Anonym sagte: I imagine Quinn's the kind of teacher to really care about each individual student, has there ever been a student in her art class she felt compelled to help through a rough time? After all she knows the pain of losing a brother, maybe she can help guide a youth through a tough time. (Assuming the canon that Quinn's brother Caleb died is also canon in this AU)


Jeremy’s been slumped in his seat all day. The day before that, too.

Quinn hurts for him. Of all the students in her class, he’s the one who produces the most vibrant works. Others shy away from color—Jeremy revels in it. Brilliant blues, searing reds, sunshine yellows—he uses whatever colors he can get his hands on.

But for the past few days everything has been grey. Two figures in grey, over and over, sitting by a lake.

Nothing Quinn says seems to reach him. Nothing anyone says seems to reach him. Every day he comes in, sets his things on his desk, and lays on his elbows. When class time’s up he leaves last.

“Jeremy, could you stay for a few minutes?” Quinn calls. The boy shrugs. As the others file out, he remains, standing in front of Quinn’s desk with his bag slung over his shoulder.

“Take a seat,” Quinn says. “I don’t have another class coming in for a bit, and I wanted to talk to you.”

He takes a seat in front of the desk. “Am I in trouble?” he asks.

“No, no, you aren’t,” Quinn says. “At least not with me.”

He makes a noncommittal noise. “What am I here for?”

Quinn takes out her sketchbook and a pencil. “Jeremy, did you lose someone recently?”

He flinches. Before answering he smacks his lips, sighs, puts his head in his hands. Then he looks up. “Yeah,” he says.

“Could you tell me about them?” Quinn says. “I’ll tell you about my brother, if you want.”

“Did you lose him?”

Pencil scratching against paper. Familiar lines falling into face. “Yes,” Quinn says. “It’s been years. He’s the whole reason I became a teacher. He used to tell me, ‘Quinn, you’ve really got a talent, and I know you’re going to make the world a better place’. So, here I am, trying my best.”

Jeremy nods. He presses his lips together. It’s a few moments before he speaks. The sound of Quinn’s sketching fills the silence.

“My brother, his name was Kevin,” he says. “He’s a lot older than me, because he has a different dad, but he never treated me like I was a half-brother. Whenever he came over to visit he’d drive us out to the lake. We’d go swimming. Me, him, his wife, his kids. Like a family thing.”

“I’m a terrible swimmer,” says Quinn. She continues sketching, smiling at Jeremy to show she’s still listening.

“I loved going to the lake with him and swimming. When you’re in the water it’s like you’re in another world. But now…”

“You can still go,” Quinn says. “I’m sure he’d want you to.”

“I guess,” he says. “But it’s just not the same. Nothing’s the same. I wanna call him and hear him just say he was joking, that wasn’t really him in the accident, but his wife’s still in the hospital…”

Quinn furrows her brow. She slides over the sketch she’s been working on. It’s a lot like Jeremy’s—two figures standing by the lake.

“What’s this?” Jeremy says.

“Your brother and mine,” says Quinn. “I’m sure Caleb would keep Kevin company.”

Jeremy stares at it for a bit. Then he nods again, drumming his fingers on the paper.

“It’s nice,” he says. “Do you really believe that?”

“I do,” says Quinn. “And you can let me know if you ever need someone to talk to.”


tagteamquinnandvalor sagte: ☠ // Freelance Officer Quinn anyone? owo




15. Toy: My muse captures yours to be theirs or the gang’s ‘pet’


( I probably shouldn’t go for this style in this prompt but we’ll see on how lazy I’ll get xD )

Of all the things to happen, it was for her to get caught. Quinn knew she wasn’t going to be rescued. It’s what happens when you are a cop without a badge. They send Quinn in when they don’t want any strings attached. She knew the risks going into this. The Ionian Yakuza was notorious for playing games with their victims. What was worse? They weren’t going to kill Quinn. In fact, Quinn was sure death was an easier outcome than what she was about to endure.

She tried to play it calm, she tried to play it cool but she could feel her heart starting to beat out of her chest in fear. Did they think her that clever? That cute and funny? To be made a pet? And of all the people she could have been handed off to, it was this bag of cats.

" Tch, red? C’mon… Red just isn’t my color." Quinn joked, trying to to almost lighten up the situation she was in.

"Oh it’s not meant to make you look prettier, pet." A devious smile came to her face as a finger traced Quinn’s jawline. "It’s so that the blood wouldn’t look out of place if you will bleed~"

"Aww, did you think I wanted to pamper you by making you feel all comfortable with a pretty collar? Such expectations!" purred the woman as she tightened the collar around her prisoner’s neck to a snug fit.


Game of Thrones  +  Weddings

(via lady-of-winterfell)


Anonym sagte: Could you write a fic where Lyanna is alive and in Winterfell and she has an incredibly close relationship with Arya, because I think they would be really close if she had lived since they share so many similarities with one another. I think she would be supportive and encouraging of Arya, which is something that Arya didn't get from the females in her life.


It was their nightly ritual. Every evening, Lyanna came to Arya’s chamber, sent the maid on her way, and brushed her niece’s hair out before the child went to bed.

Catelyn often did the same with her eldest daughter, but never with Arya. The younger girl had noted the difference.

“It’s because I’m ugly,” Arya had told Lyanna one evening when she came to say good night. “Sansa and Jeyne said so. My hair’s not pretty like hers and mother’s.”

“You are not ugly,” Lyanna had insisted, though her niece stared back at her with unconvinced grey eyes.

“I am ug-”

Lyanna took her by the chin and jerked Arya’s head to face hers. “You stop saying you’re ugly. You hear me? Stop that right now.”


“You think I’m ugly too, then?”

That seemed to take Arya aback. “No, you’re beautiful! Everyone says so. No one ever-”

“Then so are you.” Lyanna let go of her chin. “Look in the mirror. Go on. See, you have my look. If you’re ugly so am I, and I won’t be having any of that talk.”

She watched Arya scrunch up her face as she looked back and forth between them in the glass.

“Your lady mother allows me the privilege of brushing your hair myself as I have no children of mine own. I know I’ve been lax on that, so let’s start now.”

From then on, Lyanna came to brush her hair out every night. Though Arya had been clever enough not to believe her, she seemed grateful for the attention. The time alone allowed them time to chat over every notion that entered their minds. Like spinsters.

“Are you a spinster?” Arya asked.

The brush Lyanna was pulling through her niece’s hair stilled.

“Spinster!” she cried.

The word brought to mind cobwebs and shriveled skin and an aching loneliness. Lyanna had never thought of the term in relation to herself.

“Septa Mordane said you were,” Arya hurried on. “She said, I had better improve my stitches or I’d end a ruined spinster like you. I told her she was a liar. You aren’t ruined. But I didn’t know what a spinster was. Are you though? A spinster I mean?”

Lyanna resumed her brushing. “Septa Mordane said that, did she?”

Lyanna loathed that woman. She had ever since she discovered that the septa was encouraging the other girls to look poorly on Arya and using her as an insult whenever the others stepped out of line. Lyanna had ordered Mordane to stop that at once. So it seemed the septa had turned her vitriol onto Lyanna instead. But she would be damned before she let that old woman believe she had wounded her pride. So she wouldn’t correct her.

“I suppose she’s right,” Lyanna said lightly as she began to divide the brown strands into equal parts. “I’m almost 30 and unmarried. You could say I am a spinster.”

In the mirror, she saw Arya screw up her face. Lyanna smiled warily, knowing this would lead to a string of questions, some of which she might not be ready to answer. But none came.

Instead, Arya’s face took on that stubborn look she often got. “Then I want to be a spinster too,” she said.

“Ah, sweetling,” Lyanna said as she folded the brown locks into a loose braid. But she knew enough not to argue with that set jaw, so like her own. She could only pray that the gods placed Arya on a gentler path than Lyanna had traveled.

“If you want to be a haggard, ruined spinster like your old aunt-”

“You aren’t haggard!” Arya cried.

“-just know that your poor septa is a spinster too.”


“Aye, she is. If you wish, that could be you teaching highborn girls to mind their stitches.”

“I won’t!”

“Up with you, little spinster.” Lyanna kissed the grown of her head. “Time for bed and dreams of needlework.”



No one will ever know my utter love for the way George R. R. Martin writes women.

(via lady-of-winterfell)


Men would say she had my look, but she will grow into a woman far more beautiful than I ever was, you can see that.

for María ♥

(Quelle: alayneestone-archive, via lady-of-winterfell)


Anonym sagte: Ugh Vayne is such a dork in any AU it's disgustingly adorable. Could we get a fic about Vayne meeting LB again? Like I don't think she'd call LB, but I could see them meeting at a conference or something and her basically going "I 100% have a fun-sense!" and that's how she ends up at the company picnic in the three-legged race.


Vayne doesn’t call Leblanc back.

If she did, then Leblanc would win. It’d be admitting that she has no sense of fun. Admitting that she wants adventure. Vayne does plenty of adventuring, thank you. She’s the GM of the company RPG group. They play GURPS. Simulationism adds an extra level of enjoyment to any game. Plenty of fun.

So Vayne doesn’t call her back.

But she does keep Leblanc’s card taped to her monitor. And maybe she does allow herself to imagine—distantly, with enough grains of salt to make a centurion weep—what might happen if she did. She’s got a script in her head. It goes something like this:

SV: I ran my players through a historically accurate gladiator gauntlet today.

EL: Did you include allusions to popular products of the time? Endorsements were vital to a gladiator’s success.

SV: Of course I did. What do you think I am, some sort of plebian?

EL: Why, Shauna, you really do have a sense of humor!

It’s a very realistic script. She’s researched it.

But when Vayne bumps into Leblanc in the bathroom at the Pennsylvania Printer-Copier Conference she fails a will save.

“Why if it isn’t Shauna Vayne,” says Leblanc. That damned smile of hers, though. How is it possible for her to look so smug and so attractive at the same time. Vayne wants to punch her. She wants to punch her and maybe do other things, too.

“I never told you my name,” she says.

“No, you didn’t,” says Leblanc. Something different about the way she’s standing. She looks a little taller, Vayne thinks. “But I found it, anyway.”

“How?” Vayne says. “Who told you?”

Leblanc chuckles. “That is for me to know and you to wonder about, my dear,” she says.


She never called Vayne that before.

The paper saleswoman furrows her brow. Something’s off. She can’t put her finger on it, but something’s off.

“I guess I should’ve expected to see you here. You’re probably enjoying yourself at a boring conference like this,” Leblanc says.

“I find the classes informative and well thought out,” Vayne says.

Leblanc leans back against the countertop. She hops up, taking a seat, crossing her legs at the knee. “Is this the closest you get to fun?”

“I have plenty of fun,” Vayne says. Maybe it’s the thigh high stockings Leblanc is wearing, but Vayne’s ears are hot all of a sudden. “I just ran a historically accurate GURPs game—”

Leblanc laughs again.

“I think you might be the nerdiest person I’ve ever met,” she says. “For some real fun, meet me at the Rift tonight.”

“I don’t drink,” Vayne says.

“You won’t have to, dear. I’ll be around,” Leblanc says. She hops off the counter and kisses Vayne’s cheek. “Ciao.”

Vayne watches her go.

Vayne watches her go and fumes.

She’s not going to the Rift. She’s not going to the Rift after work. She doesn’t drink. Alcohol impairs her dart throwing abilities.

But she goes to the Rift after work.

And sure enough, Leblanc is waiting.


logosminuspity sagte: Oh my god just how many sex dungeon prompts and questions have you gotten now???? @_@ (What have I dooooone?!)


uhhhh. As a quick estimate there are about 15-20 sex dungeon related things in the ask right now. So roughly 10% of our ask!




sociopathwithyournumber said: Hi Cassie, first off i wanted to tell how much i admire your writing. CoHF was fantastic but I do have questions about it. This was brought to my attention by polandbananasbooks video, but was never addressed in CoHF. why is Izzy the only lightwood child with dark…