#he expected her to be as into this battle as she was against the firelights

[mya-valentine]

Eternal Frost and Stone

Summary: In a world where only two yakshas remain, Xiao and the Cryo Yaksha, fate has brought them together in their eternal duty of protecting Liyue from the remnants of their past. While their bond as the last remaining yakshas is undeniable, the Cryo Yaksha has always felt a deeper connection with one individual—Zhongli, the former Geo Archon, who walks among mortals under a new guise. As ancient memories stir, the Cryo Yaksha must face the truth of her past and the growing feelings she has for the one who once led the yakshas into battle.

Liyue Harbor, a city bustling with life, felt both foreign and familiar to the Cryo Yaksha, whose real name had been forgotten by the ages. She went by the name [Name] now, one given to her by Zhongli, the once-reigning Geo Archon, who had also bestowed names upon the other yakshas. Her true name, lost in the eons of battle, was but one of the many sacrifices she had made for the peace of Liyue.

[Name] stood on the cliffs overlooking Liyue Harbor, her arms folded as the bitter winds of Dragonspine swirled around her. The cold never bothered her; it was as much a part of her as the frost in her veins. She watched the bustling city below, her expression calm yet distant. Beside her, Xiao stood in silence, his golden eyes reflecting the city’s lights, yet his gaze was unfocused.

“Do you ever tire of watching over them?” [Name]’s voice was as cold as the air around her, though there was a hint of warmth reserved for Xiao alone.

Xiao’s response was brief, as expected. “Our duty never ends.”

She nodded, knowing his words echoed her own thoughts. They had been the only ones left for centuries now. She remembered the others—Bosacius, Indarias, Bonanus, and Menogias. All had fallen to their karmic debts, consumed by the madness they had fought so hard against. [Name] could feel that same madness clawing at the edges of her mind, but she had long since learned to suppress it, to freeze it in the depths of her soul as she did with everything else.

“Do you think we will ever be free of it?” she asked quietly, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon. “The duty, the karmic debt?”

Xiao hesitated, his hand tightening around his polearm. “Perhaps… someday. But not yet.”

Her lips curved into a small, almost sad smile. “Not in this lifetime, at least.”

The wind howled in agreement, and they stood in silence, two ancient beings bound by the same cursed fate. Yet, even as the world changed around them, one thing remained constant—Zhongli.

---

Later that evening, Y/n found herself walking the familiar path toward the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. Despite her stoic nature, there was a certain comfort in visiting Zhongli. His presence grounded her in ways that even Xiao’s did not. Zhongli was a constant, an unwavering pillar of strength and wisdom, much like the element he once wielded.

As she approached, the scent of incense and the soft hum of conversation greeted her. Hu Tao, ever the mischievous soul, waved at her from the entrance.

“[Name]! Back from your silent vigil already? You’re just in time! Zhongli is about to tell one of his famous stories.” Hu Tao’s grin was infectious, though [Name] only offered a polite nod in return.

She stepped inside and saw Zhongli sitting by the hearth, his amber eyes glowing in the firelight. He looked up as she entered, and a small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It was a gesture meant only for her, a recognition of the long years they had shared, both in war and in peace.

“[Name],” Zhongli greeted, his deep voice resonating through the room like the roll of distant thunder. “It’s good to see you again.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment before taking a seat beside him. There was a silence between them that felt as ancient as the mountains of Liyue, but it was not uncomfortable. It was the silence of understanding, of countless lifetimes shared.

“How goes the harbor?” Zhongli asked, his gaze steady, though there was a hint of something deeper in his eyes—something that had always intrigued her.

“Quiet,” she replied. “No new threats, at least not yet.”

Zhongli hummed in response, leaning back slightly as he regarded her. “And how are you?”

It was a simple question, one often asked between friends. But from him, it held more weight. Zhongli, despite his mortal guise, knew the burden she carried. He had watched over the yakshas for millennia, had seen them rise and fall, and had always been there to guide them. Now, with only her and Xiao left, his concern was more personal.

[Name] hesitated, the cold mask she wore cracking ever so slightly in his presence. “I’m… fine.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either. Zhongli seemed to sense this, as he always did. His golden gaze softened, and for a moment, she could almost feel the warmth of the sun in his eyes, melting the frost that clung to her soul.

“You’ve done well, [Name],” he said quietly, his voice a balm to her weary heart. “But you don’t have to carry this burden alone.”

Her breath caught at his words, an old ache stirring within her. “And yet, there’s no one else left to carry it.”

Zhongli was silent for a moment, and she wondered if she had said too much. But then he spoke, his voice laced with an ancient sadness that mirrored her own. “You are not alone, [Name]. You have Xiao. You have me.”

The unspoken meaning behind his words sent a shiver down her spine, but it wasn’t the cold that caused it. It was the weight of something unspoken, something that had always lingered between them but had never been acknowledged.

For centuries, [Name] had suppressed the feelings that stirred in her heart whenever she was near him. It felt wrong to feel anything for the one who had once been her leader, her Archon. But Zhongli was no longer the Geo Archon—he was simply Zhongli, a mortal walking among mortals.

And she was no longer just a weapon of war.

---

Days passed, and the weight of her unspoken feelings began to wear on [Name]. She found herself returning to Zhongli more often, drawn to his presence in ways she could no longer ignore. He was a constant in her life, a reminder of the past, yet also a promise of something more—something she had long denied herself.

One evening, as the sun set behind the mountains of Liyue, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, [Name] found herself standing before Zhongli once more. This time, the air between them felt different, charged with something unsaid.

“I remember the days when you led us into battle,” she said softly, her gaze distant as memories of the past flickered before her eyes. “You were… unshakable. Like the mountains.”

Zhongli’s expression was thoughtful, though there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. “I was merely fulfilling my duty. Just as you and Xiao continue to do.”

[Name] looked at him then, her icy blue eyes locking onto his golden ones. “But it was more than that for me.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Zhongli’s gaze softened, and he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently touch her cheek. The warmth of his hand against her cold skin was a stark contrast, but it was a contrast that felt right, like two halves of the same whole.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice like the low rumble of the earth. “I have always known.”

In that moment, the walls [Name] had built around her heart began to crumble. She had spent centuries suppressing her emotions, denying herself the simple act of wanting something for herself. But here, with Zhongli, she couldn’t deny it any longer.

“I’m tired, Morax,” she admitted, her voice trembling with the weight of her confession. “I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of being alone.”

Zhongli’s hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away the single tear that had slipped down her face—a tear that froze as soon as it left her skin. “You are not alone, [Name]. You never have been.”

His words, so simple yet so profound, broke something within her. Without thinking, she stepped closer, resting her forehead against his chest. The warmth of his body seeped into her, chasing away the cold that had long settled in her bones.

For the first time in centuries, she allowed herself to feel—to truly feel.

Zhongli’s arms wrapped around her, holding her close, and for a brief moment, the weight of her past, her duty, and her pain seemed to melt away, leaving only the warmth of his embrace.

“I will stand by you, [Name],” he whispered against her hair. “For as long as you need me.”

And in that moment, as the last of the sun’s light faded from the sky, [Name] finally allowed herself to believe him.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[fridayenights]

Through Her Eyes - A BG3 One-Shot

Astarion hasn’t seen his reflection in centuries, a cruel reminder of everything he’s lost to his vampiric curse. When Alluna offers him the chance to see himself through her eyes, he’s faced with something he never expected: a glimpse of the man he used to be—and the hope of who he might become.

FANDOM: Baldur's Gate 3

PAIRING: Astarion/ Alluna (Tav)

WORD COUNT: 3,155

TRIGGER WARNINGS: This story contains themes of trauma, emotional vulnerability, and references to past abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

Alluna tilted her head back, her eyes tracing the sparkling stars overhead. Their beauty stole her breath and wrapped her in a rare, fragile peace. She drew her knees to her chest, a soft smile curling her lips as the fire’s crackling warmth eased the weariness in her bones. The day had been long and grueling—her body ached with the memory of countless battles. Exhaustion pressed heavy on her shoulders, but for a moment, as she gazed at the heavens, the weight lifted, and the night offered her a fleeting reprieve.

She inhaled deeply, the air carrying the faint tang of pine, the musk of earth, and the briny trace of the nearby stream. It was so different from Baldur’s Gate. The first night here had been jarring—not just because of the nautiloid’s crash or the alien tadpole burrowing into her brain, but because of the silence. The forest felt alive yet unnervingly still. No clamor of merchants or sharp laughter of drunkards. No constant hum of life. Just the snores of her companions, the crackle of the fire, and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

Her peace was interrupted by low, frustrated murmurs, breaking the soft crackle of the fire. Alluna turned, her gaze landing on Astarion. He stood just beyond the camp’s edge, a mirror in his hand, his brow furrowed as he tilted it this way and that, his movements sharp with irritation. For a moment, she thought he was fussing over a stray strand of hair, and a quiet snicker escaped her. With a sigh, she pulled herself to her feet and strolled toward him, intent on catching him off guard.

But before she could speak, his voice cut through the night. “Looking at something?” he asked, startling her.

She blinked, then frowned. “How did you know I was there?”

“The only benefit to a mirror when you have my… condition,” he replied, his tone flat as he continued inspecting the glass. “It doesn’t quite make up for the lack of a reflection, mind you.” His voice remained level, but the slump of his shoulders betrayed him.

The grin on Alluna’s face faded as realization dawned. He hadn’t seen his own face—not since the night he was turned. The thought struck her, sharp and sudden. She hesitated, unsure of what to say, before finally asking, “Do you miss it? Seeing your own face?”

“Preening in the looking glass? Petty vanity?” He turned to face her then, his eyes heavy, searching hers. “Of course I miss it.” He sighed, the mirror in his hand catching the firelight. “I’ve never seen this face. Not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red…” His expression hardened, anger flashing across his features as he looked at her.

Alluna studied his face, her mind tracing over the sharp angles and hollow beauty of it, trying to imagine what he might have looked like before. “What colour were they before?” she asked softly, her voice a thread in the quiet.

“I…” His voice faltered, and for a moment, he seemed caught off guard by the question. His brow furrowed deeply as he turned inward, searching for a memory that remained stubbornly out of reach.

The rage in his eyes melted into confusion, then panic, and finally something far heavier. His grip tightened around the mirror, his knuckles pale against its ornate frame. “I…” he tried again, the words catching in his throat. His head tilted, his gaze darting to the ground, as though the answer might lie buried beneath the dirt.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, the words brittle, fragile. His crimson eyes met hers, unguarded and raw. “I can’t… I can’t remember.” The mirror slipped slightly in his grip, trembling in his hand. His expression grew distant, his eyes unfocused, as though the memory he sought had been stripped away entirely, leaving only a hollow ache behind.

The ache consumed him for a heartbeat—then burned away, replaced by a fiery inferno. “My face is just another dark shape in my past.” His voice shook with rage. With gritted teeth, he hurled the mirror into the dirt, where it shattered into glittering fragments.

Alluna’s heart grew heavy as she watched him. Thin tears lined his eyes, but they didn’t fall. Anger and shock wrestled for dominance in the lines of his face, his posture tense and fists clenching and unclenching as if he didn’t know whether to scream or collapse. This realization had rattled him to his very core, cracking the carefully curated mask he always wore.

Her fingers twitched at her side, her heart aching with the need to comfort him, to give him something—anything—to pull him from this pain. And then it struck her. Her eyes widened as the idea took root, tentative but insistent. She stepped closer to him, excitement flickering like a fragile ember.

He startled slightly at her sudden movement, his gaze snapping to hers. She hesitated, fearing he would shout at her, push her away. But she shook her head, banishing the thought. “Astarion, I might… have a solution,” she said, her voice trembling as nerves battled with resolve.

He tilted his head, confusion furrowing his brow. “What do you mean?” There was a whisper of hope in his voice, so faint it was barely there—but she saw it.

Alluna swallowed hard, chewing the inside of her lip as she raised a hand and pointed toward her temple. “The tadpole…” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. She knew what she was asking of him: to relinquish control, to open his mind to her, to let someone breach the carefully constructed walls he’d built to protect himself.

Their bond was fragile, born of shared necessity but slowly blossoming into something more. It was terrifying in its newness, full of promise and peril. It could grow into a thorny rose, beautiful but dangerous, or a sunflower reaching for the light. She prayed it was enough to surpass his distrust.

A long, agonizing silence stretched between them. His expression remained unreadable, his thoughts racing behind his crimson eyes. Alluna’s resolve began to wither under the weight of it. Poisonous doubts whispered in her mind: she’d shattered their delicate bond, ruined everything by speaking this absurd idea aloud. He would regret trusting her, regret opening himself up even the smallest bit.

But then, before she could drown in her fears, his mask cracked again. Uncertainty rippled across his features, followed by something softer, more vulnerable. He met her gaze, and her breath hitched at the raw emotion she saw there. “How… How would the tadpole help me see myself?” His voice was small, hesitant, as though the words themselves were fragile.

Alluna smiled softly, careful not to lean too close. “I would lend you my eyes,” she said, her tone steady. “It would mean opening your mind to me, letting me in. But only to see what I see—nothing more.”

His brows furrowed, and he stepped back, a whirlwind of emotions flickering across his face. She didn’t press him, didn’t move closer, but simply waited. Astarion’s mind raced, the weight of her words colliding with the walls he’d built over centuries.

Trust her? Could he even do that?

He thought back to the moments they’d shared. At first, it had all been a game—a calculated play to ensnare her in his web, like so many others. But she was… different. It hadn’t felt like such a performance with her. The revulsion that usually curdled in his stomach afterward was quieter, subdued. She had a way of lying in his arms, her face alight with contentment, as though she saw something in him he couldn’t see himself. For a fleeting moment, he had almost believed it. Almost.

His gaze lifted to meet hers, and he saw nothing but sincerity. Still, the fear clung to him, gnawing at the edges of his resolve. “I… I don’t know…” He faltered, unsure how to finish the sentence. I don’t know if I trust you? I don’t know how to let you in?

Alluna seemed to sense the war raging behind his eyes. Her expression softened, and the smile she gave him made his heart ache in ways he couldn’t explain. “Astarion,” she said gently, her voice steady but warm, “this is your choice. If you’re not ready, that’s fine. If you need more time, take it. I won’t push you. I trust you to know what’s right for yourself—and I’ll be here if or when you decide.”

Her words washed over him, and for a moment, he felt himself slip back into the comfort of his mask. He forced a hollow smile and replied, “Time, darling? That’s a luxury we don’t exactly have. Death lurks around every corner—”

“Astarion.” Her voice stopped him short, soft but resolute. His breath hitched as her eyes met his, unwavering. “We have time,” she said again, quieter this time, but with unshakable certainty. “No tadpole, no mind flayer, no cultist—nothing will stop us. You have time to decide if this is something you truly want to do.”

For a moment, he said nothing, her words hanging heavy in the space between them. His mask threatened to crack, but he held it firm, unwilling to let her see just how much her words had shaken him—not in a negative way. She had given him something Cazador never had: a choice.

The concept felt alien, even though he knew he must have had it once, centuries ago, before chains of blood and pain stole it from him. At least, he thought he had. It was hard to tell anymore. The memories had been drowned beneath horrors so vast they poisoned his mind, erasing everything that made him who he once was.

But now, here she was, offering him the impossible. A piece of himself he thought lost forever. His face. The very thing that had been his best weapon, his greatest performance. Hundreds of conquests had whispered praises of his beauty before they met their grisly ends in Cazador’s chambers. Even his master had seemed taken with it—or obsessed with it. Why else would he linger over Astarion, why else would his screams be called “the sweetest”? That had to be the reason. The only reason.

A quivering breath escaped him, and he refocused on Alluna. The care in her gaze held him steady, anchoring him to the present. For the first time in centuries, he let himself want something, and the words fell from his lips like a confession. “I… I want to… see my face.” Her beaming smile overtook her features, and something inside him fluttered. How could a smile like that make him feel so light?

“Are you certain?” she asked gently, her tone steady despite the tremble of anticipation in her voice.

Astarion hesitated, his thoughts churning, but then he nodded. Her response was a quiet, affirming nod, and she raised a hand, gesturing toward her temple. “Alright. Let’s try this.”

It wasn’t easy. Alluna still struggled with harnessing the tadpole’s power, and her initial attempts were clumsy. Astarion flinched as her mind brushed his, the sensation as foreign and invasive as it was tender. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, pulling back instantly.

He shook his head, steadying himself. “No, just… slower.”

She adjusted, her presence featherlight as she pushed against the fragile wall in his mind. It wasn’t a barrier made of steel or stone; it was paper-thin, yet impossibly vast, stretching over centuries of memories too dark to look at. The fragility of it unnerved her. She moved with care, soft and steady, like tracing the edges of a broken mirror.

Astarion’s brows furrowed as he felt her again, her presence like the ghost of a lover’s touch—tentative, patient, and maddeningly gentle. The instinct to pull away screamed in him, but he held fast. Slowly, he let the gates open, just enough to let her through.

When her presence faltered, pressing too hard, he winced, and she immediately pulled back. “Sorry—”

“You’re fine,” he interrupted, his voice tight but resolute. “Just… let me guide you.”

It took time. His breathing was shallow, his entire body tense as he adjusted to the sensation of another person inside his mind. She didn’t prod or poke at his memories, as she had promised. She hovered, a patient presence, waiting for him to be ready.

When he finally nodded, the breath he let out was shuddering, his voice hoarse as he whispered, “Alright. Do it.”

Alluna projected her vision into him, and they both gasped. Their sight warped and contorted, the raw psionic power rushing through their minds threatening to buckle her resolve. She staggered, clutching her temple, but her tadpole greedily absorbed the energy, steadying her.

Astarion stumbled back a step, his hands shooting up to steady himself. His vision darkened, and panic clawed at him. He thought, for a terrifying moment, that they’d done something irreversible. But then the familiar, squirming presence of the tadpole seemed to lap up the excess energy, settling the chaos inside him.

And then, the darkness faded.

He blinked, his consciousness expanding beyond his body, and froze as his vision resolved into a figure. A stranger stared back at him—a pale face, sharp and angular, framed by silver-white hair. Crimson eyes glinted like rubies, hollowed with centuries of torment, yet achingly beautiful.

His breath hitched. “Is… Is that…”

The thought broke off as the shock hit him like a thunderclap, raw and overwhelming. Alluna felt it through their connection—a suffocating weight, cold and unrelenting, like drowning in ice water. Her chest tightened, her breath hitching as she realized these weren’t her emotions. Astarion’s grief and disbelief surged through her, raw and jagged, pulling her under.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, and before she could think, her hand moved on its own. She reached up and brushed it away, her fingers warm against his cool skin. Astarion shuddered under her touch, his eyes widening. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“N-No…” His voice broke, barely more than a whisper. His hand rose to cover hers, trembling as it settled over her fingers. “It’s… okay. I don’t mind.”

Her heart clenched at the fragility in his tone. She offered him a soft smile, stepping closer as her thumb brushed gently over his cheek.

His gaze returned to the vision before him, and slowly, the shock ebbed, replaced by something lighter, brighter. His lips parted in wonder. “It’s… me,” he whispered, the words trembling with disbelief.

A smile—genuine and unrestrained—spread across his face, growing until it overtook him like wildfire. “After all these years…” His voice wavered as he reached toward his face, his fingers brushing his cheek as though to confirm the image was real. “Hello again. Gods, I missed you.”

Alluna’s own tears welled and spilled as she watched him rediscover himself. It was the purest thing she’d ever witnessed, and her heart swelled with emotion. He moved his hands over his face, tracing every line and angle like he was trying to etch the image into his memory. She didn’t blame him. The tadpoles wouldn’t last forever. This was his only chance to see himself, and she resolved to give him all the time he needed.

If it took all night, she would hold the connection for him.

After a long, quiet moment, he let out a soft chuckle. “I am quite the handsome devil, aren’t I?”

Alluna laughed, her voice light and full of warmth. “Yes, you are, Astarion. But don’t forget—you’re so much more than that.”

His smile softened in a way that made him look years younger. “I’m beginning to see that,” he murmured, his voice carrying the faintest hint of hope.

They stayed like that for a while, Astarion inspecting every inch of his face. He even fiddled with his hair, grumbling about how those “damned goblins” had ruined it. Alluna couldn’t help but laugh at his rambling, her heart warm with affection she wasn’t ready to voice—not yet. For now, it was enough to give him this moment, this gift.

Eventually, Astarion pulled his consciousness away and gently coaxed her out of his mind. Alluna surrendered to the tender yet firm push, letting her vision become her own once more. The disorientation was brief, though it left them both momentarily off-balance.

As the world settled around them, they stood in comfortable silence. Astarion seemed lighter somehow, as though a piece of the weight he carried had fallen away. His smile reached his eyes now—genuine, warm, unguarded—and Alluna’s favourite part was how his gaze seemed brighter, more alive.

He had reclaimed a part of himself that had been buried beneath centuries of torment. To an outsider, it might have seemed insignificant, but to Astarion, it meant everything. He was no longer just a fragment of Cazador’s cruelty. He was his own person, with something worth fighting for: the memory of his face, his freedom, and perhaps… Alluna.

He glanced at her and caught her staring. A smirk spread across his face. “What are you smiling at?”

She chuckled, tilting her head. “It’s nice seeing you so happy. It suits you.”

“Yes, I’d imagine so,” he quipped, his voice playful. “Now that I know just how magnificent I am.” She laughed, shaking her head as he grinned. But then his expression softened, his gaze steady and sincere. “Thank you,” he whispered.

The words caught her off guard, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. Then she smiled, her voice quiet but sure. “Of course, Astarion. I’m here for you, always.”

A warmth blossomed in his chest, spreading like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He breathed in the cool night air, his gaze lifting toward the stars as though seeing them for the first time. “It’s strange,” he murmured, glancing at her. “For so long, I’ve been little more than a ghost. A shadow of a man. But now… I almost feel real again.” He chuckled, the sound light, almost bashful. “Thanks to you.”

Alluna smiled, her heart swelling at the sight of him. “You’ve always been real, Astarion. This just helped you see it for yourself.”

He tilted his head, studying her with a look she couldn’t quite place. For a moment, she thought he might say something profound or vulnerable. Instead, a familiar smirk crept across his lips. “Well,” he said with a playful lilt, “if this is what it feels like to be real, I must say—it’s rather exhausting.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “That sounds about right.”

His smile softened again, his blood-red eyes glowing faintly in the firelight. “Thank you, Alluna,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “For everything.” And as the silence settled between them, comfortable and warm, Astarion felt something he hadn’t dared to hope for in centuries: peace.

A/N: I had this idea sitting in my head for some time. I always wondered why Tav never showed Astarion what he looked like, so I figured I'd rewrite the Mirror Scene (though, the original is beautiful, and I absolutely adore it). Let me know what you thought of my story! Regardless of your thoughts, though, I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading!

EDIT: I made a book cover for this story -- check it out here!

[alpydk]

Romantic smut prompt: before Karlach’s engine cools down, she and Shadowheart use the tadpole connection for mutual masturbation ❤️

Sharing is Caring

Thanks for this prompt, it was fun, difficult, but fun. I'm learning a lot about me and smut which I sort of expected but yeah, always learning. Hope you like this. Of course a Happy Pride to everyone, which I've failed to say, I'm sure.

Word Count - 1506 - CW - Smut - F/F

Singed lips had not been the result Shadowheart had been looking for the first time she'd kissed Karlach. She’d expected hot, maybe a little steamy as they’d crept under the cool waterfall together, eager hands upon one another in light quick touches, but the lengthier kiss had been met with a healing spell she hadn’t anticipated. “Well, I guess that’s out of the question then,” she spoke, a slight resignation in her tone.

---

The two friends had spent the weeks journeying together, pilfering wine from the camp supplies when they could, drinking and sharing in ways the cleric had never thought possible. With very few memories and a natural distrust for anyone, it had been a shock to find someone like Karlach who bulldozed through all obstacles, whether physical or metaphorical. Their pasts had mattered little to each other, their futures even less. The tiefling had been a heated dragon’s breath of fresh air to Shadowheart, a new lesson on how to focus on the present and seizing the moments that mattered. Fresh memories had been created between the two, ones she would not be so quick to surrender on her return to Shar’s grasp.

It had been a night sat alone on the rocky clifftop where they’d first shared their feelings with each other, schoolgirl type blushes expressed which had caused Shadowheart to scoff, brightened firelight licking up from Karlach’s shoulders in response to the reaction. One upgrade to the barbarian’s infernal engine had been enough for a quick steal of a kiss with the unknown help of a stray ice bolt from Gale. With that, they’d both been secretly working on ideas of how they could further progress the relationship to something more than just shared alcohol and what ifs.

They couldn’t rely on Gale being involved every time, even with the flirtatious comments he sometimes spouted, and advice from the other members of their party had provided useless. Astarion had offered playful remarks about watching, though Shadowheart got the feeling he wasn’t even interested in that, his act one she was familiar with herself. Wyll had talked about the pleasantries of talking to build a relationship, one idea which Karlach had grown bored with quickly remembering her times alone in the tents of Avernus. And Withers… Well, what did a dried skeletal corpse know of sex? The two potential lovers would simply have to work this one out alone.

One darkened evening, as the clouds drifted in front of sparkling skies, the pain retreated a short distance from the camp, bottles of wine in hands, the idea being to use the nearby waterfall to act a constant coolant for Karlach’s heated flesh. At first it had seemed to have worked as the elf’s delicate hands drifted upon her companion’s skin, the battle earned scars risen against the pads of her fingers. The water steamed around their naked bodies, a hot spring of their own creation merging with the internal warmth of shared liquor.  

Travelling hands led to soft kisses laid upon one another, their idea working well as the air grew thick around them both. Shadowheart leaned in for the kiss eagerly, the tiefling’s firm hands holding around her hips to give her the height she needed in the depths of the pool. For a moment it had been perfect, the warmth of their lips upon another, the twisting of tongues searching, and then came the quick prickling and the need to pull back.

---

Unspoken frustration was expressed between both; a silent trudge back to the shore and the wine now drunk to bury unexpressed sensations. Karlach shifted uncomfortably on the quickly drying earth beneath her, the leather of her armour not the welcome touch to her heated skin. “You know, Fringe… This might be an odd one, but what if we use the worm?”

Shadowheart took a swig from the bottle in her hand, her lips pursed to the cool glass opening and her eyes focussed on the neckline that she wished she could suckle on instead. She thought over the concept. They had used the tadpole in the past for sharing visions and messages when needed, its presence not a complete negative aside from the well-known fact that it was destined to transform them into soulless monsters. She lowered the bottle considering the idea; it could work. “Well, I’m willing if you are.”

The tiefling gave a playful grin; her sharpened teeth gleaming, ready for what was to come. She let her mind wander; the tadpole reacting to the connection between the two. She could see the elf in her mind’s eye, the way the pale skin seemed to glow against the astral background they floated in. Karlach gave the world a background, sunlight over forest clearings, fluffy clouds floating aimlessly above them. Both stood naked in this envisaged dream, Karlach’s flames now muted to nothingness, her reddened flesh a stark contrast to Shadowheart’s.

The cleric saw the wildflowers, purples and whites that spattered the surrounding green wilderness, the tiefling’s need for the life of the world around, the touch of prickling grass under their soles, the distant sound of falling water but a silence hanging in the area, an anticipation shared between them. She approached slowly, trying not to break the illusion in front of her, her own love of night orchids appearing under the shaded edges of the tree line.  

The two met, soft hands drifting upon one another’s arms, testing how far this idea could go. As Shadowheart felt the warm grip on her, she let out a soft sigh; the tadpole working in providing not just visual but also physical aid in what they both wanted. She knew not how her body lay on the shores near the waterfall, only that in this moment she could be free to express herself. She felt her mind tug with Karlach’s, the shared longing for each other passing over through the conjured world. It had been so long since being with another person; self-imposed isolation placed up, as per Shar’s commands, but she cared little. She wanted to kiss, to feel, to love, and she wanted it with Karlach.

The smile was all Shadowheart needed to know her thoughts had been received, similar coming back to her own tadpole, whispers of how life was too short to regret not sharing love. And that’s what this was between them, a love that both feared to waste. She leaned in, feeling the wine tinted lips of her companion upon hers, her hands drifting over the ridges and scars of the tiefling’s body. She heard the hungry moan of desire in her ear and control was lost to her. There was only the yearning of long denied hands on flesh, frantic kisses placed over long observed bodies. Shadowheart forgot the tadpole, Shar, her mission; there was only her and Karlach, desperate fingers tracing the point of no return.

Firm fingers danced upon her own delicate flesh, the grass beneath them both folding under the rolling of their bodies pressed against one another. She let out her own whimper at the touch, so much different from the nights she had spent alone. Her hips arched into the sensation, her mind unravelling, the tadpole continuing to support them in the fantasy. Karlach gave a subtle bite to her shoulder, the pinch fuelling the cleric on further, pleasure and pain a combination, one she was used to. Fingertips continued their motions, light rubbings building in speed as the pressure each of them felt grew. With physical aspects being felt, the emotions and sensations built in intensity; each climb to climax, passing the barrier between their minds.

The illusion flickered between them as the precipice neared, the tree’s vanishing before reappearing, eyes clenched shut and breathless gasps heard. The warmth of the tiefling’s fingers seem to increase, but Shadowheart knew there was little time before she reached her peak, her body trembling and hips quivering in her lover’s grasp. She felt as the strong thighs clenched around her hand, the waves of release being felt by her companion and with it she let go of her bindings entirely.

---

The water lapped upon her boot; the stars shining above her and a salted breeze from the coast whistled through the trees that surrounded them. She opened her eyes, turning her head to see the satisfied smile of Karlach; the tiefling’s deep dark hair released and lying wild around the pointed red ears. As the heat of the flames returned, granting a welcome comfort from the chilly night’s embrace, the two lay gazing at one another, basking in the bliss that had fallen between them.

The next morning was met with stolen glances and whispers of when they would next meet, of desires of what would happen once Karlach’s infernal engine was upgraded fully. There was only one downside that they had both discovered with their involvement of the tadpole, and that was their travelling companions, kept awake by the thoughts that were shared without restraint.

[elfroot-and-laurels]

OH OH what is In dreams?? 👀

In Dreams is a fic for Lord of the Rings Online of my absolute most favorite story cutscene which happens…in dreams. A little snippet below:

“What you must do is still up to you, my friend. Though I fear you will find that there is naught you can do to stave off the inevitable.” The calm on his face infuriated her.

“Then what—” Candaith interrupted her, abrupt and disinterested, and his words were ones which she did not expect, but which Lanadhiel felt after that she should have.

“What of the sons of Elrond, you ask?” Anxiety gripped Lanadhiel’s heart, her lungs, and her hand flew back to the ring strung about her neck as everything faded and rippled once more, the landscape growing hazy and indistinct. Out of the gloom shone a gem, bright and unsullied in its light, though the figure that bore it on his brow remained in shadow.

“Elladan,” Lanadhiel breathed out his name, and with one hand still on the ring, she reached out the other hand, as though without control. It was as if he could hear her, but not see her, and Elladan looked up, deep brown eyes clouded by the shadow that enveloped him. A grief, a doom, seemed upon his shoulders, and was writ on his features, and it paralyzed Lanadhiel, so that she stood there, one hand clutching the still cold chain and ring around her neck, the other held in front of her. Mordirith’s words echoed in her ears. The distance between them seemed insurmountable, as though the wide sea stretched out before her, despite the fact that she could almost touch him if she stretched just a bit further.

Elladan turned then, as though reacting to a voice, and Lanadhiel saw then the bloodied sword in his hand, the dirt and grime of battle that covered him, and a fear even deeper than before wrenched a gasp, a strangled cry, from her lips. The figure of Elrohir approached, and the shadow that hung about his twin, for reasons Lanadhiel did not know, reasons she feared, was absent, though he seemed to be struggling to carry another figure on his shoulder, a figure that was blank and indistinct, on the edge of her awareness, like a figure at the edge of a circle of firelight. Elladan opened his mouth, and though he was shouting, she could see it, Lanadhiel heard no words. She felt the whoosh of air, though, that followed his quick turn; she could have sworn she felt the fabric of his cloak brush against her hand. But he ran into darkness, toward his brother, and was gone.

When Candaith spoke again, Lanadhiel was aware of the tears that tracked down her face.

[wordtotherose]

She's dozing, gazing up at the occasional star peeking through the dark night-time clouds above, when Astarion steps over her and stays there, just looking down at her. The moonlight is near vanished tonight but the firelight catches in his hair and warms his pale skin.

He doesn't say anything as he stands over her. She doesn't either. Stays relaxed and drowsy, silently putting together the picture before her. The tension in his shoulders. How his fingers clench then relax before closing into fists again by his sides. His beautiful eyes, normally so languidly observant of all of his surroundings, are narrowly intent on her, verging on frantic as he stutters his way through a breath he doesn't need. His clothes are rumpled, suggesting he's come straight from an unsettled dream because try as he might not to sleep, something about vampirism and elvish trances mixes poorly with his long list of shitty memories from time to time. Usually in these moments his scars are especially tender, whatever magic is inlaid in the infernal contract stabs and aches adding to the restless discomfort he has little choice but to grit his teeth and push through.

She hates it. She loves that he comes to her.

When a full-body shiver courses through him she finally moves. Slow, obviously broadcasted movements as she pushes herself up to be propped against the log she'd set her bedroll tucked against, and opens her arms. An invitation. An offering. She watches closesly for his reaction, waits to see if he needs a verbalisation to really believe she won't mind should he not want her touch, her comfort. But not tonight.

Tonight he falls to his knees with a harsh thump that has her wincing. He takes one of her wrists in both his hands, tender and careful as he pushes in with his thumb between the delicate bones. The exhale that shakes out of him upon finding her pulse strong and steady, if a little faster than normal from her anxiety for him, has her bending her fingers awkwardly to grasp one of his wrists in turn, squeezing once.

"I died?" She asks tentatively but not weakly, she's ready to be snapped at or jerked away from, and all the more relieved to be brought closer, his head bowing to press cold lips to her heartbeat then up to the crook of her elbow where he'd fed mid-battle earlier that day as a quick relief.

"Something like that," he whispers into her skin. "Why are you awake?"

Continue Reading On AO3 or under the cut...

He peeks up at her through his lashes, fingertips tracing her veins mindlessly as he waits for her to answer. She doesn't really have a good reason to be throwing away precious resting time she just sort of... has been. So she tells him as much and recieves an exasperated roll of the eyes for her trouble.

She wriggles her fingers to get a hand free, a flush of warmth in her chest when Astarion pouts. He melts seconds later as she brushes a curl behind his ear then traces up to the tip, overwhelmed by how such a simple touch and such a base reaction of relaxation from the elf before her has her thrilled, biting her bottom lip to stop from grinning like an idiot. To think she would one day have a vampire settling down in her lap to cuddle, her younger self could never have envisioned such a thing. Could never have imagined feeling so safe with another single person. The lack of pressure, the absence of anxious fear about what she should do next or what he wants from her or what is expected but so far from instinctual for her.

"You're thinking too loudly," Astarion complains into her shoulder, then continues speaking into her neck as he presses his lips against the artery quietly keeping time there, less of a string of kisses and more just seeking sensation and touch, she loves it, loves that this is something he's learned from her, a soft pleasurable intimacy without escalation or ulterior motivation. "I didn't come to suffer the cold just to be ignored, you know."

She chuckles and sweeps a hand down his back, finding where it hurts the most along the circle of his scars just by how much he arches back into her small offering of warmth.

She loves him, she loves him, she loves him.

"My deepest apologies," she drapes her other arm over his knees that are pulled up loosely to bridge over her legs. "Do you want to talk about it?"

It feels, sometimes, like she asks him daily if he wants to talk about his troubled thoughts, and the answer is normally no. Unless he starts the conversation, it rarely ever becomes a heart to heart. She's learning when to push and when to let him have his space. Just as he is learning much the same about her. So it's with a great deal of surprise, which she hurriedly suppresses, that she feels Astarion nod.

He leans back out of the safety of her body and she tries to catch his eye. "You don't have to, it's your choice."

The quirk of his lips is tired but true. "I know."

"Do you?" She presses, worried now that maybe it wasn't just a normal night terror, that maybe this is about something more. "I won't make you, Astarion, never. I'll push, if I think it's for the best for you, but I will never make you."

The way his face falls as he lets the mask drop will always be heartbreaking to her, the defeated slump of his shoulders and his honest struggle to meet her gaze... This is the side of him that has her bristling when someone looks at him and sees only 'pretty' or 'vain' or Gods forbid some fucker knows he's a spawn and dares call him a monster in her earshot. His laugh is so forced that she smooths a hand down his leg to try and soothe them both.

"Anyone else and I'd be furious that you think you could possibly know what is best for me better than I do," he drops his forehead against hers, eyelids fluttering shut, "but you are you. And I honestly haven't a clue what to do with that or what I've done to deserve you. To deserve this."

"Astarion-"

"You didn't die this time."

This time bounces round her skull on repeat as he takes the time she gives freely for him to put together his words.

"We were camping outside the city, in the...dream. I left you by the fire, we'd just- I knew we'd just...Hells, why is this so hard?" He pushes his head into hers and she pushes back like it's a challenge without thinking, he takes it as a nudge to continue. "Sex. We had had sex and it had been good and I was loathe to leave your side but I was hungry and you were tired so I didn't ask you."

"You should have, I would have offered if it were real," Elizia interrupts, "shit, sorry. Keep going. I'll be quiet."

Astarion's huff of a laugh is much more genuine this time and he pecks her on the cheek once, twice. "As I was saying, I left for however long and when I came back I...well. Let's just say I..."

"Cazador?"

"Cazador." He spits the name with venom and puts a bit of distance between them, recapturing her hand on his legs inbetween his own to ground himself in the bending of her knuckles and the lines of bone under warm, living freckled skin. "Long story short, he'd already drained you and turned you by the time I got there. You were so sickly grey and pale, limp in his hold as he arranged you how he wanted. Like you were only a corpse. I wished you were only dead. I screamed and begged in all the ways I- I knew he'd find prettiest but his commands...I could do nothing but watch as you screamed through the transformation and he- he took great pleasure in making me watch as he pretended to comfort you. As if he wasn't the one to have caused your agony. I woke up when he..."

His voice fails him.

"Astarion," she wipes away the tears that have started to fall down his cheek, "my sweet love, stop. You don't need to relive it. You don't have to think about it. I'm here, I'm safe."

He doesn't listen. "He slit his wrist and forced you to drink. He- He wanted me to know that even in undeath we could never be equals, you would always be stronger, more powerful."

"Enough," she says, tone hardened and grip on him tighter to try and draw him out of his own mind. "Stop it."

When he looks like he's about to continue ignoring her she rushes on to beat him to it.

"Look at me, Astarion. Really look at me. Astarion."

"I'm looking," he snaps, disgruntled but not pulling away, not leaving.

"Tell me what you see."

"Is that a trick question? I'm not particularly in the mood for games right now."

"No, I mean yes but no. What do you see? Like, for instance, I look at you and I see eyes that I've caught watching me all day. I see a mouth that says the most batshit inappropriate stuff when you're raring for a fight when I'm trying to negotiate. I see a vampire who asks every time for permission to bite, to feed on me, even though I've given you blanket permission to feed every night since the first, which makes you kinder in my eyes than if you had never killed a person in your long life."

"I see freckles." He stops himself like he hadn't really meant to speak at all, she nods encouragingly. "I- I see your eyes, I know their weight in battle and the moments we share like this, near enough alone that you don't keep one eye on a door or one of our companions or an enemy."

"What else?" She asks with a smile.

He looks her over, as if searching for what else he deems worthy of attention. "Your ears, my love, are fascinating to me as always. The way your jewelry catches the light is beautiful. I see them and I wonder how young you were when you got them pierced, did it hurt? Who did it for you or did you do them yourself? I think of all the places I have only ever seen in the nighttime that sell the prettiest earrings in the city, the kind I want to give you to decorate yourself with."

She laughs, finding the plain metal loops that hang from her ears with one hand, almost shyly hiding them from his gaze and pretty compliments. This isn't quite what she'd been going for. She'd wanted to ground him, remind him that she is here and alive and safe with him. Retrospectively, she thinks she should have known better with him.

"They're no different to yours, more human I suppose but hardly anything special," she argues, amused by Astarion's scoff.

"Hardly." A cricket chirps nearby as he reaches out hesitantly to touch her, she crosses the distance he's left to nuzzle into his palm, pressing a kiss to the heel of his hand.

"I love you, Astarion," she tells him with the certainty that this, this right here, him and his touch and his trust and his presence, this is what she holds most precious in all the world. "I love you so much."

She doesn't expect him to say it back. He didn't the first time she told him and that's okay, she worried that first time that she would be overcome with resentment or anxiety but no. There had been no nerves, no fear that he would leave her for speaking those words to him with full meaning and none of the seductive game he'd once said them with. It had been careless then, a phrase tossed out to tease and attract. Those words, she guesses, are tainted for him in a myriad of way. To say them does not mean the same for him as it does for her. And that is okay.

He doesn't say it back this time either. But he doesn't shy away as he had before, doesn't give in to the instinct to hide or bluster them away.

Her heart skips a beat as he presses a kiss to her forehead, once, twice, three times. "My sweet Elizia," he murmurs into her skin with a kiss to her cheek, "my treasure," a kiss at the corner of her lips that she tries to chase but he evades her, holding her still so he can continue, kissing just under her jaw, "my gift, my love."

She tamps down the urge to squirm under his attention, fights to not push him down onto her bedroll so she can return his affections tenfold.

"My darling, dearest wonder," he whispers into her ear before taking his time kissing and tugging ever so lightly on every earring she has. "You are more alive than anyone I have ever met. My own sun to bask in. The shining star to follow."

"Now you're just reciting poetry," she nudges him back enough to watch his face for any tells as she asks, "Did you get any rest at all?"

His seductive smile tilts with uncertainty but she's not sure of the source of it, hasn't had opportunity to see him in such vulnerable moments enough to name this. Soon, she hopes, but for now she has to hedge her bets.

"Stay with me while I sleep tonight," she asks, treading a line she knows shifts like the very sands of the coasts. "I have a book in my pack if you don't want to trance again, but I'd appreciate the company, if you don't mind."

He bites at his cheek before nodding. "As you wish, pet. Who am I to refuse such a sweet request?"

Normally she would poke back, remind him stubbornly that he can refuse, that he can always say no or pull back or step away. But right now, she thinks, they're playing a game that they'd largely left behind sometime around Moonrise Tower. Old habits die hard, especially in the chill of haunted nights. So she lets him toy with excuses and she speaks the lines of the script they're trying to jumble together to get what they both want. To comfort and to be comforted.

"Thank you," she says, and the gratitude in his eyes is something she can read clearly.

[buffshipper8490]

Rating: MATURE

Plot Summary

The Sequel Trilogy reimagined with smuggler Ben Solo reluctant to take on the family mantle of Jedi in the fight against the mysterious Kira Ren and the diabolical First Order...

Chapter Summary

Resistance pilot Poe Dameron and his faithful astromech BB-8 must retrieve a map to the hidden Jedi Master Luke Skywalker from old ally Lor San Tekka on the desert planet of Jakku before the tyrannical First Order arrives to claim it...

EXCERPT

The dropship was far more imposing than those with which Poe was familiar, boasting exceptionally high folding wings and a raptor-like silhouette. Enraptured, he watched the figures inside exit the opening bay doors through a cloud of vapor. The tall, silver chromium-plated stormtrooper Captain Phasma was the first out to survey the battle damage, blaster rifle at the ready, followed by her squad of elite stormtroopers. Phasma stopped at the bottom of the ramp, and her stormtroopers arranged in an honor guard formation in a pair of rows extending from the ramp, heralding the presence of someone who Poe could imagine was either important, terrifying, or both. Having been raised on stories of a tall, looming, menacing figure in the form of Darth Vader, Poe expected someone of at least that stature, a menacing mask, a sweeping cape perhaps, to walk down that ramp. What he saw, however, was the a petite young girl, about his height, barely out of her teens, draped in a black cloak, her pale face half-obscured by a broad hood, striding imperiously to a detained, but resolute Lor San Tekka.  The firelight gleamed off her pale skin, illuminating the half of her face that was hidden by shadow. She had large, expressive eyes, narrowed into slits as she scanned her prisoner....

Likes ❤️ and Reblogs 🔁 are much appreciated!

[emma-ofnormandy]

Indulgent Impulse Pt 2 @vikingsevents Day 6 Prompt: Hot Steam Rating: Mature Pairing: Canute x Emma A/N: Part 2 to Indulget Impulse posted earlier in the week. Thank you so much to the folks over at vikingsevents for hosting and I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday season!

Steam curled above the surface of the tub, the white tendrils of moisture dancing in the firelight.  Floral scents wafted from the water, the room filling with a delicious fragrance. Outside the sky was dark, the snow that once batted the lead glass no longer visible, though Emma knew it still fell. The wind had slowed, the whistling no longer detectable, and chill that had infiltrated the rooms had seemed to recede with it.

Or perhaps it was the man who was with her that had chased the chill away.

She shifted and water sloshed over the edge, the distinct plop against flagstone the only sound as she pressed back against the hard chest of her husband, her head resting against his shoulder as his hands caressed her person below the surface.

It had taken longer than she had expected to get to this point, an interlude in bed deferring them, but Canute had kept his promise and helped her draw a bath, only to join her within minutes of her sinking into the tub. Not that she minded. It was a rare occasion that they got a moment like this together, duty drawing them both away from each other more often than not and she had no interest in cutting this interlude short.

Emma watched the steam dance and fade above them, and her thoughts wandering along with it. A decision had been made that the court would gather over Christmastide and the preparations for such a gathering had only begun to be made. Elderman and their families would be in residence soon, days of feasts and activity to entertain, all the while conversation would be laced with political motives and deal making, men looking to boast themselves in the eyes of the crown while women boasted up their sons and daughters in search of the best matches for the offspring. The entire situation left a sour taste in her mouth.

“What is troubling you?”

“Nothing.”

“You lie, min kaerr.” Canute’s hands trailed up her side to the muscles that bunched along her shoulders. “I had taken great care to loosen these moments ago and now you have undid all my hard work.” 

The corners of her mouth lifted, amused despite herself. “Court will convene in a matter of days and there is still so much to prepare for.” Not to mention it would be the first gathering of all the Elderman since Canute had dispatched Cynehard of Kent for the thievery of assets. 

The handling of the matter had ricocheted through the noblemen, once again securing his control of the subjects of the crown and reigniting a streak of fear in those that may question his abilities, but Emma feared what the undercurrents would be.

“The household staff will see to everything. There is nothing to worry over.”

Naturally he believed everything would come together, not giving a second thought to the logistics of it all. Emma had spent just as much time with battlements defending London as she had planning for court gatherings and in this moment, she would take the battlements.

“And the events in Kent?”

He gathered her hair in one large hand and pushed it over her shoulder, his lips lingering against her neck. “What about them?”

“Are you not concerned how the rest of the Elderman will respond?”

She could feel him smile and she felt a shiver of foolishness. Of course he was not concerned. Canute ruled London like she imagined he led his armies, with unwavering strength and no tolerance for disloyalty, and the gathering of the Elderman, some of which still had questionable loyalty, was simply a strategic battle maneuver and he relished in the excitement of it.

“They will not speak against it, if for nothing more than out of fear for their own life.” There was a chilling finality in his words and Emma shivered against him. “Besides, since then, it would seem that East Anglia had a sudden increase in revenues.”

The turnaround in the revenues did not surprise her. Oswick was more careful than Cynehard and the second he thought someone had caught onto his plan, he would retreat back. Emma was only disappointed that she had not been able to confront him herself on the matter.

“All on his own?” She asked.

Behind her, Canute’s chest vibrated with a deep chuckle.“Oswick is no fool and a coward. He knew he would have been called in to answer for the missing revenues eventually.” Distractedly, his hands began to trail back beneath the water and caress her stomach. “And Agnarr may have made a visit to East Anglia.”

The only thing more fool hardy than going against the King would be to go against the King’s man. Agnarr was not a man to be trifled with and Emma believed the Elderman were beginning to understand the power the King had granted the large, stoic man.

Despite the worry of the coming days, she could feel the tension leaving her as Canute continued to touch her, his large hands stroking gently, enticingly. They trailed lazily from her stomach to the top of her thighs, each caress more teasing than the last. The shared bath in front of a crackling fire, shadows dancing across their skin as they lay in each other's arms, painted an intimate picture and Emma could feel her heart skip in her chest.

She turned in his arms, the movement displacing more of the scented water, and straddled his waist, his hands automatically coming to rest on her hips to hold her steady. Emma kissed him soundly and looked into his unwavering, ever patient gaze. “If you are trying to distract me from everything that will be coming to London, it will not work.” She did her best to keep her features neutral and her tone grim, but the hint of amusement in her voice was unmistakable. 

The caressing touch at her hips slipped lower between her thighs and there was a flicker of determination in his eyes. “Is that so?”

His fingers toyed with her, stroking the sensitive flesh as his lips covered hers, swallowing the moan he teased past them. In the distant part of her mind Emma could feel the water cooling, the steam slowly disappearing, but she found that it did not matter. It would not be long before they made their own.

[jumbled-messy-confused]

Scars

Fragments of Light

jumbled_messy_confused

Summary:

After days of battle, General Kirigan is on the verge of collapse—worn and exhausted. Genya finds him at his most vulnerable, offering care for wounds that run deeper than flesh.

The dim firelight cast flickering shadows across the stone walls, adding some much-needed warmth to the cold, damp evening. Outside, the relentless downpour continued, the sound of rain drumming against the windows, mingling with the occasional gust of wind. A storm had gripped the Little Palace, its chill seeping through every crack, making the warm glow of the fire feel almost futile. General Kirigan stood by the hearth, his back turned to the door. He was bone-tired, his muscles aching from days of battle and the strain of endless responsibility. His clothes, soaked through with rain, clung to his body as he stripped off layer after layer, each garment falling to the floor with a wet, muffled thud. The physical effort it took just to remove them felt monumental. He was barely holding himself together.

As the last piece of his shirt slipped from his shoulders, his bare skin met the frigid air of the room, raising goosebumps across the pale, clammy surface. His joints and head ached with fatigue, and his dark hair, still damp, hung slightly in his face as he let out a deep, quiet sigh.

He had just fastened the waistband of his pants with stiff, trembling fingers, when an unexpected knock broke the stillness, the sound surprisingly loud in the hush of the room. For a brief moment, he considered ignoring it, letting whoever it was assume he had already fallen into the long overdue sleep that tugged at him with every passing second. But duty—always duty—compelled him to respond. “Come in,” he croaked, his voice rough, scraped raw from the chill and shouting orders that had marked the past days at the frontline. He didn’t turn around, too tired to muster the energy.

The door creaked open, and the firelight illuminated Genya standing in the doorway, a tray balanced carefully in her hands. Her breath hitched when she saw him—truly saw him—not the composed, ever-regal General she was used to, but Kirigan—bare, vulnerable, human. The sheer number of scars crisscrossing his chest and ribs was staggering, some faint and silvered with age, others dark and fresh. They were deep, angry in places, and all of them spoke of years of battles fought, of wounds endured, of a lifetime of pain.

A soft sound escaped her, a quiet, involuntary gasp. He heard it and turned his dark eyes toward her. They were not the sharp, calculating eyes of a general tonight. They were weary, dull with exhaustion, their usual intensity dimmed.

“What is it?” He sounded quieter than normal, his voice devoid of its typical authority.

Genya moved quickly, setting the tray down on the table beside the bed. The rich aroma of broth filled the room, the steam curling lazily upward, warming the air and carrying a subtle sense of comfort with it. She then stepped closer, her eyes drawn to his battered torso, the stories etched into his skin. It felt as if he was stripped of his armour, the power he usually carried so effortlessly nowhere to be found in this moment. He was just Kirigan now, not the feared general, but a man who fought every day and had given too much of himself.

“Do they hurt?” The words were barely above a whisper, yet clear.

Kirigan blinked, taken aback. He hadn’t expected the question. He hadn’t expected her to care. He was so used to the scars that he barely remembered they existed, let alone thought about them in the presence of others. But Genya was not like others. She had seen so much and endured even more silently in ways few understood. She carried her own hidden wounds from years of enduring the Tsar's abuse, standing strong for the Grisha. Their shared loads connected them in a way words never could.

“They... ache sometimes,” he eventually admitted, low, almost reluctant. “But I’m used to them.”

Genya’s heart tightened at the tired acceptance in his voice. Right now, standing before her, he seemed smaller somehow, diminished by sheer exhaustion. She had seen him command armies, face impossible odds without flinching, but at this moment... he looked so tired, so deeply weary that it pained her to see him this way.

She stepped closer, her eyes full of a sudden determination. “I could help with them,” she offered quietly. “If you’d like.” Kirigan turned fully toward her, and for the first time, his eyes were stripped of their usual defences. The man was clearly utterly exhausted, too tired to maintain his usual facade. But something else was there too, something more immediate and alarming—a ghostly pallor spreading across his face, a faint tremor in his stance. It was as if his body had reached its limit. And as if to prove her point, Kirigan swayed.

She moved quickly, closing the distance between them in an instant, her hands reaching out to steady him. Her palms pressed against his chest, feeling the unsteady thud of his heartbeat beneath. He was so cold, his skin like marble beneath her touch, and she realized with a start that he wasn’t just tired—he was on the verge of collapse.

“General, sit down,” she urged, worry lacing every word, her voice firmer than she intended. She applied gentle pressure with her hands, guiding him backward, down onto the edge of the mattress. He didn’t argue, didn’t protest. That, more than anything, alarmed her. She was so used to seeing him fight, push through every challenge, that his lack of resistance now spoke volumes. He just sank down heavily, moving with a weary, deliberate grace. His shoulders slumped forward, his head bowing low, dark strands of damp hair falling over his eyes.

Genya knelt in front of him, taking his hands in hers for a moment, her fingers wrapping around his as if to lend him some of her warmth. She could feel the way he shivered; the tension still coiled tight in his muscles despite his exhaustion. Her eyes searched his face. The firelight cast shadows across his high cheekbones, deepening the hollows under his eyes, making him look almost gaunt. She had never seen him so exhausted, so utterly drained of the fierce vitality that usually defined him.

“Let me help you, General. Please,” she insisted, soft but firm.

For a long moment, Kirigan was silent, his dark eyes flickering with something indecipherable. Finally, he answered. “I don’t think you can fix them.” His voice was tinged with a quiet resignation. “They’re old. Some are too deep.”

Genya nodded. “Maybe not. But I can make them... lighter. Less painful. You don’t have to carry all of it, not all the time.”

Her words struck something deep in him. For so long, he had borne everything alone. Every scar, every wound, every loss. He wasn’t sure he even knew how to share that burden anymore. But Genya’s eyes—full of compassion, of understanding—made him wonder if it was possible, if just for this moment, he could let someone in. To trust. To rest. He was so tired.

Kirigan hesitated, his gaze flicking away from hers briefly, as though wrestling with something inside himself. And then, with a quiet breath, he nodded, the smallest movement, but enough.

“If you think you can help.” His answer was barely above a murmur.

Genya’s expression softened as she leaned in closer. Worry flickered across her face as she noticed how his lips had taken on an alarming shade of blue. "You need to get warm," she insisted, guiding him toward the pillows. With a tentative touch, she directed him to lay back. He complied, fatigue evident in the way he moved, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated. As he sagged back, she pulled the blanket over his legs, tucking it securely around his hips. He relaxed slightly, but she could see the way he fought to suppress a shiver, the hair on his arms standing on end. His dark hair was still damp, the strands clinging to his temples. For a moment, she hesitated. He had always been untouchable, distant, a figure of awe and respect. But here, now, he was just a man, vulnerable in ways she had never seen before. Yet, what troubled her most was not just the physical exhaustion. It was the emptiness in his eyes, the hollow look that told her he wasn’t just tired—he was done. He had nothing left. How long had it been since he truly rested? Genya cautiously sat next to him on the mattress. She raised her hand slowly, giving him a moment to stop her if he chose. But he didn’t. She focused and began her tentative ministrations, her fingers brushing against the raised skin of his abdomen. Kirigan didn’t flinch, though she could feel the tension in him, the way his body resisted the relief she offered, as if he wasn’t used to anyone caring for him in this way. It took a while till he seemed to relax under her care, the tautness in his muscles easing slowly as she worked.

The sensation was... unfamiliar for him. Not painful, but not entirely comfortable either. And yet, there was something in the way Genya touched him, in the way she was so careful, so deliberate, that made it different from the clinical hands of a healer. It was... kind. It was human. As he felt her warm fingers tracing one scar, deeper and more knotted than many others, a jagged line low across his side, memories flooded back—of a time long ago, when he had first understood the cost of sacrifice. Whenever he saw it, he was haunted by memories of the lives lost, of the blood spilled. But tonight, under Genya’s soothing hands, it felt... less raw. As if, for the first time, the wound was starting to heal. For a long while, neither of them spoke. The room was filled with nothing but the crackling of the fire and the faint sound of Genya’s breathing as she worked. And she was right; he could feel it. She did help him. The pain lessened, the tightness eased, the gnarled patterns of old wounds softened under her touch. But it was more than that. The warmth of her presence, the gentle attention she gave—he hadn’t realized how much he had needed this. Not just the physical relief, but the simple act of being cared for. Of letting someone else, just for a moment, carry a part of the burden. Yet, this moment of comfort made him painfully aware of how worn out he truly was. His body started to betray him, unable to keep up with the relentless pace he had forced upon it for what felt like years anymore. His mind began to drift, teetering towards the edge of unconsciousness. He kept his breaths shallow but deliberate, still trying to cling to some vestige of control. But even that was slipping, his defences crumbling, fatigue crashing over him like the storm outside. And so, Kirigan, for the first time in years, let himself surrender.

Genya was acutely aware of how his breathing began to slow, how the tightness in his muscles gradually loosened under her hands. His exhaustion was palpable now, radiating off him in waves. He wasn’t just tired—he was depleted, worn thin by the weight of everything he had carried for so long. “Just rest. Please,” she murmured, her hands gently brushing against his flat stomach as she continued her careful ministrations. He looked so delicate right now, lying there, his chest rising and falling slowly, his eyes half-closed as though sleep was tugging at him. As she had finished tending to the old wounds on his abdomen, Genya gently pulled the blanket further up, tucking it higher around his slender frame, before she concentrated on her task again. Each line told a story—of knives, arrows, of the brutal encounters that had shaped him into the man he was today. Her heart ached as she touched the jagged edges of stab wounds and the ragged gashes where blades had cut deep, still visible, still stark. She traced the impressions left by bullets, each mark a glaring reminder of battles fought, and sacrifices made. But it was the terrifying rips from Volcra claws that struck her most profoundly. She could almost feel an echo of the pain radiating from them, a visceral reminder of the torment he had endured. They were deeper and darker than anything else, an agony etched into his very being that even her skills seemed insufficient to soothe. One, in particular, stretched from his collarbone and disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers, a terrible gash that must have once literally rended him open. But this was the reality of the General of the Second Army. He had fought and bled for years, yet no matter how many battles he won, there was always another to fight. His power, his command over the shadows, had made him something more than mortal, but the price of that power showed itself in every scar. Genya’s eyes burned with unshed tears as she leaned closer, her hands trembling slightly now, as if the magnitude of his suffering was something she could physically feel. She had never seen him like this—so stripped bare, not just in body, but in soul. The heaviness of it, of his history, of his choices, of the decades of pain, was almost too much to bear. And yet, she stayed. She wanted to say something, to acknowledge the enormity of what he had endured, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she let her hands speak for her, her touch gentle, her movements careful and precise. So she poured everything she had into her ministrations, channelling her energy to ease his suffering. Each stroke of her hand was filled with compassion, a silent promise that he wasn’t alone. She noticed then that he was still shivering slightly, even beneath the warmth of the blanket she had carefully pulled further up before. His skin felt icy to her touch, and worry flickered in her chest. She paused for a moment, pressing her hand gently to his forehead, checking for fever. Relieved, she felt no heat radiating from him; she hoped it would stay that way. The last thing he needed was to fall ill after all he had endured.

Kirigan murmured something unintelligible, a faint whisper that sounded like "I'm fine," though she knew he was far from it.

His exhaustion was so complete, so overwhelming, that by now he barely reacted as she adjusted the cover once again to cover even more of his torso.

As she continued, his breathing became fainter, more and more of the tension in his muscles unravelled under her touch. He was slipping, and she could see it in the way his eyes struggled to stay open, the flicker of consciousness battling against the peaceful embrace of rest. His face, always so tightly controlled, softened as sleep began to claim him. His body yielded to the comfort she offered. He was letting go—of the pain, of the need to be constantly vigilant, if only for this moment. Eventually, his head lolled to the side, and he lay still.  Instinctively, she pressed a hand over his heart, feeling the slow, rhythmic beat beneath her palm. It was a silent reassurance—he was still here, still fighting, even if only in the quietest of ways. Taking a calming breath, she turned her focus back to the deep scars on his breastbone, resuming her care with renewed determination. Finally, exhausted from the intense work, she pulled the blanket up to his chin, covering him completely. As she did, his eyes opened just a fraction, and for a moment, their gazes met, though he was too tired to speak.

“Shh,” she whispered, the sound barely more than a breath. “Sleep, General. I’ll take care of your back tomorrow. You need to rest now.”

Wordless, he slipped back into the depths of unconsciousness, his breathing steadying as he surrendered to the warmth and safety surrounding him. He was so pale, so fragile beneath the thick duvet that she felt a lump rise in her throat, forcing her to swallow hard. The proud, unyielding General lay before her, vulnerable in a way that felt intimate, sacred. This wasn’t just a moment of healing; it was a moment of trust, a bridge between the weight of his past and the possibility of a lighter future.

Genya stayed by his side, her heart heavy with affection and worry, a fierce protectiveness swelling within her. She remained there, watching over him as he finally really rested. Though the worst scar—the terrible gash from the Volcra that had nearly torn him apart—remained as deep and gruesome as ever, many of the others had faded. The tissue was softer now, the angry lines less stark, less painful, she was certain.

Kirigan had allowed himself to be seen, to be cared for. And as she sat beside him, she knew she couldn’t erase all his wounds, not the ones on his body nor the ones on his soul, but at least for tonight, she had eased his burden. Even if just a little.

[ishtadawnstar]

Awkward...

As he turned another page in his book, Astarion's attention was drawn by heavy footsteps approaching the campfire. His eyes followed Lae'zel's determined stride as she made her way towards Ishta, who sat idly poking at the fire with a stick. A hint of firelight glinted in her eyes as she stared pensively into the flames.

A knowing smile played on Astarion's lips as he shifted slightly, angling himself for a better view without being too obvious. Lae'zel rarely sought out conversation, and when she did, it was always worth listening to.

"I have a confession," announced Lae'zel, her tone devoid of hesitation or emotion.

Ishta blinked in surprise, clearly caught off guard by Lae'zel's unexpected statement. "You do?" she asked, tilting her head inquisitively.

Astarion couldn't help but be intrigued. Lae'zel and confessions? This was going to be interesting - apparently the evening's entertainment wasn't over quite just yet. He settled into a more comfortable position, one hand resting against his cheek as he pretended to be engrossed in his book, all the while listening intently to their conversation.

Without hesitation, Lae'zel continued, her voice measured but with an underlying intensity. "I was too hasty to judge you," she admitted. "I thought you were witless, gutless, unimpressively bland."

Astarion nearly lost his composure right then and there. He could feel the laughter bubbling up inside him, but he bit down on his lip, forcing it back. If Lae'zel caught even the faintest hint of a laugh, she'd be on him in an instant, and Astarion had no desire to test her temper tonight.

Ishta's expression shifted from confusion to bemusement, clearly not expecting this turn of events. "Can I assume a compliment is coming?" she quipped with a light tone, though there was a hint of wariness in her eyes.

"I don't pay compliments. I only say what is true," Lae'zel replied without missing a beat.

Astarion's smirk deepened. Ishta had walked right into that one. He could see her mentally scrambling, trying to navigate the conversation that was clearly not going the way she expected.

"So what about now?" Ishta asked tentatively, her voice softer as she tried to gauge where this confession was heading.

Lae'zel squared her shoulders, her gaze unwavering as she spoke. "Now, you've earned my respect, and more still. You've proven your wits. You are efficient and dominant, in and out of battle. You've proven your courage. I swear, you would tear the horns off one dragon to plunge into another. And you're hardly bland. Your scent alone is enough to make my neck sweat and my hairs stand on end."

Astarion had to bite down on his knuckle to keep silent, while Ishta, completely oblivious to the underlying meaning, furrowed her brow, concern clearly etched on her face. She leaned back slightly, her fingers tightening around the stick she held as if it might somehow offer her some clarity.

"If you're having some kind of allergic reaction to being around elves," Ishta offered, her voice filled with genuine concern, "I might be able to mix a tonic for you. Crag Cat's sometimes have the same reaction to the scent of Dwarves."

That was too much. Astarion felt his chest starting to cramp up from the sheer effort of keeping his laughter contained. The utter cluelessness, the sheer earnestness of her offer - this was better than he could have imagined. Lae'zel, however, was not deterred.

"It is not a tonic that I desire," Lae'zel stated bluntly, taking a deliberate step closer to Ishta, her eyes fixed on her with an almost predatory focus. "I will be plain: I desire you. I want to taste you. Perhaps tonight. Perhaps later. But I want it all the same."

Astarion watched as Ishta's face went from concerned to completely flustered in a matter of seconds. The stick she had been holding slipped from her fingers, tumbling into the fire with a soft hiss, and her face turned an interesting shade of pink as she finally started to understand what Lae'zel was saying. Her gaze darted around the camp as if searching for an escape, and when her eyes landed on Astarion, he felt her mental shout slam into his mind with a force that was almost physical.

"Help! What do I say?!"

Astarion stared into Ishta's wide, panic filled eyes, his face now half-buried in the book to hide his grin.

"How in the hells should I know?" he responded, hoping the glee wasn't too apparent in his mental 'voice'.

"I think she wants to uh... sleep with me."

It was getting harder and harder to hold back. Astarion's eyes were watering now, his entire body trembling with the effort of stifling his laughter.

"Well done," he mentally applauded. "You've grasped the basics of the mysteries of Githyanki flirting. It would seem your little display of temper earlier has stoked her fires."

"But I don't see her in that way!" Ishta's mental voice was tinged with desperation.

"Then tell her that," Astarion suggested, his amusement clear even in his thoughts.

"I don't want to die..."

He rolled his eyes behind the cover of his book, though his grin was still firmly in place. "Then don't tell her that."

Ishta's mental sigh was almost tangible, thick with exasperation. "Oh, thanks a lot, Astarion."

"My pleasure," he replied with a smirk, enjoying the chaos of it all. "Now get out of my head."

Astarion couldn't help but revel in the irony of the situation. This bold and confident Ranger, who had just hours earlier cowed two seasoned warriors with the sheer force of her strength and fury, was now left completely flustered and at a loss for words by the Gith's straightforward proposition. He watched intently as Ishta took a deep breath, her body tense as if preparing for a battle far more daunting than any they had faced together.

As she began to speak, Astarion noticed her hands fidgeting nervously in her lap. "Lae'zel, I am... very flattered," she started awkwardly, searching for her words. "But I, um... I don't really think of you in that way. At all. Sorry, but the answer is no."

Astarion observed Lae'zel's reaction with rapt attention. Though her expression remained stoic, there was a slight tightening of her jaw and a flicker of something behind her eyes - disappointment, perhaps? She then responded in a low and firm tone, "Your loss, I fear. One day soon, you will wonder how my lips might have tasted, how my fingers on your skin might have felt. And you will wish you could return to this lost moment."

With one last lingering look, Lae'zel turned sharply on her heel and strode away with her usual rigid posture, though Astarion could detect a faint tension in her movements.

Meanwhile, Ishta slumped in her seat, letting out a long, shaky breath as she ran a hand through her hair. It was clear that she was relieved to have survived the encounter. "Oh, I'm fairly certain I won't," she muttered to herself while rubbing her temple.

Astarion couldn't hold it in any longer. A small, involuntary snort of laughter escaped him, the sound cutting through the quiet night air. Ishta's head whipped around, her eyes narrowing as she shot him a glare that could have melted steel.

Astarion quickly raised the book to cover his face, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter as he tried to stifle the giggles that were now threatening to escape. He peeked over the edge of the book, meeting Ishta's exasperated gaze with a look of pure, unrepentant amusement.

"Well, darling," he murmured, his voice barely audible, "this has been the most delightful evening."

Ishta scowled and picked up another stick, stabbing it into the fire with jerky movements as if taking out her embarrassed frustration on the embers. Her voice dripped with biting sarcasm as she stared moodily into the flames. "So glad I could provide you with entertainment."

Astarion lowered the book to his chest and leaned back languidly on the pile of cushions behind him. Resting both hands behind his head, he smirked at Ishta and drawled, "Indeed. I have to say that was one of the most entertaining things I have witnessed in quite some time."

In response, Ishta simply raised one hand and flipped him the middle finger.

I love writing the dynamic between these two...

I think I'm basing their relationship on a mixture of Daniel and Vala from SG1 and Booth and Brennan from Bones. The frienemies part is definitely Spike and Angel though...

[crackinglamb]

Fic Word Search

I got tagged twice! Obviously this will get very long, so I'll put it under a cut.

Before I do that, I'll tag @ir0n-angel, @lilbittymonster, @effelants, @serial-chillr and @mogwaei. No pressure.

Search for the words and post a snippet.

Your words are: leap, flick, howl, ragged

First by @natsora, thank you! 💕

My words: twist, growl, dark, breath, tear

For this one I'll do a finished fic. These are all from WG.

(takes a deep breath, because the fic is huge)

Twist

The tavern itself was what she expected. Crowded, a little dusty from the constant foot traffic and tense enough to snap. The barman gave her party a sour glance, landed on Solas's ears and frowned harder. Imogen twisted her left hand so the mark glowed against her outfit and the barman subsided without saying a word. The Herald of Andraste, regardless of her status with the Chantry, was still a formidable figure after all the work she'd done to clean up the Hinterlands. She could keep company with whoever she chose. And if anyone else had noticed the little interplay, they said nothing.

-

Growl

“I need to get the arrow out. When I do, your lung will fill with blood and you will want to panic. I need you to stay calm so you don't hyperventilate. I will heal you.”

“Less talking, mage, more doing,” Bull growled.

Imogen watched a silent battle of wills happen over her body and found it funny. Pity she couldn't remember how to laugh. Bull held her shoulders tight and that hurt. She squirmed. He just held her tighter. She realized she could hardly move her legs at all and only then figured out that Solas was sitting on her.

-

Dark

“Cocktails, actually. Wine is for snobs.”

Solas raised his head and arched a fine brow at her in the dark, the firelight gleaming off his irises like a cat. That had certainly taken getting used to. She grinned at him and scrunched up her nose, daring him to say a word. He smirked back and kept his mouth shut. She rolled the cup in her hands, contemplating the liquid inside it. She sipped again, more prepared for the harshness. This time she was able to taste something other than burn.

“Ya know, this wouldn't be so bad if it was mixed with something sweet. Something syrupy, maybe. Or bubbly. Or fresh squeezed juice.”

“You might be right,” Varric offered. “But who carries that sort of thing around on the road?”

-

Breath

“Imogen!” Solas shouted and she looked up in time to see him Fade-stepping, a blur of motion and icy cold hands on her as she began to topple.

She opened her mouth to say something – she wasn't even sure what, and wouldn't remember later – and was surprised when she felt something dribble down her lip and chin. She tried to take a breath and coughed and he was spattered with red. His eyes grew so wide all she could see was the fear in them, and then everything slipped sideways.

-

Tear

“Make for the rift!” she called out. “It’s time to go.”

Before she could take the first steps, the ground shuddered and splintered apart. The shockwave of the explosion had reached them. Bull grabbed Dorian by the arm and dragged him bodily across a chasm that opened up between the mage’s feet. Dignity abandoned, Dorian clung to him and let himself be carried off towards the tear back to the waking world.

“Terisin, go!” Imogen urged. “I’m right behind you.”

---

Second time I was tagged by @theluckywizard, thank you! 💕

My words: crack, graze, harsh

For this one I'll do snippets from T3, the next Mirabull fic, which is still a WIP.

Crack

She heard the stomping and shouting before she even reached the door of the war room. Part of her thought maybe she should leave Leliana to it, that she was perfectly capable of dealing with an angry Seeker on her own terms. But part of her also wanted them all to have this out. She cracked open the door and slipped inside while Cassandra was still sputtering.

“...If this is the length she will hide things from us, we'll never know...”

“Is this a good time or should I come back later?” Mira brightly interrupted the flow.

-

Harsh

“Mira! The rift!” Bull hollered, breaking her spell of dissociation.

She turned and saw the rift cycling, getting ready to spit out more shades. She lifted the Anchor to connect to it and harshly yanked it closed. Only then did she stumble against the nearest column, her stomach rising in her throat. She couldn’t seem to focus on anything, the room spun. A dull roar filled her ears.

“Breathe, Chestnut,” Bull said softly. She hadn’t heard him approach over the noise in her head. “Breathe. Let me have the blades.”

-

So, I apparently don't use the word 'graze' much. I had to go all the way to Soft In Skyhold for this!

“I need the cinnamon.”

He didn't step away but reached for the earthenware jar that held the sticks of spice. He was smirking as he handed it to her. She scowled, although her heart wasn't in it.

“And the sugar.”

“You are sweet enough.” Now the scowl was genuine and he laughed and chucked her under her chin.

“You are incorrigible,” [Cass] snapped, but even to her own ears it sounded weak.

He stepped out of her way, still laughing, and she skirted around him for the canister of sugar. She grabbed the nutmeg too, but couldn't manage that and the rasp, so she set them down to go back for it. Amund was now leaning against the counter, nearly tall enough to simply sit on it. She gave him a push to get him out of her way and he obliged just enough that her elbow grazed him as she held the rasp in her right hand.

[nelkenbabe]

WIP Ivy & Twine: To Be Known

Weeks after the events of Trespasser, Amaryll Lavellan appears to be doing well to all the world.

It is only when Cullen is invited to stay with her after dark that cracks begin to show in the Inquisitor, whose responsibilities to be a leader and a figurehead always superseded her personhood

tw: delusions, paranoia, dissociation, discussion of major character death (Bull)

Cullen woke to a warm glow in the room that was so much unlike the grey morning light he was expecting. It couldn’t have been more than two hours since he fell asleep; a glimpse towards the balcony doors showed utter darkness. But why was the fire bright when just before they’d gone to bed, it had been nothing but embers?

Drowsy from the unnaturally interrupted sleep, Cullen turned to look over his shoulder, where Lavellan was usually nestled between his arm and the railing. But she wasn’t there. He propped himself up in confusion, and just when his gaze slid over the edge of the couch, he glimpsed a mousy head of hair and sat up.

“Lavellan.”

There was no response, neither in word nor in movement. She sat, knees to her chest, facing the fire ridgid as a statue.

Cullen moved to lift the blanket off of him, when a sudden spasm in his lower back froze him with a gasp and his arm still holding up the heavy fabric. It took a few long moments, but the sharp pain subsided, and he resumed getting out of bed, albeit more gingerly.

“Inquisitor?”

A small jerk of Lavellan’s head betrayed that she’d heard him, but it was almost as if she were choosing not to listen. Her whole body was tensed like a coil, the muscles between her neck and shoulders looking hard and unyielding above the collar of the linen shirt. 

Anxiety built in Cullen as he approached close enough to see her profile.

Firelight flickered in her eyes, leaving no space for her dark pupils and iris'. Orange glow moved over her skin as if it had a life of its own, and her expression was empty like a tranquil’s. Dread replaced the heavy ache of sleep-deprived muscles. He leaned forward, a little to the right, to catch a glimpse at Lavellan's forehead. 

Just then she turned and startled him.

There was no branding on her, Maker Be Praised, her eyes were her own again, but the blank, slick smile was almost worse.

"I considered waking you," Lavellan said, "but I can't speak to the shadows, otherwise they'll kill me."

Cullen's lips opened and closed. What was he supposed to say to that? 

Lavellan didn't seem to expect a response. She turned her face back to the fire.

For just a brief second, Cullen considered if he wasn't still sleeping after all. But he felt the warmth of the fire, heard its quiet cracking, tasted its smoke in the air. And the helplessness of the previous moment gave way to the knowledge of what he should do; he moved to sit himself next to her.

The silence between them stretched on, and still the darkness of night pressed itself against the windows.

"They consider the departure of the being the ultimate death, he told me," Lavellan said after a while. 

Gooseflesh spread over the back of Cullen's arms in spite of the growing, oppressive heat from the fireplace.

"That the body is an empty husk afterwards, that it has nothing to do with the person it used to hold. He died in battle the way he probably would have wanted to. Did want to. But it just feels so wrong for us to walk on through the eluvians with him still laying there, bleeding out. Dorian trying not to cry behind me, knowing I killed the man he wanted a future with."

He could see it. Feel it as it must've felt for Lavellan. Walking away, numbly, from the corpse that used to be a friend. The friend that turned his blade against her. Marching on with unimaginable grief at her back, trying to contain herself long enough for all of them to survive.

"Bull didn't believe in lingering spirits. And still I see him every day from the corner of my eye."

She spoke matter-of-factly, as if she were telling Cullen about a natural phenomenon that occurred far away in a distant land. Nothing about her moved as it usually would, not even her face. Just the light dancing over her.

It was a gesture he wouldn't have risked had she not reached out in comfort first, time and time again in the past few weeks. But Cullen saw that she was gone, not fully in this room right here with him. As if she'd left a part of her in the Darveraad looking down at The Iron Bull. And so he put his hand on her right shoulder blade, firm and steadying. 

Lavellan's eyebrows raised themselves in surprise, but only for a second before her features smoothed again.

"I'm going back there," she said flatly.

"What?"

She turned her head to face him, arm still wrapped around her knees. An eerie smile stretched her mouth further than he'd ever seen, and at the sight of it, Cullen's hand fell away from her. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.

"We have to get him," Lavellan continued in a tone that suggested this was a logical consequence of all she'd told him. "We have to perform funeral rites. I'll leave with a small contingent in a week. I'll bring him home."

His breath stuttered for a moment, and he forgot where he was. 

"The Iron Bull's home was with the Qun," he said not without a tinge of outrage. "He made that very clear. Why would the Inquisition expend resources to retrieve a Qunari spy?"

"I'm going."

It was when she turned her face back onto the fire that Cullen remembered that this was not the War Room. And this was not the Inquisitor, not really. Not entirely. She felt too… wrong, too raw.

A thin stream of cold light touched its fingers to the glass of the windows. Lavellan didn't speak again. Cullen sat with her until the fire died back down to embers and the air in the room was easier to breathe. It was then that he guided her back to bed, and as soon as he'd pulled the blanket under her chin, she was asleep. 

On all other mornings he would have already snuck out of her quarters at this time. But on this day he couldn't bring himself to do it. He laid next to Lavellan, listening to her even breathing, forcing himself to stay awake. If he slept, he would convince himself that all he had witnessed had been a nightmarish concoction of his mind. He had to remember. He had to see if the Inquisitor was going to be… unwell after she woke up. There would be damage control to perform, Josephine and Leliana would need to be told, he'd have to find out if there were any appointments in need of moving-

He breathed, in and out, exhausted and strained and sore. But the thought of leaving Lavellan by herself in a state of mental disarray was worse. Because in spite of Josephine and Cassandra's clipped descriptions, or maybe precisely because of it, he had pictured the Inquisitor's breakdown weeks ago as much more mild than it probably had been. It was only now that he began to have an idea about the scope of it. And the scope of it was uncanny.

He laid there, wondering if Lavellan was going to be her bright, usual self when she woke up, or the indifferent, eerie stranger.

[thispatternismine]

Into the Fire [8/?] - Iroh & Ozai Have A Custody Dispute

Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender

Relationship(s): Mai/Zuko, Zuko & Iroh, Ozai & Zuko, Zuko & the Gaang

Summary: When Azula met her brother in Ba Sing Se & told him he could come home, he believed her, even though she had made this exact offer before. This time there was no loose-lipped Captain to give the game away, & he was brought back to the Fire Nation not as a hero, but in chains. When he is dragged from his cell months later, he expects to be facing his execution, not his coronation.

Chapter 1: A Decision is Made

Chapter 2: Preparations & Discoveries

Chapter 3: A Public Spectacle

Chapter 4: Prison Break, But Legally

Chapter 5: Casually Suggesting Treason

Chapter 6: Confused Hakoda

Chapter 7: Family Drama

Chapter 8: Iroh & Ozai Have A Custody Dispute

Extract:

"You dare call yourself a father? When you burned him! Banished him!"

"Tell me, brother, is that better or worse than dragging your son into a land battle against people who can use the ground as a weapon?"

The light from the torches flickered as Iroh’s breath caught in his throat, and then he snarled, enraged. A jet of flames shot from his hands towards Ozai.

Ozai flinched, eyes wide and terrified in the firelight, and for a moment Iroh felt a surge of satisfaction.

He suddenly realised what he was doing, and the cell was dark once more, lit only by dim torchlight. There was a long silence as his brother sought to gather himself.

[ tip jar ]

[gobboguy]

Chapter 57: On the Verge of Home

Under the faint light of the moon, outside the fortified walls of the city, the Orcs gathered in a circle, surrounded by the wilderness. Count Edon had provided them with gifts of food and supplies, signaling their departure. Gelbeg, their stalwart leader, stood tall, his eyes gleaming with determination. "Count Edon may think he's using us to strike at his enemies," Gelbeg began, his voice carrying the weight of his people's hopes, "but mark my words, we'll do more than that. We'll make a home of this land, a place where Orcs thrive, where our strength and honor are respected."

Saera, her eyes reflecting the starlight, stepped forward, her voice choked with emotion. "Gelbeg speaks true," she declared, her hands gripping her son's shoulders, pride shining in her gaze. "He's led us well, and we'll build a future for Orcs here, a future where we're not just conquerors but builders, creators, and defenders. Gelbeg, our leader, our strength, we follow you, and we believe in the vision you have for our people!"

The Orcs roared in agreement, their cheers echoing through the night, the promise of a new homeland filling their hearts with hope and determination.

Under the ink-black sky, illuminated only by the fading embers of a dying campfire, the Orcs assembled in eager anticipation. The night air was thick with the musky scent of sweat, leather, and the smoky residue of the dwindling fire. The distant chirping of crickets mingled with the low murmur of voices, creating a hauntingly beautiful symphony that resonated through the wilderness.

Gelbeg, their revered Warchief, stood tall amidst his people, his silhouette flickering in the dying light. His voice, gravelly yet commanding, cut through the night's stillness. "Orcs," he called, his words ringing with authority, "listen well to the words of your Warchief."

The Orcs hushed, their eyes fixated on Gelbeg, waiting with bated breath for his guidance. The night seemed to hold its breath, the world silent and expectant as Gelbeg began to speak, his words weaving tales of strength, honor, and the promise of a new homeland for their kind. The embers glowed brighter, casting a warm, amber light upon the faces of the Orcs, their expressions ranging from fierce determination to quiet reverence. In that moment, beneath the vast canopy of stars, the Orcs found solace and unity in the presence of their fearless leader, Gelbeg, the embodiment of their hopes and dreams.

The night was alive with the crackling energy of a thousand fires, each one casting flickering shadows upon the determined faces of the Orcish tribe. Their camp, nestled beneath the vast expanse of a starlit sky, hummed with anticipation. Gelbeg, their esteemed Warchief, stood tall, his silhouette outlined against the radiant backdrop of a million shimmering stars.

"My fellow Orcs, my kin and warriors," Gelbeg's voice resonated, carrying the weight of generations and the fervor of countless battles. "Tonight, beneath the stars that have witnessed our trials and triumphs, I bring tidings that shall ignite the fire of our spirits!"

Around him, the Orcs gathered, their eyes gleaming with the anticipation of what was to come. Gelbeg's words hung heavy in the air, pregnant with promise and possibility. A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd, the restless energy of warriors ready for their next conquest.

"Count Edon, the Snaga Lord of this realm, has seen in us what we see in ourselves: the unyielding might, the undying spirit, the unmatched bravery that defines us as Orcs!" Gelbeg's voice boomed, carrying his words to the farthest corners of the camp. "In recognition of our strength, he has granted us a land, a patch of earth on the border of the Dwarvish kingdom of Bhia."

The announcement hung in the air, a momentous revelation that held the power to shape their future. The Orcs exchanged glances, their tusks glinting in the firelight as they comprehended the magnitude of the offer.

"But this land is not merely soil and stone; it is a promise, a covenant between us and our Snaga allies," Gelbeg continued, his eyes blazing with conviction. "In return for this sacred ground, we are entrusted with a vital task: to guard this border, to shield these lands from the foul claws of the Dwarves, and to wreak havoc upon any incursion they dare to make!"

The impact of his words resonated deeply within the hearts of his people. A surge of pride and determination coursed through the camp, uniting them in a singular purpose.

"We, the proud children of Mog, have long yearned for a place to call our own, a land where our banners fly high, where our clans multiply, and where our people thrive," Gelbeg declared, his voice unwavering. "Is this the land we have dreamed of? I do not know, my brethren. But I do know this: as long as there is an Orc breathing, we will carve our destiny into this land!"

The air vibrated with the collective resolve of the Orcish tribe. Their fists clenched, their chests swelled with pride, and in that moment, they were not just a group of warriors; they were a nation, bound by blood and purpose.

"This is not merely a piece of land; it is a promise, a testament to our enduring spirit, to our unyielding will," Gelbeg proclaimed, his words echoing across the camp. "We, the Orcs, shall make this soil ours, and in the face of any challenge, we shall stand tall!"

A deafening roar erupted from the Orcs, a primal, thunderous symphony of determination. The night trembled with their fervor, the sound of their unity reverberating through the very earth beneath their feet.

"Tonight, my brothers and sisters, we feast not only on the spoils of battle but on the promise of a homeland, a sanctuary for our kind," Gelbeg's eyes glinted with unwavering determination. "Let this fire burn in our hearts, a beacon guiding us to a future where Orcs stand proud and unbroken! For Mog! For our people! For the land we shall claim as our own!"

As the echoes of his words faded into the night, the Orcs stood as one, their hearts ablaze with the promise of a homeland. The stars above seemed to shimmer with approval, bearing witness to the birth of a new chapter in Orcish history.

[sevikasupremacy]

Comfort - Chapter 9

LOYALITY - Sevika X Reader Series

Warnings: None

Word: 1,113

Previous Chapter

Chapter 10 is up!

Summary: You comfort Sevika after the firelights incident.

“She fired on us.”

“There’s always mishaps in battle.” Silco examined the shimmer shipments, the back of his chair facing Sevika.

“It wasn’t a mishap, she froze up and lost her shit.” Sevika spat, her heavy hand on your lap. It was a habit of hers. Even though you’ve been working for both of them for years now, Sevika never trusted you to be near Silco. Ever. That man is not reliable.

You held onto her hand, stroking it with the pad of your fingers, trying to calm her down.

“Sir, you need to understand. The entire ship is destroyed!” You defended Sevika, standing up boldly. Sevika looked up at you, her hand still gripping onto your wrists, signaling you to sit back down.

“The firelights were her target.”

“And? Jinx was supposed to guard the cargo. That was my order for her if she was going to come.”

A faint echo of your voice was heard before the room turned completely silent.

You weren’t soft with Jinx. Not at all. You used to be, but that was when she was young. Silco pampered Jinx from the beginning, giving her advantages to doing literally anything. Not until she started growing up and became a threat to everyone. But apart from all of that, you do love Jinx. That child just needs to know when to stop and today’s damage was caused by her.

“I could’ve handled those brats. She's a problem and we all know it.” Sevika spoke again, her eyebrows knitted in frustration.

“We? Who’s we?” Silco finally turned his chair around, revealing his scarred face. He raised an eyebrow, not content with whatever was coming out of Sevika’s mouth. Sevika averted her gaze, looking down at her boots.

“I expected better from you than excuses. It was your job to make sure things went smoothly. You failed, don’t disappoint me again.” Silco glared at the both of you before turning his attention back to the documents in his hands.

“But—“ You were stopped by Sevika who was grabbing your waist with both of her hands, leading you out of his office.

The loud booming music coming from the jukebox roamed your surroundings once again.

“Come with me first,” Sevika whispered in your ear, her raspy tone making you flinch a bit. She grabbed your wrist, leading you to her office which was just down the hallway. As soon as the both of you entered, she slammed the door shut, locking it.

“I’ll talk to Jinx about thi—“

“Don’t.” Sevika sat on the couch, her legs spreading apart for better comfort.

“Enough headaches for today.” She leaned back, covering her eyes with her arm. You let out a sigh before plopping down beside her, leaning your head onto the side of her muscular arm.

“Ignore Silco. You did your best.” You caressed the side of Sevika’s face, turning her face to you. She let out a soft exhale before relaxing into your touch. You looked at her for a moment.

“Well it’s all my fault anyway, he can’t really blame anyone else, can he–

You brought your lips to her forehead.

This was the first time your lips had ever touched Sevika.

Sevika grunted in surprise, her body stilled as she processed what just happened. She didn’t move, her eyes fixated on you blankly.

You quickly let go of her, averting your gaze as you stood up from your seat. Before you could take a step toward the door, a hand gripped onto your arm, pulling you back to the sofa. You let out a startled squeak, losing your balance as you stumbled onto Sevika’s lap. You stopped yourself from colliding with her, both of your hands gripping onto her shoulders. Both of your foreheads slightly brushed against each other.

“Let’s go back home.”

“We’re not done with work yet–”

“Uh-uh,” You kissed her forehead again but this time, you kissed longer, “Relax…”. You hummed against her forehead as you felt a strong pair of arms wrapping around your waist.

Sevika slowly pulled you closer, resting her chin on your shoulder as she slowly exhaled. You let out a soft chuckle before caressing the back of her head, the pad of your fingers slowly massaging it. Minutes later, you felt the weight of the older woman getting heavier, causing you to let out a small grunt. You straightened your back, nudging Sevika’s back with your index finger.

“We can’t sleep here..” You giggled as soon as you saw Sevika’s drowsy eyes when she lifted her head. One of her eyes was half open due to the little nap she had on your shoulder. Her bottom lip slightly stuck out, forming into a pout. Her mouth quivered as she slowly puckers them, her eyes on your forehead. She hesitantly leaned forward, thinking if she should do it or not. But before she could make another move, you touched her dark lips with your forehead, letting out a content sigh before looking back at the older woman. Sevika paused as she tried to hold in her smile.

“Did the firelights hurt you?” You broke the silence, pushing aside her poncho, examining her body. No bruises or cuts, good.

“Did it hurt?” You held onto her mechanical arm as you talked. Sevika slightly shook her head before giving a pat on your head adoringly.

“As long as you’re not injured, I’m fine,” She lowered her hand to your shoulder, “They didn’t do anything to you right?” You noticed her tone started to turn harsher.

“I’m perfectly fine.” You smiled at her before leaning your forehead against her chest, closing your eyes for a moment. You needed a break from all the hectic situations that had happened today too. You wanted to lay in bed and rest… with Sevika.

“I want to go home…” You pouted, wrapping your arms around her waist.

“Then let’s go.” Sevika grunted as she stood up, carrying you with her. You immediately wrapped your legs around her waist, startled by the sudden action from the older woman.

“Let me down, the others are going to see–”

“And?” She readjusted her hands on your bottom, making sure that you wouldn’t fall. You held onto the nape of her neck, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. You were exhausted… or it’s either you’re trying to hide your rose-tinted cheeks from the others.

As you closed your eyes nervously as soon as Sevika went downstairs toward the exit, you could hear gasps and murmurs from all corners of the tavern. Somehow, you didn’t feel ashamed… you were proud. Proud that you were able to be this close to the scary lady of Zaun.

.

.

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Notes: Y’all I’m so sorry this chapter took long 😭 But it’s finally here! Hope you guys enjoy it.

Taglist: @holysmokesblog @illicittete @honeyr4ven @im-sidney @meetmeinthervng @uwuttaja @mayalopxz @tiptoeingquietly @trashbod

[bloodycassian]

anon request - READER X AZRIEL - sorry if this wasn’t exactly what you want! I got a bit carried away in my own idea of Azriel being supportive but protective at the same time!

some hurt/comfort with Azriel where he and the reader get in a huge fight over protecting Elain (like they travel to a different court and Azriel is overprotective) and then the reader goes scouting to also cool down a bit and they get ambushed, the reader gets injured and the mating bond snaps. Hope it's not too much trouble!!

Elain was absurdly still as the conversation played out. Conversation being a loose term for the shouting happening around her. You didn’t leave her side though, even though your anger flourished while they spoke as if she wasnt there. Azriel was packing her things, shoving them haphazardly into a bag. The bag that Feyre had given her from their first trip down to the markets after Elain had started acting somewhat normal again. The happy memory seemed so distant now, compared to the anxiety ridden emotions that played about in the room.

“We are not going to the continent.” Az’s tone shift was abrupt, a snap of anger leaning into it. He tied the top of the bag closed and set it roughly atop the living room table. The scattered odds and ends of survival gear and weapons scraped against the wood. You watched the stare down between the high lord and his shadowsinger patiently. Waiting for your moment to speak rationally to them.

Rhys’ power roiled above, his eyes did not hide his frustration with his brother. His gaze was simmering with that dark power he possessed. Azriel did not back down. “The continent is the only place that may be safe. If the King finds out she’s a Seer he will never let her go. We can’t risk losing her as a hostage.”

You knew she would be a hostage too. Feyre would never let her sister be taken without a fight. Rhys knew his mate well enough to know not to risk just Elain, but Feyre too. Cauldron knew what Nesta would do if she were in that room during the conversation. Likely spitting fire and shoving Elain out the door to wherever she seemed to think was safe. Thankfully, both sisters were scouring deep in the library for any way to help win this battle.

Azriel did not break eyecontact with his brother as he made to speak again. You interrupted before he could make the situation worse. “I have somewhere in mind.” You spoke softly, urging the staring contest to end. Azriel looked away first, and you were surprised at that. His eyes met yours with something like relief. “Autumn. We have Eris on our side if we’re caught. I have a spot we can stay until-” Azriels scoff sent anger shooting through you. You clenched your teeth together to keep from lashing out at him as he had been doing just moments before. 

“Autumn is possibly the worst place we could send you right now. We’re on the brink of war with them potentially being on Hyberns side. We would be sending you straight to Hybern himself.” 

“Exactly. It’s stupid and they would never expect it.” 

“You’re not going. Beron exiled you. Don’t you remember what that means?” He looked at you with actual concern now that he knew you were serious. As if you had been injured and you were speaking a different language.

“It means we will be safe from Hybern when they come here to look for Elain. Isn’t that the point?” You wrapped an arm around her small shoulders and pulled her close. Az couldn’t argue with that. The other courts were not an option, as it would be harboring a target against one of the Night court Allies. And Winter court was nowhere to be spending the night. Not many survived the night there without shelter.

Rhys’ sigh was long and exhausted. Left without another option, he nodded to himself. He held out a hand and summoned two necklaces, both with pendants of black onyx that shimmered in the firelight. Az’s brows pinched together at the sight of them. The dull glow behind him shone through his wings, highlighting all the delicate structures there. You found his wings more beautiful than the enchanted stone Rhys handed you.

“Hybern won’t be able to sense your magic. Keep these on.” 

Azriel was already tensing, his fists balling at his sides ready to make it physical if Rhys refused to listen. He knew with his entire being that something was off. Something would go wrong this night. His shadows warned him of something. And he couldn’t shake it no matter how hard he tried. “Rhys-”

“And you will be going with them. Keep them company while Feyre and I investigate just how many ships and forces they plan to bring.” He ordered in that indisputable tone of the high lord. With only a hint of friendliness. He gave Az a long look before turning back to you and Elain. “Do not take those off.” The nodded to the necklaces and started to winnow. Elain stood abruptly, startling you. 

“Thank you.” She said softly to the high lord. He seemed taken aback for a second, before giving her a gracious nod and finally disappearing. You rose to Elain’s height and took her hand in yours. It was warm, welcoming. “We’re going to be fine.” You promised, not caring if Azriel saw the care you gave her. She had been there for you just as you needed to be now. She had practically kept you alive with her soft humming and reading to you when you were at your worst after being exiled. 

 “I know.” She said, voice soft as rose petals. But that dark power within her were the thorns of that pretty, perfect rose. The reason Hybern even knew to look in Velaris for Elain. That cauldron calling power that she couldn’t control to save her life. You grimly smiled at her.

“We need to leave.” Azriel ordered, tone neutral. Just a warrior needing to move troops.

“Let me get your bag.” Elain said, giving you a squeeze of her hand, disappearing up the stairs. Leaving you with the brooding Illyrian. You grimaced in his direction. He ignored you as best he could, hoping that the time for babysitting would pass quickly. He had always found it strange how you and Elain moved like magnets together. Found the soft way you comforted each other somehow upsetting. He paced quietly in front of the fire while you gathered your gear. Two small blades - one for Elain - and your sword. You rubbed at a speck on the hard steel of the sword. 

Perhaps his lack of family had made that rivaling jealousy turn into hatred for the display of affection. He contemplated to himself. Had he become cold to everyone? Too harsh? Had the darkness he possessed taken him over? He tore his eyes from your short sword and locked them with yours. The thrill he felt wasn’t from anger or terror. His cheeks flushed slightly and you fought the grin that you wanted so badly to flaunt at him. The innuendos regarding the sword that you wanted to say were cut off by that look he gave you.

“Do not get into a situation where you have to use that.” He warned with a stern look. You couldn’t help the angelic smile you gave him.

+

The smell of rotting apples and decaying leaves was all you needed to sense to know you were home. You took in the court border slowly, adjusting to your orientation after being winnowed. Elain clutched your hand tightly, the bag in her other hand quivered only slightly from her shaking. Your hands became slick with sweat at the familiar sights and smells of Autumn. You hadn’t been back since being exiled.

“We wont be able to have a fire.” Azriel stated, gazing towards the sky. It was far too clear of a day out to risk it. The slight chill in the air filled your stomach with dread for the night to come. 

“This way.” You pulled Elain along with you, leaves crunching under your feet as you entered Autumn court. She didn’t move. Her eyes were blank, staring lifelessly into the orange and yellow forest. “Elain?” You asked softly.

“Five foxes will die tonight. Three more in the morning.” 

Her words sent a chill down your spine.

Az took the lead, territoriality putting himself a few paces in front of you. He wasn’t subtle about it either, occasionally jogging ahead to scout for any enemies around piles of bramble when you came across it. 

By the time you found your hideout, you were fed up with waiting for him to give you the all clear everywhere you went. You let you go of Elains now calm hand and stormed into the small shack with familiarity. Azriel hissed and seethed when you lit a lantern inside. “Get over yourself, Shadowsinger.” You laughed, taking in the small piece of home you made for yourself long ago. 

It indeed was a long time ago when you’d last been there. But it still felt homey to you. The small space was just big enough for a stove, the table you’d found, and a bed pushed against the far wall. The fireplace hadn’t been used in years. Soot marked small animal prints along the light plank floors.

The dusty blankets on the makeshift bed were pocked with holes from mice and moths. The fireplace was nearly caved in on itself. The bramble covering that acted like a second roof was growing through the actual roof in some places. But it was still home. Your small exit from the world when things got too tough. Even after being exiled Beron hadn’t known about this place. He would have had it destroyed if he did know of it.

Elain pushed in passed Azriel. His shadows went wild. Searching every surface of the cabin. The long beams of the floor were hardly visible through the darkness he brought. 

+

You knew you should have brought more blankets. You held back the teeth chattering as best you could, letting Elain sleep. She would need all the rest she could get. You could tell she’d been tired after the days walk. She rested peacefully under the layers while the wind shuddered the leaves outside. You pulled your coat tighter to your body. 

“This was a stupid idea.” Azriel muttered from the corner. He didn’t seem cold, but the dark curls of shadow wrapped around him protectively. While you were left with nothing more than a coat. Your own magic couldn’t save you from the stormy wind, the necklace Rhys had given you also weakened your power enough that you couldn’t use it. Even in your homeland. It bothered you endlessly, feeling so useless in such a dire situation of needing to help Elain. 

“Then maybe you should just leave.” You barked back simply. He didn’t have to come in the first place if he was going to be so bothered. 

“I just mean-” He sighed, and sat on the creaky old table that took up half the small kitchenette. “We could have done this better. We could have planned… Differently.” 

“We didnt have the time. We’re here now, so we just need to deal-”

“I know that. I’m just bothered that you’re so recklessly looking for danger everywhere we go.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? I’m from here Azriel. I know what areas are dangerous.” 

“Maybe once.” His eyes were not angry when he said it. They were full of pity and doubt. Your rage spilled over, and you were ready to shout. Ready to scream at him about what a piggish idiot Illrian he was being. But Elain turned over, sighing softly to herself. 

So instead, you clamped down on that burning anger and walked out. And of course he decided to try to follow you. He made it a few steps outside the cabin before you turned on him, ready to roar. “Be safe at least.” He tossed his red jeweled dagger to you. Your heart squeezed, choking you up slightly. You brushed it away as best you could before he could see. You couldn’t yell at him. 

So you took the dagger and walked briskly away, into the brush of autumn forests. Laced with the smell of heavy fruits and warm trees. Leaves fluttering in your wake as the wind tossed with ease. 

You held his knife close at your side the entire aimless walk. Then, the sound of twigs snapping and males laughing heartily made you pause. 

Far to your east was a dull glow beyond a knoll. You backed away slowly. Trying to be as soundless as possible in case they could scent you. The breeze whipped at your skin, blowing in their direction. The trees above you shuddered sharply, and you swore as a heavy weight fell upon your shoulders.

+

Azriel paced in the kitchenette, his shadows swirling around him relentlessly, waiting for a target. It felt wrong letting you go. It felt like letting his hope sink. His shadows even seemed upset about it, as they now whipped around him angrily. 

He swore he was going to run a rut through the plank floor. He sighed, glanced to Elain’s sleeping figure and forced himself to sit. You had the dagger. You were capable. You knew the area and knew what you were doing. He tried his best to soothe himself. It didn’t help much.

The old chair creaked under his weight, and he smiled. For someone who claimed they couldn’t work around the house, you were quite the crafter making such a nice hideaway for yourself. He finally took a moment to pause, and actually look at the cabin.

The stove may have been older than he was. The missing burners on top were replaced with a few forks placed carefully around them. The ancient shelves were dusty, along with all the jars and cups atop them. Cobwebs spotted the entire house, but his shadows had gotten rid of most of them after the first one clung to his face upon walking in. 

Then he came to the table he sat at, the four unmatching chairs circling it. The table itself was solid oak, he could tell that much. But he wondered how you’d gotten it inside at all. Out of curiosity, he pulled on it. It didn’t budge. His eyebrows knitted together, and he stood slowly. The curiosity consumed him. He gave the table another tug. Still, no movement.  

He crouched down, and noticed the planks around the single leg of the table had been cut out. Then he noticed the intricate roots weaving their way up the trunk. The table wasn’t just a table. It was an entire tree - or what was a tree once… And you’d built the entire cabin around it. His awe was quickly quieted by Elain.

“A part of you is missing. The foxes will die.” She muttered sleepily, her eyes blank. And he lay back down as if it hadn’t happened. “Elain?” Azriel called. Dread, cold and stinging coarse through him. “Elain?” He asked quietly, approaching her side. She flung the covers from her lithe body. Azriel jumped back, holding his hands up defensively. “It’s okay, its me.” He calmed her, noting the wild look in her expression. 

“Find yourself.” She breathed, her eyes going wide with concern. Azriel’s heart sped, and he felt like he’d been dunked in a cold ocean of dread. Terror drug him under the deep waves and threatened to drown him the first chance it got. He took Elains hand and started walking the direction you’d left. 

Leaving behind the supplies and the living table that you’d created.

+

A glance at the oversized uniforms told you all you needed to know. The fox sigil pinned to their tunics proved that the uniforms were stolen from Autumn soldiers. Your blood boiled. Elain had been right. But they would die. Five of them, at least. But you had only glimpsed at three so far. You tugged at the ropes that bound you. Firm, and not able to be broken.

Their campsite was large, and full of small boxes of different fruits. Several different types of weapons leaned against their low lying tents. And with how many scars their fae leader had, you knew the rest of their story in an instant. Bandits. Filthy trade merchants that lived for thievery and making a quick gold mark.

And you’d be worth their weight in gold once they turned you in to Beron.

“We’ve got a live one!” The male shouted to his comrades. They cheered drunkenly, their voices carried far by the wind. Their fire sparked and popped against the blue night sky. And you knew that your death may not come in glory of battle, or in the name of your home. But in being stupid enough to be caught by bandits. You could have died that instant if it would mean you didn’t have to feel that kind of shame.

The male cut the opal from your neck, and you felt your magic explode from you. Your thoughts were racing, searching. Finding something cold and dark in the depths of your mind and tugging on it. Then, it was a live beast beneath your mental hands. It coiled and rose, ready to strike. 

The same one cut a long line down your cheek with the blade that had just cut your only protection against Hybern from you. You prayed to the mother that Hybern was too busy to notice a small blip of magic from an Autumn fae like you. You hissed in pain as the blade stung its way down to your neck, stopping at your collarbone. 

You pulled on that coiling beast that called to you. Beckoned it to find you, to help you from this pain. Maybe you were begging for death, or at least unconsciousness so you wouldnt have to feel the pain anymore. The male stood back to let another scaled lower fae get a look at you. His tongue lashed out over your bloodied neck. He hummed in approval, letting his forked wetness slither across your wounds.

You felt them seal and itch with every pass as he took your blood. “Good.” the one with the blade ordered, then… to your dread, he pulled a glowing rod from the fire. They would brand you. Then take you to the high lord. Only after they’d humiliated you though. The males clucked at your involuntary reaction. They huddled close around, waiting for the screaming to start. Their excitement coated the air with a tangy adrenaline filled scent. 

You reared away from the burning metal as best as you could. The ropes around you seemed weaker now that you had your weak magic back, but still too constricting to do much with. 

You closed your eyes as the glow approached your chest. It warmed your face with the heat. They were going slow on purpose. Wanting to savor your reaction. It made your stomach go queasy. You hoped you would pass out. Better yet, just die of the agony. That way Beron wouldn’t have the satisfaction of killing you himself. 

There was a thump, and sizzling. You cracked open your eyes, waiting that searing pain to hit you. But it didnt. The males stood back, bewildered. Across the camp in the dull glow of the fire as the one that had been lowering the branding stick to you. It was speared through his chest, pinning him to a tree. His mouth gasped, eyes wide and glowing a haunting orange from the fire. You would never forget the sight of it. The smoldering that came from the tree behind him as the hot iron burned into it. The wet sounds of his mouth opening and closing. 

Then, the gasp and thump each male that Azriel incapacitated before you. Elain stood at the edge of the trees, her eyes still puffy from sleep. Azriel kept the kills quiet and concise. None resembled the one pinned to the tree, now sagging under the weight of death. No, the rest of them had easy deaths at the hands of one skilled at dealing killing blows. The wet splatter of blood leaving a body pulled you back to the scene in front of you. Az’s scowl as he cleaned his blade was that of a warrior who had seen much worse. Done much worse. 

“I told you not to fucking-” He snarled, his hands on the rope at your wrists. He stopped though, and stared. The shadowed light of his eyes seemed to be blooming with awe. You couldn’t look away. The beauty in the deep irises, the way small freckles played about his dark skin. All new and exciting things you’d never noticed before. His scent alone was like a punch to the gut. 

Him. Azriel. It had been him to find you. Him to respond to that silent plea that you so badly needed to be heard. He was that coiling darkness that had saved you. Your breath was a gasp, and you nearly fell to your knees before him. 

+

His hands didn’t work anymore. The world stopped turning all together. His heart was no longer his own and his soul belonged wherever you were. It didn’t matter that you were in the middle of a foreign court’s borders. It didn’t matter that Elain trembled in the corner of the clearing. He was yours, and you were his. 

He vowed it, for eternity that was how it would stay. He’d never leave your side again. Never choose to be without you for as long as he may be alive. His very being was now shared. With you. His soul intertwined your yours, wrapping delicately around your earthy light that contrasted his darkness so perfectly. If you were the sun he was the moon, always chasing, always following and living in your light. 

The words weren’t needed but he managed to utter them. Around a shuddering breath and a shattering explosion of love he managed it. “My mate.”

[hewantshisbrideback]

Jonrya AU: Other Engagements

Summary: The remaining Starks gather some time after the Long Night is won to discuss possible plans for marriages and alliances. With Jon crowned King of the Wall, ruling under Daenerys, High Queen of Westeros, discussion of who will reign by his side as queen over the north is paramount. But Jon is not the only wolf for whom a match must be made.

“Proposals," Rickon groaned and tossed back his head, auburn curls glinting. "My spear is still crusted with blood, and we're already talking of politics?"

"And how long a grace period were you expecting?" Arya snorted, shaking her head. Her dismissive words were born partially of relief. 

She had been speaking with the washer women when Jon found her and pulled her away. He had lead her to a small, stony room, recently rebuilt, containing only two windows, a small side table of wood, and her siblings gathered around in a semi-circle as if for a ritual. 

Her hackles had risen in an instant, but Bran had quickly laid her greatest fears to rest. There was no new tragedy to break their hearts, no new disaster to ravage their land; only the tedious intricacies of a civil society.

“A longer one,” the boy groused. Arya imagined that in his mind, there was likely no tragedy more agonizing than such tedious complexities.

“Oh? Are you inconvenienced?” She tilted her head at him. "Shall we postpone rebuilding the kingdom until the armory's polished nice and new?"

"Can we?" He asked. For a moment it was difficult for her to tell whether he was serious. Maybe the boy didn’t know himself. She cuffed him lightly over the head with a scoff just to be safe, and the grin that broke on his lips was wild.

Still, she had to admit he wasn’t exaggerating. Hardly a moon had past since the last dregs of the Others had been sighted, had been felled, and already there were talks of contracts, engagements, and promises between names she recognized only from war letters and fireside whispers.

During the blight, there had been hurried ceremonies in Great Halls, like that between Princess Val of the Free Folk and the gentle Willas Tyrell. However, there was no need for hushed vows in torch-lit gatherings anymore. What was left of the nobility, and whatever names had been gilded by the Long Winter, would want feasts, balls, parades through the streets.

Arya thought she almost preferred a quiet cloaking in the night. Perhaps that was only natural. After all, she had been present for the wedding of Val and Willas, and no better a pair had been made than they.

She recalled what a sight they’d been: the free woman’s flushed cheeks painted orange with firelight, the lord of the Reach’s nervous brown eyes pinned to his bride’s easy smile, rapt and adoring. They had danced for only a short song, but they had whispered all throughout, and had been whispering to each other ever since whenever she saw them.

The warrior princess and her lord of roses. She could count at least three songs that had been written of them since, the battles the lady fought and the bed of flowers her lord laid down for her, but none of them noted how they made each other laugh, how they sat at each other’s side like old friends.

"Bran is right,” Arya blinked from her thoughts in time to see Sansa grimace and continue, “We may have put aside our differences to face a greater threat, but that won't make for a lasting peace now that the threat is extinguished.”

"Fine," Rickon groused, then pursed his lips, surveying the room sullenly. "So, we're looking to pick up a queen already?"

Arya flinched, eyes snapping to Jon. Perhaps Rickon had been right to moan and whine. She knew her cousin would be married off eventually, now that he'd had a crown foisted onto him, but the idea of helping select his bride settled like shards of ice beneath her ribs. She cursed herself. How selfish she was. Finding a queen for the North was in the best interest of all who inhabited it, and here she was, unable to look at this as of yet faceless woman as anything but another competitor for Jon’s attention.

"A queen for the North?" Sansa contemplated, sounding as equally troubled as Arya felt. Her hopes that Sansa might object in her stead were dashed in an instant. "I suppose it bears discussing--”

"We can't," Arya blurted, panic coursing through her like lightning. Her siblings turned to stare at her. She flushed under their baffled eyes. Swallowing her shame and clearing her throat, she leaned back against the wall and crossed her arms. "Well, we can't. We can't start making decisions yet. Not on our own. The dragons. They have a stake in this, too."

Jon lingered on her for a moment. She held her breath, brow cocked defiantly, but he made a noise of agreement that showed she need not have worried. "That's true. I'm heir, second to Aegon. Daenerys lets me keep my name, but she will want a say in who shares our blood all the same."

"You're right. It may be one day that the children of your union and hers are married themselves," Bran conceded. “It won't do to decide without her.”

Her sister nodded, expression poised and thoughtful. "That’s true. I suppose there should be some talk between us and her, even Aegon perhaps, before we think about who would be a suitable choice.”

The ice in Arya's chest melted, soft like relief, but colder and heavier, and she made an effort to ignore the stab of resentment at her sister’s next words.

“Jon, you can send her a message, invite her to share her thoughts. Of course, you could always visit her in person as well, if she prefers it.”

Jon's jaw ticked as he nodded, eyes flickering towards Arya, only to snap away as if it burned when she returned his gaze. For a moment, she was petrified. Had he noticed? Had he noticed how upset this talk of queens had made her?

"Alright," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. "I'll draft a letter after supper."

His words were disappointing, and his tone was resigned, but it was also familiar. She felt her heart calm. It was no use to fret, over any of it. They were close, and given all that happened, it only made sense for her to be worried. She shouldn’t be afraid for him to see it. 

And at least the decision itself had been delayed some, Arya thought, staring at the ceiling, even if only until Daenerys had enough time to consider the best use of her nephew.

"Great!" Rickon looked around at each of them. "That's that, then, isn't it?” Sansa tutted at him for his impatience, and Bran shook his head, and Rickon threw up his hands. “If we can’t do anything without the queen’s say-so, why stand here brooding over it now? Just wait until she tells you what to do."

“She’s not just going to tell us what to do.” Arya tried not to quibble over semantics with Rickon, as he was still learning the world of kings and courts, but she couldn’t stop herself this time. “Daenerys isn’t a tyrant. No doubt she has prospects in mind, but the choice is ultimately Jon’s.”

“Which is why it’s worth going over the options now,” Sansa added on, “to prepare ourselves for when we do make that decision.”

“And we will,” Bran intercut, "but we can afford to set it aside today. There are still some other arrangements we need to consider.”

“What arrangements?” Jon rumbled, but the stiff set to his jaw and the scowl inching onto his lips made it clear he had some idea and, evidently, disapproved already.

If Bran sensed his ire, he ignored it. “Arrangements for the rest of the Starks."

Arya blinked. She had seen the eyes of visiting nobles and their kin lingering on her brothers and her sister. Even she had received some curious glances. But somehow she’d still managed to overlook the obvious, managed to fool herself into thinking that they had more time.

“Are we really to be parted from each other so soon?” she murmured.

Bran gave her an appreciative glance tinged with grief, and in that glance she felt all those lonely years already spent apart, a splintered pack. After spending this many fighting so hard to reunite, she felt sick imagining any of her family leaving Winterfell. No wonder Jon was on edge.

“I don’t like it,” Rickon grumbled in tandem with her thoughts, and from the looks on everyone else’s faces, they weren't the only ones. 

Sansa had folded in on herself, a brooding edge to her perfect mouth, but with Rickon’s complaint, she moved beside him, tucking his stray red curls behind his ear, a gesture that smacked of their late mother to a degree which hurt.

“Nevertheless,” she muttered after a moment, hand retracting and interlacing with the other, but she could not bring herself to follow through and continue the thought. No one could.

The room was still and heavy with preemptive sorrow, until Arya could bear it no longer. What would they do, sit in silence in this room until the fire dwindled and the sun set? There were meals to be had and men to appease, even just this evening, and waiting wouldn't stall the inevitable. Bran knew that. They all knew that. Sucking in a solemn, silent breath, she asked, “So then which of us is to be married first? And to who?”

Sansa opened her mouth, face wilted with regret, but Bran shook his head dismissing her, and the rest of them mirrored him. There was no need for a defense to be made.

“I’m well aware of the union between you and Sandor Clegane,” Bran assured her. “I would never ask you to break your vows. Aside from this, your first two marriages would have diminished your prospects regardless, one of which still needs to be annulled. Sansa is not an option. I mean you no offense, sister."

Sansa did not look offended. If anything, her expression spoke to some small, secret amusement. Arya was just glad that she wasn't weeping.

“No,” Bran continued, “by now, the attention of our allies has wandered to our other sister, Princess Arya.”

Arya was still beneath her brother’s cool, blue stare. She used to squirm whenever someone referred to her title aloud. By now, she’d nearly grown used to it. After all, she’d answered to far too many ill-fitting names to abandon Arya Stark for her accompanying titles, so she wasn’t left with much choice. 

Now, something in her felt hollow, as though if the wind began to blow, it would whistle through her insides, and she’d be able to hum without using her mouth.

“They intend to offer their sons to Arya." Jon's words were slow and pointed and metered all the way through. “Have they no daughters for you or Rickon?”

“I did not say that they are not looking out for their daughters as well,” Bran reasoned, just as slowly and emphatic as his cousin had. “But of the three of us, Arya is the most attractive option. She cannot give them a royal title, but it’s no secret what she means to you, and the North at large, or that she’s earned the favor of Daenerys. Every wifeless heir on the continent will be interested.”

She must’ve imagined the way his fists clenched. Jon was smart. Men underestimated him, always, but he was smarter than all of them. He should've expected this, even if, somehow, she hadn’t. Of course suitors would seek a princess’s hand. It would not matter to them whether that hand was supple or calloused. Jon knew that. If he didn’t, he should’ve.

If the world had taught her anything, it had taught her that nothing staves the ambition of powerful men. Not even death. Not even ugliness.

“Good.” The word startled her, even more than her sister’s soft hand suddenly pressing to her cheek. But she smiled, albeit with closed lips, as Sansa's furrowed gaze swept over her features like she'd never seen them, like she was trying to absorb all she could for safe keeping. “You’ll have your pick of the lot.”

“Septa Mordane would be quaking to hear such talk of Arya Horseface,” Arya snorted in response, provoking a wry smile from Bran, an expression she sheepishly mirrored.

“Be serious, Arya,” Sansa huffed with a noble frown, hand falling from her face to clutch her wrist in earnest. Arya adjusted her clasp so that they held hands instead, and Sansa's thumb swept the back of her hand in search of comfort. “That silly, old nickname couldn’t be more ill-fitting. You’re quite pretty now.”

Jon made an ill-tempered rumbling noise, and Arya wanted to press him, but refrained in front of the others. He’d been reserved since he was a child, but ever since the Long Night began, he’d been downright secretive. She wouldn’t pry, at least not until she’d gotten him alone.

“It’s true," Rickon cut in, offering a rakish grin. “You should hear the free folk talk of you, sister. They say such things I’ve had to threaten to gut near half of them. They might’ve tried to steal you already, if they weren’t so frightened of Jon. And me, too, of course!”

The others stiffened, but Arya saw his assurance for what it was and spared a moment to thank the old gods for her littlest brother. Though her gratitude didn’t prevent her from rolling her eyes.

“The freefolk have a might different set of standards than the noble lords of Westeros. I can only hope that my reputation is not too far spread. It’s too much harder to see a she-wolf wed than a proper lady,” she drawled, letting go of Sansa as she paused and turned to him with a shrug. “Though I suppose in another world, a marriage with some wily freefolk warrior might've suited, and done well to unite the North.”

Rickon puffed up with pride, though on behalf of whom she had no idea.

“You can’t be serious,” Sansa huffed, then turned an admonishing glare on her brothers. “I know that you have all grown quite fond of the wildlings, having spent so much time with them, but however helpful they’ve been, there is hardly a suitable match for a lady amongst them.”

“A princess, now,” Bran reminded her, and Sansa nodded firmly.

“Suitable how?”  A sneer curved on Rickon's mouth. “I’m not the one who wants to marry her off, but a free man can be good as any lord of Westeros. It wasn’t a wildling who tortured the poor girl in Arya’s stead, was it? And your good Joffrey was a prince. It seems that didn’t stop him from being vile.”

“Rickon!” Arya snapped in warning.

The youngest Stark stared her sister down, burning as remorselessly as the sun, but Sansa’s face was stone and her eyes blue flint.

“That is not what I meant,” she amended calmly. “Of course, the wildlings are no more capable of cruelty than the rest of us. That being said,” her words sharpened to points, like they were her talons, "the lords of Westeros will not stand to see one Stark sister married to a former knight and the other to a wildling. Not when order has just been settled and peace is still in question. If we marry Arya to a wildling, we spit in the faces of our Northern lords and our Southron neighbors both.”

“Aside from that, we don’t need another tie to the free folk,” Bran noted mildly. “With Tormund in our council, Val in the reach, and Jon their chosen king, their loyalty is as guaranteed as we could hope.”

Arya shrugged. “Well, as far as I've heard, if I were to be stolen, I'd hardly be in a position to refuse."

"Perhaps not, but I don't think Jon would be all too pleased to wake up and find you stolen by one of his subjects." Bran was watching Jon as if it were his sole, solemn duty. "I imagine they'd only get so far before he stole you back."

Jon flinched violently and it was a shock, how pale and harrowed he looked. 

"It’s not like anyone could ever steal me away in the first place," Arya reminded him quietly, and when he looked at her, his mouth was pressed into a bitter facsimile of a smile.

“Unfortunately,” Rickon mumbled, and when Sansa and Jon simultaneously turned to glare, he merely scuffed his foot against the ground defiantly. "I mean it. At least then she could've stayed in Winterfell.”

Ridiculous boy. Arya nearly pulled him into a hug, but Bran interrupted her before she could move and his next words kept her still.

"It's not entirely out of the question,” he professed. “It’s possible she’ll find a suitor who will be able to reside in the North."

Arya felt her heart stutter. “You mean, like someone who’s not an heir?”

“No,” Sansa asserted. “If you snub the heir of one house for another’s second son, their entire territory will take it as an offense.”

“No, I was not specifically thinking along those lines,” Bran amended. “There are those with other circumstances under which you may be able to remain.” His eyes slid curiously to one of the windows as he tilted his head. "Ned Dayne, for example. We’ve received word that he intends to act in service to the Queen’s Greater Westerosi Council. You get along well, don't you?"

Jon stepped forward before she could reply, straightened to his full height. His stare was locked on her, stark and unyielding against the pallor of his cheeks, like stones atop snow dunes. "How do you know the Sword of the Morning?"

Arya felt apprehension tighten like a cord around her throat.

This had been the way since they’d reunited.

When Jon introduced her to his allies, she’d beamed like the sun. They had delighted her, despite her jealousy, for all the years she’d spent apart from him, that he’d been with them instead. The jealousy didn’t matter as much as the relief that he’d found friends. She took them as her own. She had been excited for him to do the same with hers. She had been so sure he would, it hadn’t even felt like hope. She’d just known.

But when she brought Jon to Gendry, explained who he’d been to her, he met the smith with suspicious words and a dark glare. When she told him of Hot Pie, or Lommy, or Weasel, or any of the number of sailors and whores from Braavos, he answered only with sarcasm and silence. And the Hound...

Now she’d be the first to point out that Sandor Clegane had not been her friend, or her ally, when they first travelled together. But she would also admit, begrudgingly, that he’d become something close by the time he accompanied her to the Wall with the Brotherhood. Jon had known that. Still, when Sansa brought the Hound into their home as her husband, Arya had heard the King of the Wall bellowing his objections from the other side of Winterfell.

"We travelled together, for a time," she replied carefully. Her tongue suddenly felt too big for her mouth. "Not very long.”

“When?” he prompted impatiently.

“When I was with the Brotherhood,” she confessed, “back when it was still lead by Beric Dondarrion.”

“You didn’t say anything.” In other circumstances, these words might’ve been a mere observation, or even an expression of concern, but here and now, they were an accusation.

He had mentioned the Sword of the Morning to her before in passing, but by that time, around the time poor Morgan Umber started running away whenever she waved in his direction, she had heard just about everything he had to say about her friends. So she had decided not to mention it. That would be easier.

Except now it looked like she’d been keeping secrets. She cursed the gods and all they stood for. “He wasn't the Sword of the Morning then — just a boy."

"Oh, just a boy," Rickon snorted. "Just another boy, you mean?"

Jon glowered but said nothing.

"That's right," Sansa tittered, with a sudden little smile. "You’ve collected so many. The blacksmith, the baker. Even that boy from House Umber. And now, the heir of Starfall."

"Gendry wouldn’t be a bad match either," Rickon piped up, a grin forming. Like Jon, he had been wary of the smith when Arya first introduced them, but unlike Jon, that had since changed. There was a higher degree of respect between the Free Folk and the Brotherhood than between either of them and any of the other factions. They worked together more easily, and more often, and Rickon was always with Osha and the free folk. Between this growing familiarity and Gendry's formidable reputations both as the Bull of the Brotherhood and the Arm of Stoneheart, a friendship had formed.

Her sister, on the other hand, had been entirely lukewarm when it came to the blacksmith. It was clear she saw him as beneath Arya’s station, but he was useful and she’d kept any complaints to herself, likely as recompense for Arya’s support for her and Sandor. This worked in Gendry’s favor as Sansa hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, only saying, "Who knew your habit of collecting strays would come so in handy?"

Arya's cheeks warmed. "They're not strays."

Rickon shrugged. "Not anymore, I suppose.”

"They're allies!” She insisted. “They're vital allies."

This time, Bran shrugged. "They can be both," he suggested innocently.

Arya growled and whacked his shoulder gently, turning to Jon for even a drop of support, but the only thing she found was frustration marring his brow. They were stalling again, wasting time. Arya sobered. She felt a bit like a child, finding Jon so troubled and having been so oblivious.

"Jon?” she ventured. “What are you thinking?"

He was quiet for a moment and she thought he might scold them, but instead he responded, "It's as Sansa said before. A knight is hardly a suitable match for a princess, let alone a smith."

Arya prickled at his words. True as they may be, in the political sense, the insinuation that her friends were somehow beneath her would never sit well with her. She knew that Jon was just being practical, that he had too much sense to hold a man's status against his character. 

But then, he seemed to make many exceptions to sense when it came to those she cared about. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to marry Gendry, but she knew she’d prefer him to most, and she wasn’t about to let Jon discount him without objection.

"Gendry isn't just a smith.” She reminded him stiffly, fighting to remain civil as he huffed and turned away. "He leads the Brotherhood without Banners. He has earned the respect of Westeros.”

"And the smallfolk adore him. He's not just some war hero to them," Rickon added eagerly, looking to her, and she nodded him on. “He means something more. The whole Brotherhood does. They love them.”

"And he may not be a lord, by his own choice," Arya concluded, "but he is a Baratheon. That could mollify at least some of the lords."

"And would it mollify Daenerys? Or Aegon?" Jon snapped. "When it was a Baratheon who killed their family and sent them into exile in the first place? I may be their kin but I can only do so much to protect you."

"I thought that Daenerys granted immunity and legitimacy to Robert's children in exchange for recognizing Targaryen rule?" Sansa asked, hands moving to her hips. "Even Edric Baratheon has bent the knee."

"So how do you think she feels about Gendry, then, the only bastard to refuse her offer of a title and land? And the leader of a band of fools," Jon spat the word like it tasted foul on his tongue, "who reject the authority of anyone who wears a crown?"

Why Jon was suddenly spouting hostility at the Brotherhood he'd vocally appreciated during the war, Arya wasn't sure, but as much as she took issue with his slander, it wasn’t the time to bring it up. "If Daenerys does see the Brotherhood as a threat, then a marriage between us could be a means of establishing peace before a conflict breaks out...”

The look Jon gave her was that of a wounded animal with its prey cornered. She forgot what she had been about to say.

"If you think," he hissed, "that I'm going to risk your life on the premise that it might prevent disputes between that menace and the Crown, then I am going to have to disappoint you."

"And what of Edric Dayne?"

Arya could only watch as Jon turned away to face her sister, whose chin jutted out defiantly at the king. That imperious timbre sent shivers down Arya’s spine. She hadn’t heard her sister take such a lofty tone with Jon in ten years.

Jon, on the other hand, just sounded irritated. "What of him?"

"As a candidate for Arya's husband,” Sansa deadpanned, as unamused with him as he was with her. “Is something wrong with him?"

"Is this not the boy that used to traipse around with the same Brotherhood?" Jon enunciated his words as if he was speaking to someone extraordinarily slow and particularly annoying, and if his goal was to offend, then by the way Sansa bristled, he had succeeded.

"His involvement with the Brotherhood was minimal, contingent on his position as Ser Dondarrion's squire, and has already ended," she pointed out hotly. "It would have to, either way, seeing as he's not just a lord, but the heir to Starfall." 

"And you think as the heir to Starfall, he and his bride will not be obligated to return to Starfall?" Jon replied just as impatiently. "He could afford to pick up the mantle of Sword of the Morning and run around the continent as a knight during the war, but do you truly think he will forfeit his responsibilities at the behest of a girl he knew when he was a squire?"

"But what if he forfeits his claim? If he intends to work for the council, he will."

"Then there is no guarantee he settles here."

“Oh,” Sansa made a cruel, ladylike sound, something like a laugh but not. "Is that all?"

The whites of Jon’s eyes had never been so visible. "Is that all?"

"Is that all, that she may have to leave? Is that your only qualm?"

"He offers her nothing!"

"He's a lord. He's an heir." Sansa lifted a finger with each point she made. "He's a war hero. He's a celebrated ally to the Martells, and to the Targaryens!"

Jon scoffed, loud, and so unlike him at all that Arya's jaw fell a little. "If a king with Targaryen blood is not enough to guarantee peace with the Targaryens, then a marriage to Edric Dayne will do no better! He offers her nothing!"

"He offers her security and kindness!" Sansa roared, calm breaking like the sea against cliffs. "He and Arya are not just familiar with each other — they're friends. Do you understand how rare and precious it is? As far as safety and happiness can go, there's no better assurance than that."

"What of our assurance?" Rickon snapped, stepping into line with his cousin, opposing Sansa. "We can offer her better than that."

"Exactly, Rickon!" Jon crowed, towering above them all even as he leaned in to emphasize his point. "Her family, in Winterfell, is better than that."

Her sister sputtered at his malice, turning to Arya, but she could only stare back, face still slack with surprise. Helpless, Sansa seethed, shaking her head at them all. "And so, what? She will never marry anyone?"

"I don't see why she has to," Rickon grumbled, but Arya barely heard him as Jon crossed over to her, took her by the shoulder, and tucked her into his side. "At least right away.”

"She doesn't," Jon agreed, gaze soft and raw, as if he’d been stripped bare and bleeding before her and didn't mind at all. What was she supposed to do? This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Time? But then he said, “She won’t.”

Sansa shrunk back as if slapped and Arya stilled under his arm. This was a voice she'd only heard him wield on the battlefield, or in court, deep as a wolf and imperious as a dragon. He had never been the king with them, not with his family, no matter how they'd fought or what over. But now, he’d raised his head to look at Sansa with narrowed eyes, and did not seem to see a cousin at all.

He continued steadily, "We have every right to keep her."

Sansa’s teeth were small and peeked out from her mouth like she wanted to run but when she met Arya's gaze, her mouth shut. She straightened her posture, her chin dipped low and humble this time. "You are a Targaryen king, but you're not her head of house. You may have a say, but the final word is Bran's."

Jon’s grip tightened and Arya winced as he positioned himself between the two sisters, almost as if to make sure Sansa wouldn’t reach out and grab her.

"Oh, did you forget?" she asked, so elegantly applying salt in the wound.

"It seems Bran has," Arya interjected. "Surely he has something to add?"

She looked to her brother, silently imploring, but he merely made a contented hum. Part of her wanted to tear her hair out, another wanted a go at his. She did not see what was so amusing about their siblings spitting and hissing at one another over her marriage prospects. Jon and Sansa were volatile enough as it is, some days managing genuine cordiality and others only just barely maintaining a facade of civility. This couldn’t help.

"Bran will do what's best for Arya," Jon spoke on his behalf, drawing her even closer, so her chest was pressed to his ribs. His heat warmed her like a furnace. "I trust him with that much. He loves his sister."

"And I don't," Sansa inhaled, eyes wide and stepping back. "That's what you mean, isn't it? Be honest with us, Jon. Arya and I have made our peace and moved past our childhood quarrels, but clearly, you haven't. You still hold them against me, don't you?"

"It's nothing like that," Arya assured her with a furrowed brow, gesturing for her cousin to corroborate. Jon didn't say a word.

Sansa looked down at her and soon deflated. "What would you know? He's an entirely different person to you.” She turned back to Jon, her voice low and scathing. “You’re making me look like a villain for suggesting she marry at all, but I’m just trying to find her someone who will be good for her before it’s too late. I will not allow her to suffer like I did.”

"No, you would just exile her from her home, to live with strangers.” There was no room for argument. There never had been. “Arya has been away from home long enough without you sending her away once more."

"Away from home, or away from you?”

She might’ve said more, she must’ve said more, and Jon must’ve said more too, but Arya couldn’t stand to hear another a word of it. What was the point of this bickering and bullshit? All the while Bran just sat there with that inscrutable certainty as his eyes trailed after Jon, and what did any of it matter?

“Enough!” she howled, pushing at his chest and ripping out of Jon’s reach.

His arm hung in the air for a moment, expression hurt, but she didn't have the time to be sorry.

"Were either of you going to ask me what I thought? Or are you two happy assuming you know what's best for me, as well as the North, and the rest of the kingdoms?" she snapped. Sansa, Jon, and even Rickon all began speaking at once, but she'd had enough of listening for an entire week. “Shut up! I’m sick of it. I’m sick of all of you.” She sneered. “What a waste of time.”

Sansa objected, and Jon tried to defend himself, but it had been, nothing but a waste of time and a strain on their throats. If this was the way things would go, she was better off being stolen by the free folk. She was half tempted to leave her window open in invitation. They might not even have to bind and carry her.

"We are not going to make these decisions in a single evening," Bran's voice raised now, cutting through the clamor like a sword through cloth. "I knew that when I brought it up. Although, I had thought we'd at least get the chance to discuss some of the prospects for Rickon and me. But that can wait for now. We have other engagements to attend to.”

"Right," she croaked. Meals and men. Meals and men. She was supposed to meet with Ser Davos and Lord Manderley. Through the window, the sky was orange. She swallowed, but her throat kept dry. "I'm already late. I have to go.”

She moved to leave, and Jon moved to follow, but Bran called out and asked him to wait as the door swung shut behind her, and that was the last she allowed herself to hear before breaking into a sprint.

X

@mysticalmuddle This isn’t the fic I was talking about before, but I thought you might like to be tagged anyway, seeing as you’re basically the sole reason I ever post my fics! Thank you for all your encouragement, you are amazing.