea that a certain other friend of hers might be able to help him out.  I loved the regency aspect of this and all of the wonderful letter correspondence through which we get to know our beloved characters.  I love the secret identity aspect, the sibling relationships, the science, the storms.  This fic is intelligent, fun, romantic, and eventually whew steamy!  Check it out!

Excerpt 1 (from one of Jaime's letters): Alas, it seems, however, my wish to no longer be grieving, to once more be returned to my days as a bachelor, does not simply manifest it. Instead, I spend my days determining how to best be a father to my orphaned niece and nephew, and break propriety by introducing myself to a new acquaintance via the written word. Yours respectfully, Jaime Lannister Excerpt 2: Jaime knocked on the door, and he was greeted by a starry-eyed Brienne. Her hair was down in a loose braid, and the storm had wisps of hair escaping the braid to stand on end, and Jaime was utterly charmed by the ridiculousness of it. She was wrapped practically in a dressing gown of her own, but Jaime couldn’t help but realize that Brienne was surely wearing naught but her sleeping shift underneath it.

Sweet wounded Warrior, control yourself, dammit.

“Casterly!” Brienne exclaimed, a smile lighting up her face like the lightning crackling from the window. She covered her mouth the instant the name he had given Tourmaline leave to use had escaped, and Jaime’s hand flexed with a sudden desire to drag that hand away from her mouth. When they had first met, Jaime had been taken aback by the inches she had over him, and he wished he could blame scientific curiosity on his desire to understand what kissing Brienne in all her glorious height would feel like. Vows - 27 Dresses inspired JB fic.  Jaime gets to know Brienne as the subject of a blog article related to her extensive wedding party experience.  The closet o' past bridesmaid/best woman dresses/outfits scene is great.  There's cake tasting.  Renly & Loras are perfectly self-absorbed grooms-to-be.  Jaime can paint centerpieces!  Enjoyed the sibling relationships in this one too. There's some Sansa/Jaime time.  There are grand gestures.  This fic is just so funny, cute, relatable, and sweet with much great JB banter.  It left me very happy!

Excerpt 1: “I always thought I’d never meet someone who’d been to nearly as many weddings as me,” Jaime said. “But you’re pretty close.”

Brienne looked at him then like he was being strange. “Well I don’t particularly like weddings,” she said. “Not like you do.”

Well Jaime didn’t particularly like weddings anymore either, but he couldn’t come out and say that, now could he?

“What don’t you like about them, Blue?” he asked. She shot him another one of her angry looks. 

“I just — people spend all that money, and it doesn’t guarantee anything besides a nice party. And half the time the more money you spend, the least likely you are to make it. And people get so wrapped up in things that don’t matter, and —”

“Then why be in twenty-seven of them?”

Brienne sighed, like Jaime was an absolute idiot. He kind of felt like one.  “I just want my friends to be happy.” She seemed embarrassed by the answer. Jaime thought it was rather nice. Excerpt 2: He chuckled and pulled her a little closer, so his lips were very near her ear. “The night’s almost over, Blue. I’ve got all the cold hard facts. But you can’t really write up a wedding without fully experiencing it.” He spun them in a lazy circle. “So I’m trying to make the most of the night before it’s over.”

“Surely there are other girls you’d rather dance with,” Brienne said, and immediately kicked herself. Why was she trying to convince Jaime to leave her side? 

“No,” he said, sounding more confident than Brienne felt. “I don’t think there are.” If I got everything I want, would it be everything I need? - This involves some role reversal, which was really cool to see explored.  Selwyn in this fic is the Tywin-style father and Brienne is the product of her upbringing trying to figure out if she knows who she really is and if that's what she wants for her life.  Jaime's the client (and younger man) she's going to fake date to appease her dad's old-fashioned edict that she needs to find a suitable husband.  And we know how these fake dating situations usually turn out... 😉

Excerpt 1: Brienne exhaled. In for a penny, in for a pound. “My father is…. somewhat old-fashioned,” she said slowly. “I want to take on a bigger role here in the company, but he wants me to get married and pop out the next generation. If I were to bring a date to the fundraising gala that we organize each year for the opera house, he might be persuaded to consider your proposal.” And give her the promotion she had more than earned.

Jaime leaned back in his seat, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Are you asking me on a date, Ms. Tarth?”

She rolled her eyes. “Think of it as a black-tie business meeting. There will be other potential investors there. I could make sure you have a chance to chat with them.”

His green eyes glinted dangerously at her as his smile expanded into a full-fledged grin. “Then how can I say no?” Excerpt 2: “This isn’t going to be fun,” Brienne said darkly, as they climbed into the town car. Because heavens forbid that Brienne drive herself to the giant mausoleum where she’d been raised.

“So you’ve said.” Jaime looked like he couldn’t decide whether he should be amused or worried. “Does he often execute his dinner guests?”

“Only on days that end in Y,” she muttered, smoothing the skirt of her dress obsessively.

Jaime reached over and grabbed her hand with his real one. “Relax, Brienne. We are just going to go have dinner, mention that we’re taking things slow, and I’ll throw some longing looks at you and talk about how I want a dozen kids.”

“A dozen?” She stopped fidgeting to look at him skeptically. “Do you know how much college tuition runs these days? Also, I’m thirty-three. Do you expect me to be continuously pregnant for 12 years, or am I supposed to be pushing out kids into my fifties?”

Jaime just grinned, totally unrepentant. “We can negotiate that, I suppose. Good thing for you I’m so young and virile.”

She rolled her eyes, and hoped she wouldn’t blush. She absolutely hadn’t thought about what he’d be like in bed. Not at all. This was a purely business arrangement. Or so she kept having to remind herself. Golden and Green - Brienne is a medical sourleaf farmer, Senator Tywin wants to shut her farm down, and Jaime wants to try sourleaf to get relief from his post-accident pain. He goes to Evenstar Farms, uses a fake name, and meets kind, helpful, and intriguing Brienne.  The farm setting is rich with sunsets and Brienne's cottage home complete with a pretty special library nook.  Jaime's living a lie on borrowed time while falling hard for Brienne.  Read and figure out how that all unfolds.  This was a very satisfying story and I just loved both of their characters a ton in it. 

  Excerpt 1: When they walked back around the barn, Jaime turned and looked over the sourleaf fields to the gently sloping hills which gave way to a dark green line of pine forest. The sun began to dip lower in the sky, bathing everything in a soft golden light.

“It’s magical.” The words were out of Jaime’s mouth before his head could catch up, and he winced at the cheesy pronouncement. But Brienne just looked over at him and smiled, seemingly overjoyed that someone appreciated the place as much as she did.

Excerpt 2:

Brienne: Yes. Don't work yourself to death, ok?

Jaime: You either. We haven’t even had our first date yet.

Brienne’s stomach swooped thinking about going on an actual date at all, much less a date with Jaime, the warrior made flesh, who actually seemed to like her? This can’t be real, Brienne thought. There has to be a catch.

Lost Dream of Tarth - Jaime as a silent film star in 1925 with a passion for archaeology and Brienne as the archaeologist who could use his funding to excavate on the lost island of Tarth.  Of course, he wants to be more involved than that... Brienne's crew is fantastic.  Their discoveries are wonderful.  This fic is adventurous and romantic and touching and fun.  

Excerpt:

“Well Lannister, you might not know this, but being an archaeologist is more than just dressing the part and posing in front of rocks, unfortunately for you.” She sniffed. “There are boring parts, as you’ll undoubtedly notice.” She walked toward the women, and nodded to them. “You’ll soon realize that the time of the reckless archaeologist who inadvertently destroys artifacts is long over. And with regards to Oberyn, I suspect what you saw of him is only what he is willing to show you. He had your movie star attention span in mind, surely, when he led you about.”

they say your body is full of sin (it's the door through where peace begins) - The 55,956 word fic about five times Jaime and Brienne masturbated and one time they didn't (and we’d all read twice that many words for this story, I’d imagine!).  I cannot express to you just how incredibly hot this fic is.  It is also a wonderful look at Jaime's escape from his toxic family and Brienne embracing the knight she is.  And I have legitimately never wanted to be able to log in somewhere and watch Jaime be a camboy (and a baking one at that) but I sure as hell do now!  Get some wine and a decadent dessert and enjoy!

Excerpt 1: Now here he was, spreading his legs in the chair, one hand resting on his chest, his thumb idly dragging across his collarbone, while he let the fingers on his belly slowly dip down to tap against the button of his jeans. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "When my friend first told me about this website, there was a voice in my head telling me that nobody would be interested." He trailed his index finger around the snap, glancing down a little for the sole purpose of looking back at the camera through his eyelashes. "I'm not exactly a young man anymore, as I'm sure you can see." He popped his jeans open, the snapping sound loud in the quiet of his room, and fought back a delighted smile as more tokens appeared.

"I didn't know if anyone would want to see me like this, if anyone would pass over the college boys to watch a man who's nearly forty. But you're here aren't you?”

Excerpt 2: He smiled at the screen again, his eyes bright. "You really are a Knight huh? Just swooping in to save the day. I hope this isn't the last time you join me on my channel. I don't always need to be saved, but I like knowing I can be."

Brienne swallowed as she took in the two bright spots of color on his cheeks, the joy so clearly illuminated in his eyes, and groaned. I can't believe I'm going to do this, she thought, even as she typed in I will, and saw his smile grow even wider. I am such a fucking idiot, she added as she tipped him twenty tokens before hurriedly exiting the channel. 

I am never going to be able to watch The Grand Maester Bake Off ever, ever again.

#jaime x brienne fic exchange #jaime x brienne fic exchange 2021 #braime fic recs #jaime x brienne #jb fic recs #braime fic reccs #jb fic reccs #my reccs

[thatsonemorbidcorvid]

“We don’t talk about maternal rage. I mean the kind that simmers under the surface of countless women; the kind that makes you dig your nails into your fists in an attempt to stop the fury from entering your hands, because if you don’t stop it now, it will turn to something shameful. Mothers dare not speak of it. We are afraid to admit to it, even to ourselves.

Before motherhood, we see images of pristine kitchens, sleeping babies, the perfect work–life balance. The drudgery that is the reality, the long list of unfinished tasks, the never-ending laundry, and the constant silent scream of the mental load, are kept from us. To some extent we play our own part in this, the pull of biology being so strong that we disregard the bits of motherhood we don’t want to see before we ourselves get there. But I’m not sure it is possible to fully understand the highs and lows of motherhood without having experienced them.

Pregnancy and motherhood left me raw, unable to process comment and criticism. I was lucky; I had a group of NCT friends who were all experiencing the same emotional rollercoaster.

However, I would approach the subject of my children tentatively, worried about judgement, not wanting to bore them, worrying the work of motherhood wasn’t exciting. Discussing the reality of motherhood requires vulnerability.

‘Buggies used to be invisible to me, and now I feel invisible,’ a new mum confides as I collect my son on the first day of nursery. This invisibility is the foundation on which my maternal rage stands. I’m a mother of three. I love family; not just the idea of it, but the messy reality.

Yet at the same time, the reality of motherhood has been viscerally brutal to me. I met my husband in my mid-thirties. He was 10 years older, and we both knew time was short. But children didn’t happen for us instantly, and after three years we gave up. And then it happened. And it wouldn’t stop happening. In our case, babies were like buses: they all seemed to come along at once.

Six years on, three little boys tear around our house. They are loud, their energy levels set permanently to high. They drag each other around the room on a blanket, as the baby crawls between them, narrowly avoiding death. “Darling, please don’t do that,” I say, over and over again.

“You wouldn’t tolerate this behaviour from anyone else,” says my husband. He’s right, I wouldn’t. His words echo around my head, mixing with the shouts from the boys and demands for food and toilet trips and toys, until I can’t bear it any longer and all I want to do is scream: ‘Will you just f**king stop trying to f**king kill each other, motherf**kers!’ But I can’t say that because I’m the adult.

I open the fridge and I eat my feelings. I make another cup of tea. I vacuum up more crumbs, push my rage further down as I pick up books with newly missing pages. I keep trudging on through the drudgery but the demands keep coming, and then I step barefoot on a piece of Lego.

I scream like a banshee, because it’s all I can do. Because I’ve tried everything to make them listen. Thinking steps, time out, taking away toys. They turn and look at me. The six-year-old with his worried face, the baby who’s surprised by the strange noise coming from mama, and the three-year-old who looks frightened. And all at once I feel I’ve failed. I am empty and I am awful.

I scoop them up and onto the sofa. We eat ice-cream and watch CBeebies, and I wonder why we couldn’t simply do this before. Why was I trying to hold it together with carrot sticks and educational games? I can see how the path to maternal rage – spewing into abuse – is incremental.

My husband comes home from work just around the time my cup of rage runneth over. He’s a good man. He scoops up our children, asks about their days, and takes them upstairs for bathtime as I stand muttering in a corner or shaking my head at the day I’ve had. I am aware that not everyone has this.

But I am also aware that he bears the brunt of, and exacerbates, my maternal rage. My position is so precarious that when he forgets my hatred of sweetcorn and adds it to our pizza, it tips me over the edge.

Because it’s the numerous times I have to tell my children to put their shoes on in the morning. It’s the swimming/PE/games kit, it’s the youngest demanding milk, and the middle child doing his best to be disruptive.

It’s my husband trying to pacify me when he’s just waltzed in from taking too long in the shower and is now heading out the door. It’s when I ask for help and he responds by requesting specific instructions on how to navigate the kids out of the house.

“You’re tired and lonely”, says another mother. She’s right, I am tired. I am tired of the patriarchy.

Maternal rage is about more than just the difficulty of raising small children. It’s a consequence of all the things that women have to endure throughout our lives. That we are expected to slot ourselves into a work system created for 1950s men; that, despite legislation, women still have to worry about telling employers they are pregnant, still struggle on maternity pay, and then still have to pay extortionate childcare costs in order to go back to work.

That, despite nods towards shared parental leave, the reality is that working mothers’ careers stall or go backwards while their male partners’ prospects might even improve.

And those of us who are stay-at-home mothers have another layer of disrespect heaped on us. Because motherhood is unpaid, and unpaid work is not valued. What is a writer when she’s not being paid to write? There are moments when I feel as though all I’m doing is failing.

“How did you get through raising kids?” I ask my friends. “I drank a lot of wine”, says one. I can’t help but wonder what kind of state we are in if the only way we survive motherhood is self-medication. Surely, if a man needed to drink every night to recover from his workday, the advice would be to find another job. Something is deeply broken here.

I have to find a better way through this, so I join a HITT class. I need to feel stronger. I need an outlet for my maternal rage. ‘Is it with other mums? With buggies?’ I’m asked by a relative, and I feel instantly diminished. The rage resurfaces.

My award-winning career, the publishing deal, the TV option, none of it means anything since I gave birth. Why wasn’t I warned that my worth and brain would fall out of my vagina with my babies? For all the demands on me, I am invisible.”