not emily

***

Mat Cauthon is the bane of your existence.

He’s been flirting with you since the second you introduced yourself.

Though admittedly, the eyes that met yours were beautiful, you cannot be swayed by a kind word and a handsome face. 

You were an Aes Sedai, a woman of the White Tower, a picture of discipline at that. 

As he rattles on about his supposed luck and daring escapes, he says, “You’re staring, you know,” he comments. “Am I that charming?”

You puff out your chest in an indignant huff. “Not at all. I think I can handle a simple boy from a simple village.” 

Taking your hand in a swift motion, he brings your knuckles to his lips, the soft brush of his lips against your skin, making your heart start to waver. 

Not that you’d ever truly admit that.

Though in honesty, it had been hard to rationalise. You’d spent part of your teens and your young adult life in the White Tower, so attention like this was… new. So was the pitter-patter of your heart and the sudden shallowness of breath you’ve been hit with. 

Is talking to someone supposed to knock all the air out of you? Light, help you. What was happening?

It was foolish. You had been trained better than this, taught to master yourself, to command your emotions, not be ruled by them like some lovestruck novice sneaking glances at a warder-in-training across a training yard.

You yank your hand back, to which he chuckles. An arrogant little sound that pricks at your good sensibilities. 

Just who did he think he was?

“I think you’ll come to find that I am anything but simple,” he tells you, full of what you assumed was unfounded confidence. 

“I highly doubt it.”

***

He would not let you breathe.

He was getting comfortable, more comfortable than you would hope.

Just this morning, as you were rushing to meet with a sister from the Green Ajah, he bumped into you on the way to the training yard.

Catching you by the waist before you could so much as stumble, he beamed down at you. “Light… it seems I’ve been visited by a vision. How did I get so lucky?”

“I am not in the mood,” you grumble as you separate from him. 

This had been at least the third time this week. It seems the Wheel has been conspiring against you, placing him directly in your path, in every corridor and every courtyard. Always smiling, always entirely too pleased with himself, and more than ready to flirt with you.

It was as though he had a sick enjoyment of being rejected.

“You seem rather tense. Are you sure I can’t help?” he asks lightly, falling into step beside you. “I’ve been told I’ve got rather… gifted hands. I’m sure I could relax even the most stubborn of Aes Sedai.”

Impulsively, he reached out and poked the little crease between your brows, the one that had formed from your deepening frown.

“I do not require your services, Mat,” you groan as you swat away his hand like you were shooing away a fly. “Save it for someone who may fall for your charms. Though I’m not entirely certain there’s anyone left, you’ve likely flirted with every woman in Tar Valon.”

“But none interest me in the ways that you do.”

You let out a short, incredulous laugh at that. One thing you had come to almost admire about the man is his propensity for being ridiculous.

“Wouldn’t you rather pursue someone who actually responds to your advances?” you ask. In truth, you hadn’t expected his persistence to last this long. But it was only a matter of time before he gave up, right? 

“What can I say?” he replied with an easy shrug.

You just had to remain strong, you just had to—

He leans in suddenly, your breath catching, your mouth dry in a second. At the drop of a hat, he’s zeroed in on you. As if watching you get more and more flustered and revelling in it. 

His breath tickles your ear as he says, “I’m a glutton for punishment.”

With that, he leaves you. Your facial expression remains unchanged and still, but your heart races, betraying all that you know is right. 

***

Since that day, he only seemed to up the ante.

An accidental touch here, his gaze focused on you, even when someone else is talking. It was driving you mad.

You could barely centre yourself anymore.

One moment you’d be controlling a weave, the threads of the One Power flowing smoothly, then he would pop into your head and your weave would falter, unravelling into nothing.

And it wouldn’t be any image. It would be downright obscene.

You can even see it now. 

In your mind, Mat sits on your bed in one of those shirts he loves to walk around in, the neck of which is so deep he may as well waltz around the Tower shirtless. He’s bathed in the morning light, the golden glow catching on his strong arms and highlighting the dangerous look in his eyes. 

Positively feral. 

He didn’t hesitate to pull you down with him to his bed, kissing everywhere he could reach like a man possessed. Soft gasps, leaving his lips when your fingers find his curls and pull just hard enough to send waves of need through his body. A series of compliments followed, “So beautiful,” and “Light… I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like you,” gracing your ears.

Before looking down at your form pinned beneath you and saying your name. Not like he’s ever said it to you before in real life.

He sounded desperate. 

For your touch, or maybe just your attention. 

He needed it. 

No wonder your weaves kept falling apart. 

This has never happened to you. 

It’s like you’ve been plagued with a sickness called Mat Cauthon and not even a sister of the Yellow Ajah could heal you of this particular ailment. 

You stand in your room now, frustration building, as yet another weave slips through your fingers. 

This was unacceptable.

You inhaled slowly, finding the Source, embracing it, letting it fill you. You were in control, not him, not the traitorous thoughts that loved to invade your mind. 

You. 

The weave formed as you found clarity, only to be suddenly interrupted by you know who. Your door creaks open, and Mat says, “Well, if it isn’t my favourite Aes Sedai.”

You spun toward him, all that pent-up frustration coming out with a screech. “Do you make it a habit to interrupt me, or is this a particular hobby of yours when it comes to me?”

“I’d say it’s a bit of both,” he admitted. “Though in my defence, you make it very easy.”

“What do you want?” you spit as you give up and plop yourself down on one of your chairs. 

It certainly didn’t help that he’s always in your space, always dropping by to bother you, asking you pointless questions just for the chance to ask you more. 

With each passing day, no, with each passing minute, he was becoming a greater headache than before. 

“I was curious. Why don't you have a warder?” he asks as he lounges on your bed as if it’s his own. 

He came here to ask that? You should throw him in a well. 

“I do not have a warder because I do not require one,” you reply, rubbing your eyes tiredly. 

“Oh?”

He gets up from your bed and walks over to you, keeping a close eye on your facial expressions. 

You hate it. 

“None of the Warders in training are quite right for me. I’m sure they’re skilled enough, but to have a Warder is to be a team, to be connected in ways that no one else can understand.” Your voice cools slightly at the thought of someone being privy to your innermost thoughts all the time. “There is no one I trust in such a way.” 

“For example…”

You get up too and step forward, into his personal bubble, not that he seems to mind. That dastardly smirk of his finds its way onto his face. 

“You would not make a fine warder,” you dismiss.

“You wound me.”

“Not as much as you wound me.”

The two of you, as if in a dance, circle one another, feeling out one another’s space, each other’s boundaries. It’s a game of give and take, and Mat loves to take. 

To pull you in with words, to turn you about until you lost your footing, and once he had you, he’ll give you what you’ve been too in your head about to receive. 

It’s like a rope; the harder you resist, the more it binds you to one another. 

You find yourself by his side, but facing away, your eyes set on the window, but not taking in the view. 

“I wound you?”

His voice deepens as he dips his head lower to look at you. It irks you to absolutely no end. As if he wasn’t close enough, now pressed against your side, personal space nothing more than a suggestion to the two of you.

“With your words. Does my being an Aes Sedai mean nothing to you?” you ask as you finally turn to look at him. 

Absentmindedly, you run your fingers along the hem of his shirt, rolling the fabric between your fingers. Completely unaware of how crazy it was driving him.

“I thought I made that clear the moment we met.”

He had. 

The endless flirting, the teasing, he wants you in ways that you’re not sure anyone has ever wanted you.

It’s like you're fighting a battle with yourself, you know very well that you shouldn’t get involved with anyone. 

You know better.

Not to mention it’s Mat Cauthon. You couldn’t think of a worse distraction if you tried. 

But as you stand chest-to-chest, your hand in his shirt, you can’t help but wonder what if?