#i cannot wait to watch this blow up <3 thanks for the food YET AGAIN

[fa1len]

CROWLEY, ON PRINCIPLE, DID NOT DO WELL IN BOOKSHOPS. he especially did not do well in bookshops when he and a certain angel were not on speaking terms, which was at the very least currently up for debate. he most especially did not do well in the bookshop of one man in particular, who liked to stock far too many copies of things like dante's inferno for what crowley could only assume was the irony of the thing. ( or maybe he didn't; maybe that was just something that happened to him, some cruel trick of asmodeus their master the father of lies, because apparently he had time for the minutiae where vespin @vchloras was concerned ... or had done for awhile there, anyway. ) this was a chore he hated, in summation. ripping his bentley across the eldritch vastness of the american southwest like he was one of the four horsepersons, only to deliver a brief that could have been done over the radio if only they'd committed one way or the other ... but who was he, besides the being that had committed the original offense when it came to asking things he shouldn't, to question how things were done? he did not speak: they'd been telling him he talked too much, to let his demonic presence speak for itself, and he wouldn't care to listen if it weren't this. asmodeus got weird about this, so crowley stood in the doorway silently and tried to affect hellish menace in the way he held his handbag, feeling rather like shax from processing. on the whole, it worked about halfway.

[raineandsky]

A Date in Exchange

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7)

My parents are asking if you’ll come over again. Are you free this week?

That’s the text message the villain received two days ago. They’d checked their calendar, only to find a lack of an excuse. They’d replied after a minute of racking their brains for a way out, only to send back a short i guess

So the villain is, rather stupidly in their mind, getting into the hero’s car for a second trip. It’s only a matter of time before this backfires and they get dropped off right outside the agency doors.

“Hey,” the hero greets as they slump into the seat. It’s the kindest greeting the villain’s ever gotten. “Surprised I didn’t have to promise you a banquet for this one.”

The villain slams the door behind them, careful to keep their gaze pointed out of the window. The reflection boasts the tinge in their cheeks at the insinuation. “If there isn’t one I’ll rob them again.”

It’s the hero’s turn to blush, a lot harder to hide. “And look how that turned out last time.”

-

“It’s so lovely to see you again!” the hero’s mother greets the villain, as if this is all some pleasant surprise and not an event practically planned by them. “Please, both of you, inside.”

The villain truly cannot believe their last visit here hasn’t put the hero’s parents off. It was hilarious to watch the hero fumble to correct their nemesis’s phrasing, but bringing the whole ordeal to an end would’ve been a nice bonus. It’s a shame that they clearly took the villain’s insanity in their stride.

“How’re the physics classes coming along?” the hero’s father asks when the pair of them are ushered into the living room. “Blow anything up yet?”

Ah, yes, the villain’s ‘studies’. The hero had mouthed sound smart! at them, and they did exactly what they’d asked. “I’m studying physics at the city university,” they’d told the hero’s parents, but that garnered too much praise, so they’d added: “Gonna learn to blow things up with science.”

“Still working on that,” the villain tells him with a grin. “Professor won’t let me. Not yet, at least.”

The hero looks genuinely relieved to find a small buffet set at the dining table. “Thank god we can get you fed, my love,” they say with a friendly pat on the villain’s shoulder, and from the slight raise of their eyebrows the villain knows they have no chance of nicking anything a second time. The name makes their stomach churn in a way that has little to do with the food in front of them all the same.

“How’re things between you both?” the hero’s mother asks sweetly once they’re all settled at the table. “You look well.”

Clearly the villain’s agitated undertones are going unnoticed. That’s consolation to the hero too, from the way they throw her a smile in poorly hidden relief. “Yeah, good. Still going strong, aren’t we, my love?” the hero asks, and plants a quick kiss on the villain’s forehead for realism.

The villain laughs tightly to avoid giving away the heart attack they think they might be having. “Yeah, strong as anything.”

“How long's it been? We only heard about you recently,” the hero’s father comments idly.

This was not a question either of them had discussed answering. The two sit in silence in case the other starts answering, the villain pretending to do the maths and the hero staring thoughtfully into the distance.

“About five months,” the villain says when it’s clear the other isn’t going to say anything.

“Five?” the hero’s mother echoes in disbelief. “Why, your father was giving me a ring as big as my hand by five months. What’re we waiting on?”

“Oh my god, mother,” is all the hero says in defence.

Suddenly this whole plan just expanded from a few months to years. The villain’s brain is close to shutting down suddenly planning out the rest of their life from this point forward. The hero says something but they don’t hear it, already imagining the sacrifices a life of lies would entail. A hand settles on their shoulder, and the touch startles them to their feet.

“[Villain]?” the hero asks, and the barefaced concern in their voice tips them over the edge.

“Sorry, I, uh…” Fuck, they’re stuttering. When have they ever been this uptight? “I just remembered I have a, uh, appointment soon, so I, ah–”

They’re at the dining room door. They’re not entirely sure how they got here. The hero’s parents watch with wide eyes, the hero themself already on their feet. All they hear is a pissed “Why would you say that?” before they shut the door behind them and make their great escape.

(Next part)

[padme-parker]

Mizpah // the darkling x reader // ch 5

summary: You tumble a Grisha in more ways than one ;)

warnings: violence, fighting, cursing, SMUT, fingering, masturbation??, praise kink, not proofread. 

A/N: this is all over the place, forgive me y'all </3

WHEN you awoke the next morning, you found a single glass of water placed on your night stand. Your head pounded as you tried to recall the blurred events from the previous night. All you remembered was catching up with Alina and then finally leaving her room. From there it was as if everything had muddled together to form a single incoherent memory. The sun had just begun to peak through your window.

While you were away last night, a servant must have stocked up your closet with clean clothes. They had mainly been a few soldiers' uniforms and some new nightgowns. Along with a few robes, each one as soft as a rabbit's fur. The gold kefta still remained in the dresser, collecting dust.

You changed out of your dirty clothes that you had slept in, and placed them in a neatly folded pile on the corner of your bed. After throwing on a clean uniform and putting your hair into a low bun, you rang for a servant. You asked her to bring breakfast to you. It seemed like there was no use in eating with the other Grisha. Where would you have sat? You weren’t a Corporalki, Etherealki, nor a Materialki. You certainly weren’t the Darkling either. There would be no place for you if you’d chosen to eat there with Alina.

Soon enough, a light knock echoed on the wooden door. “Come in!” You said, and the servant strolled in with a cart. She placed down a golden tray in front of you. You were served sweet pea porridge and fresh figs with a tall glass of water. You thanked the servant before she dismissed herself, leaving you to your food. There was another covering that laid on the tray, no plate under it. As you shoveled another spoonful of the porridge into your mouth, you took off the covering. Under the dome laid your weapons, cleaned of the dirt and blood that caked them. You placed your weapons back onto their respective places: a pistol and dagger at your hips, a knife securely tucked into your boot, and the last knife hidden away in your sleeve.

Just as you finished your food, another knock resonated in your uncomfortably quiet room. You beckoned them to come in. A Grisha with a red kefta came in, the black stitching signifying that he was a heartrender. You gave him a polite smile as he stepped in.

“Hello. I am Fedyor. I am to escort you to the training grounds today.” He explained.

“Oh no, it’s alright. I don’t need an escort. I know my way around the palace, thank you though.” You assured him. Sitting on the corner of your bed, you put on your boots. You were surprised to find them in the normal place you had put them, at the foot of your bed, near the very corner. It was a habit you had since you were a child. Every other orphan at Keramzin always placed their boots either to the left or right of their beds. It was understandably easier than leaving your boots where you normally had, yet you couldn’t shake the habit.

“The General himself required me to accompany you. As you must know, I cannot obey the General’s orders.” He stated. After lacing up your boots, you made your way to the tray your breakfast was on. You put the small plate that once housed the figs into the empty bowl of the porridge you were served. Picking up the tray, you began to walk towards the circular table near the door and left the tray there so it’d be easier for the servant to clean.

You turned to him, arms crossed on your chest as you sighed, “Fine.” You examined the new jacket you were issued, it wasn’t the same as the frayed one you were used to. The hem of your sleeves were intact, unlike your old one when you had picked apart the stitching when you were nervous. The only thing that you were particularly happy about was the fur lining. Yours had matted from being used so much and slept on.

“You know, it’s quite odd that you’re staying in the General's hall.” You let out a hm, questioning what he meant by that. “Usually guests stay in the guest hall. The General never permits for anyone to stay in his. He’s the only person allowed to sleep in this specific hall.” He whispered as we walked past a group of Materialki. They were huddled amongst themselves, whispering and giggling as they made their way to their training rooms.

“Maybe it’s because I’m Alina’s friend? Perhaps he feels like he needs to watch over me himself since he has also taken her under his watch.” You said. You took a deep breath of the crisp winter air as the two of you stepped outside.

“Perhaps. But why is Alina staying in the vezda suite? Wouldn’t it make sense for her to be staying in the General’s hall as well?” Fedyor did make a good point, if Alina was the most important Grisha of all, why wasn’t she across the hallway from the Darkling?

“It truly is a mystery I suppose. But if I were you, I wouldn’t question his choices.” You teased. You thought you might’ve offended him until he lets out a short laugh.

“Saints know what he would do if I had.” He replied, making you giggle. Your laughter died as you arrived at Botkin’s training area. Grisha alike had already been paired up and were sparring. Alina had been paired up with a girl she had mentioned last night, you couldn’t remember her name. Madia? No that wasn’t it. Narie? It wasn’t that one either. Noticing a late arrival, Botkin walked up to you.

“Botkin has never seen little girl before.” You tried to suppress the surprise you felt when you heard him refer to himself in third person. “Who is she?” He asked Fedyor. By now some people had stopped training to hear the conversation. You noticed Alina was still sparring with her friend, unaware of your arrival.

“She’s here as Alina’s guest.” At the mention of her name, the girl stopped fighting. Finally taking notice of your figure, she let out a surprised gasp.

“What are you doing here?” She asked as she came closer.

“Training. If I’m going to stay at the palace I don’t want to rot away and do nothing.” You said, rolling your shoulders to loosen up your muscles.

“First Army girl wants to train with Botkin.” His voice, although baritone and guttural, brought a strange comfort to you. “Choose your opponent.” You surveyed the crowd, looking for someone who could pose a possible challenge. Your eyes landed on a tan skinned girl with raven black hair, bangs framing her face perfectly. Her black eyes stared into yours, challenging you.

“Her.” You stated while nodding your head towards her. Botkin weaved his head in the direction you had nodded off to.

“Ah, star pupil, Zoya!” So this was Zoya, the girl who told Alina that she reeked of Keramzin. “I have trained her since she was ten.” The raven haired girl offered you a way out, which you immediately declined.

“Fighters ready?” You put your fist up, getting into stance. “And..Fight!” You waited for Zoya to come to you first. She walked up to you, her fists hung up. You circled each other, playing the waiting game. You were about to make a move when you saw Zoya moving her right fist towards your face. You ducked left, managing to move in time to avoid the punch. With her back still to you, you jammed your elbow into her side making her hunch over.

She came at you again, this time with more veracity and anger behind each swing. Except she didn’t land a single blow. You were able to avoid each one as you let out a giggle, staggering a few steps back.

“Is that all you’ve got, star pupil?” Your comment only seemed to spur her on more. She ran at you in full force, this time you let her land a hit on you for the fun of it. What you didn’t expect was for her to punch you so hard that she drew blood. You sniffled feeling a drop of blood come from your nose. You began your attack with a right hook followed by a left one. In return she used her arms to block each time, leaving her abdomen vulnerable.

You were able to land a hard blow or two before you found yourself briefly soaring through the air, your back meeting the hard wall that was originally ten paces behind you. You let out a wheeze as you feel one of your ribs break.

Botkin had begun to reprimand Zoya, looking at her you could feel her shame as she upset her mentor. You couldn’t help but smirk as she looked at you, at least now she knows how someone from Keramzin fights. Her gaze hardened, about to walk up to you once more before she was taken away by some guards.

“Oh my Saints, now the General is really going to have my head.” Fedyor said in a panic. He helped you stand as he called for a healer.

“I’m quite alright.” You ensured, but the wince in your face gave you away. Alina came running up to you, giving you a once over before taking you from Fedyor and into her embrace.

“You know you shouldn’t be doing that.” She whispered into your ear. “It’s too dangerous for you.” She made a movement to grab one of your cold hands, giving it a squeeze.

“Everything’s a risk for me, Alina. The Doctor made that clear.” When you were younger, you were diagnosed with a heart condition. It was nothing serious really, and only acted up once in a blue moon. The tugging and squeezing feeling only lasted for seconds, but the pain left you feeling unstable for hours after. “The risk is always worth it.”

“But what if one day its not?” She pulled away from you, resting her hands on your shoulders. “The Doctor himself said there was no cure for this, no remedy that could help.”

“It’s worth it if it means protecting our honor.” You replied honestly.

“I don’t need you to protect our honor.” She protested. “I need you to protect yourself. Even if that means backing down from a fight.” You remained silent as a healer began to work on you. Starting first with your broken ribs then moving onto your bloody nose. After a few minutes of sitting still, the healer finally told you that you could leave.

Alina and Fedyor accompanied you back to your room. “What do you think will happen to her?” You asked. Alina shrugged her shoulders as the heartrender went to respond.

“She will probably get reprimanded by the General too. Zoya knows not to use her powers while training. Respectfully, especially not against someone who isn’t Grisha.” He commented.

You must’ve really gotten under her skin then if she went against all those years of training and discipline. “Good. She needs to know her place.” You snarked. “Now I’d like to get some rest.” You glanced at Alina, her gaze unwavering. “Alone, please.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I promise I’ll be fine. If I need help I can always call for the General.” You replied, placing your cold hand on top of hers and gave it a squeeze. With great reluctance, she nodded her head. Fedyor and her leaving to return to combat training.

As you close the door, you feel your resolve break. Wincing as the pain and exhaustion came back. As you grew up, your condition continued to tire you. You couldn’t fight nor run the same way you could two years ago. At this rate, you’d probably be dead in the next two years because of your heart condition. That was if the war didn’t kill you first.

The sun was nowhere near close to setting. You still had most of the day to kill yet you didn’t know what to do. You thought back to one of the places the Darkling had shown you, perhaps you could go to the library. Gathering whatever strength you had left, you returned to the calm and composed front you had always put on.

The walk there had been time consuming, nauseating even. But you were determined to snatch a book or two to read while you were cooped up in your room. The library of the Little Palace was grand, filled from floor to ceiling with various books. If you ever had the chance to visit the Grand Palace, their library would definitely be on a list of places of visit.

You ran your finger along the spines of the books as you walked through the shelves. There were two things that you loved most in your life: the feeling of the sun on your skin and the smell of books. Strangely enough, the smell of the books had reminded you of Keramzin in a way. Probably because you spent most of your childhood with your nose shoved into a book. Collecting two books, you were adamant on getting to your room in time to be able to sit in the sun and read a couple of chapters. All of a sudden the smell of incense and mildew had taken over your sense of smell.

“My Saints, where is that smell coming from..” You whispered to yourself. Unexpectedly you heard a shuffle behind you. Turning around you saw a greasy man in a robe.

“Hello, y/n.” Said the man.

“Do I know you?” You replied cautiously, reaching for the knife you had hidden in your sleeve.

“I am the Apparat, a priest. Advisor to the King.” He stated. Knowing who he was didn’t make you any less tentative, your fingers still gripped the handle of your knife.

“Okay...right. Nice meeting you. I’ll be on my way now.” You said, trying your best to move around him but he stopped you. He latched onto your arm that had been reaching for your knife, effectively rendering your weapons useless.

“Do you remember?” He acquired his answer from the confused look on your face, “Oh, soon you will remember. Everything will face into place.” You ripped your arm out of his rough hands and ran out of the library, never looking back.

When you were finally in your room, you threw the books onto the floor as you rushed to the tub. There hadn’t been any warm water around but you didn’t care. You filled the tub with lukewarm water as you began to strip yourself of your clothes. Skewing them across the floor as you picked up a velvet robe and tossed it on a nearby chair. Stepping in, you grabbed a loofah. Scrubbing yourself clean of the Apparat’s lingering touch. You scrubbed and scrubbed until your skin was raw. After dunking your head underwater to wet your hair, you picked up a soap. It smelt of lavender and honey. In the First Army, they had always given you a singular bar of soap to last you a week. Showers came scarce due to the fact that the soap practically diminished once it touched water. Gently lathering the soap in your hands, you cleaned your hair first. The repetitive circular motions of your hands had started to calm you down, almost lulling you to sleep. Quickly finishing off your hair and the rest of your body, you found yourself smelling good for the first time in a while.

Feeling satisfied enough, you let out a sigh, letting yourself relax as you rest your arms on the edge of the tub. It wouldn’t hurt to take a nap. You thought. After all, you fought a Grisha without the use of your weapons and came out somewhat victorious. You let your hair dangle outside of the tub to dry as you close your eyes, sleep taking over you.

-

“Stop it!” You screamed, you could feel someone splashing cold water at you. Wetting your hair and dress. “Aleksander, stop!” You said while laughing. You could hear him let out a laugh before coming up behind you and taking you into his embrace. He wrapped his arms around your belly as he rested his chin on your shoulder. The stubble from his face tickling you.

“How are you today, my darling?” He whispered into your ear, making you shiver. He began to pepper kisses up and down your neck, making your legs feel like jelly. Your hands flew to his in order to stabilize yourself.

“Good. But it could be better.” You teased, egging him on. One of his hands travels your hips, bunching up the fabric of your skirt to give himself better access. The other hand made its way to your core, ghosting past your eager bundle of nerves.

“Look at you, already so wet for me.” He shoved aside your underwear, plunging two of his fingers into your heat. He paused at the sound of your moan, “Taking my fingers so well.” He set an agonizingly slow pace, let out a few groans himself as he rubbed himself against you. His long fingers search for the spot he knew so well, the one that would make you mewl and fall apart in his embrace. He hits it once, twice, before extracting his fingers from you. He placed his slick covered fingers atop of your dry ones before guiding them back to your wet entrance. You were able to slide in with ease as he guided your movements.

“I can’t..” You breathed out, the feeling of his fingers and yours combined had been too much for you.

“Yes you can.” He purred, tilting your head with his own to get better access to your neck. “You’re almost there, I can feel it.” Just as he said that, he felt you briefly clamp down, signaling you were close. He guides your fingers deeper, nearing your g spot as his other hand lets go of your dress and goes to your clit.  

The action makes you come undone as you moan his name repeatedly, your juices coating both his and your fingers. You let out a whine as he removes his fingers from you, only to place his hand into his mouth, sucking your cum off of him.

“Sweet, as always.” He gently grabs your chin and turns you to face him, his dilated pupils meeting yours. “Here, have a taste of yourself.” His words alone made another wave of heat pool at your core. He grabs your hand before inserting into your mouth. You wrap your lips around your fingers, staring into his slate gray eyes all the while. After lapping up your juices, you release your fingers with a pop!

Even in your dream state you could tell this man looked suspiciously like General Kirigan. They shared the same face structure, their cheekbones rested at the same angle. His eyebrows were as perfectly sculpted as the General’s. Lashes equally as dark and long. The only difference was that the man-- Aleksander, had a near clean shaven face and his hair was grown out to reach his shoulders. The General had a beard and sported a slicked back look. Yet the two looked identical.

Your eyes searched his face, his body, for anything that could tell you anything. You spotted a mole near his right collarbone. Nearly hidden by the collar of his shirt, small but it would have to do. Without thinking, you reach up to grab his face to pull him in for a kiss.

“My Aleksander.”

-

YOUR doors opened with a bang, startling you from your sleep. The person entered without even knocking, alerting you to three possibilities: someone had broken in and now was here to kill you, you were being kidnapped, or the Darkling was here to brutally murder you. You let the first two options leave your mind, knowing how well guarded the Little Palace was. So there was no possibility for an intruder to get so far into the grounds. Yet the third option did little to ease your mind.

Realizing you were still in the tub, you got out. Not wanting anyone to see you naked. Not like it hasn’t happened before. You thought, thinking back to your time at Caryeva. You quickly threw on your robe, haphazardly tying it while you grabbed one of your knives and unsheathed it. You threw the knife just in time, the person emerging from the curtains being nicked by your blade before it landed on the trimming of the bathroom entrance.

“Oh my Saints, I’m so sorry…” The Darkling stared at you, surprise flicking on his features. “I didn’t hear you come in. I was asleep.”

You walked to the side, picking up a towel to clean up his wound. You dipped it into a bucket of clean water, wringing it out afterwards.

“In the bathtub?” You gave him a nod, a blush forming on your cheeks. “Well you certainly sleep wherever you can.” He joked. As you shifted closer to him, you felt that familiar wetness in your thighs. Fuck. You thought, your blush becoming deeper. You’d been so caught up with the idea of someone coming to kill you that you had forgotten about your dream.

“Are you alright?” It should’ve been you who was asking the question since you nicked him after all. He awaited your reply as you gently pressed the towel against the cut.

“I am. Nothing serious happened to me.” You replied, assuming he had heard of the events that had taken place earlier that day. “Are you?” You asked, “I mean, you seemed very alarmed when you barged in.”

“My apologies for that. You just...you weren’t responding to my knocks or my questions. I’d assumed the worst.” He said, struggling to find the words. You didn’t know how to feel, in a way you were glad that he cared for your well being, yet it slightly made your gut lurch. You’d been here for less than a week and he seemingly cared more for you than Alina. Then again, you didn’t know what the two did behind closed doors. You stopped cleaning his wound, the bleeding had stopped. The two of you remained close, only an arms distance away from each other.

“Why do you care so much? After all, I’m only a guest here at the palace. I’m not a Grisha like you or everyone else here.”

“You're my guest. It’s normal for me to worry about my guests.” He explained. You crossed your arms over your chest, eyebrows furrowing as you listened to him.

“Yes, but..” You paused, “Yesterday I was Alina’s guest. Now today, I am yours. So which is it?”

“Whatever you’d like.” He whispered, taking a step closer to you. His gaze flickering to your lips then back to your eyes.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did.” He replied, giving you a smirk that made you roll your eyes.

“Have we met before?” You asked, making the General freeze in his place. His posture goes rigid, you struggle to read the emotion on his face. “.. I could’ve sworn that we…” You doubled over, your left hand clutching your chest as your right hand flew to his shoulder. The pain had never hit you twice in a day. Not even twice in a month.

“Alina..g-get her.” The General called for a servant to fetch her along with a healer. In his panic, he swept you off your feet and carried you to the bed. He laid you upon it as he took your left hand into his. In a haze, your right hand began to wander, weakly pulling at the collar of his shirt. The pain went away as a moment of clarity came over you, General Kirigan had bared the same mole that Aleksander had. As you placed your hand on his face, the pain came rushing back.

Before you allowed yourself to give into the darkness that called you, a tentative whisper left your lips, your eyes searching his.

“A-aleksander?”

-

Mizpah tag: @all-art-is-quite-useless @devilxangel @musicconversedance @parabatai-winchester @runawayolives @tartiflvtte @rbg1933 @thatguppienamedbae @batgal96 @thebarisinhell99 @5hundreddaysofsummer @kaqua @queenseneschal @benbarnes-supremacy @princessofpersia96 @takethee @dontjinx-it @freakytillthemoon @amortentiaaaa @marvel-ousnesss @coolninjavoid @areomalfoy @pansysgirlfriend @universalirwin @leavejuliaalone @xx-winwin-wednesday-xx @honeyofthegods @lunamyangel @d-list-goddess @comphersjost@telepathdestiel @the-celestial-kitsune @thestoryofmylife9 @s-corpionem @pancakeisreading @sanna2020 @secretsandtinyshadows @savannah-elliott @maliasblue @tea-effect @disneyandharrypotter @futuristicpinklemur @tanyaherondale @the-puff-is-strong-with-this-one @hxgreeves @yourboiialucard @thereeallink @ladyblablabla @wolfieellsworld @p3nny4urth0ught5 @louweasleymalfoy @the-natureofme @itsloveroflife @oddlittleminx @within-thehollowcrown @itsfangirlmendes @heyyimlaynna @jgtfvhsg @gloriousmoneyrascalbiscuit @auggie2000 @itsnotquimey @jtownraindancer @sonnensplitter​ @sarcastic-and-cool​ @poulterfilms​ @spookybooisa​ @stickyknightflowerbailiff​ @hollandsweetie​ @yungkvte​ @evyiione​ @2023-padfoot @kawaiimarshmallow @nikki-sixx-is-daddy @sanktawylan @blackbirddaredevil23​

mizpah taglist closed </3

S.a.B. forever tag: @deceivedeer

[sirthisisa-wendys]

The General (part 3): Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: Things are explained, and you’re taken by surprise more than once. 

wc: 2.7k

tw: none

masterlist

Moonlight streams into the tent from a gash in the fabric above, illuminating your captor as he sleeps in the massive bed built for a giant or two. You, however, lay on the ground beside the bed, eyes glued to the sleeping general in spite.

Geto had yet again embarrassed you at dinner, making you kneel on the floor next to his chair instead of taking your place at the table. His kinsmen had laughed at you under their breath, and when he began to feed you from his plate by handing you pieces of food from his hand, that had completely annihilated any piece of pride you had left. Gojo made a joke about you being a beautiful, albeit begrudgingly obedient puppy which earned him a round of riotous laughter. It took all you had not to burst into tears right there.

And when the General got tipsy and began to pet your hair with a fondness you could only describe as possession, you felt even more defeated. 

But now it was all over. You were alone with him once more, trapped - even on the ground - and unable to leave. You were physically unrestrained - because where could you go when the camp stretched on for miles? - but the entrapment was mental. Nothing like this had ever crossed your mind when you considered your future. It all rested on Yuko’s shoulders not two da--

Yuko. 

What had that one soldier mentioned? 

“Is she really as beautiful as Yuko said?” 

Yuko. 

The idea that he had anything to do with this encounter would have been absurd to you, except… now, it wasn’t. 

When you gasp and sit up abruptly, Geto cracks open an eye and his hand shoots out to grab the neck of your kimono. “Easy there, little one.” But when he sees your tears, his features go from scrutiny to a softer gaze, and his hand releases from your kimono and flops to the side of the bed. 

“Why am I here?” you whisper, wiping your nose. “What am I to you?” 

“You’re here because I want you here,” Geto replies, sitting up fully and letting the sheets slide down his perfect frame.

“Why me?” 

“You were headed to the Imperial Court. Like I said, it’s a hellish life there. You should thank me, really. If we hadn’t gotten to you befo--” 

“What does Yuko have to do with any of this?” As soon as you mention Yuko, the atmosphere in the room changes from careful and concerned to an inquisition. Geto places his feet on the floor, eyes glued to your tear-stained face as he stands and then crouches in front of you. His hand drifts to your cheek, rubbing away a fresh tear before a thumb is smoothed over your dry lips.

“I almost forgot… you were close to him, weren’t you?” You neither confirm nor deny the accusations by remaining dreadfully still, eyes locked with the man in front of you. “Your silence confirms this.” Geto stands again, moving past you before lighting a few lanterns and then walking around you much like the previous night. 

“I have eyes everywhere, little one. When I heard that the Imperial Matchmaker was headed around the country, I made sure of two things: one, that she would conveniently look for a common girl to wed to a Prince, and two, that she would be from one of the towns where my eyes were.” 

‘My eyes’… Yuko is a… traitor?

“You see,” Geto leans down to brush his lips against your ear as his hair tickles your shoulder. “I’ve been waiting for a moment like this ever since I was denied my rightful place in line for the throne, and I’ve tried everything to get it back.” A shiver runs down your spine at his admission, and you crane your head up to look at him in shock, fearing the next words out of his mouth. His onyx eyes are crazed, almost feral with ambition. “Well, that is… except start a war. And what better way to begin one than over a stolen princess-to-be?” 

_______________________________________________________________________

When Kaori enters the tent later on that morning, you’ve made up your mind. The eater of curses made it very clear that you were a pawn in his bid to usurp the Imperial Throne, and he also reiterated that escape was absolutely impossible. You were being watched by eyes you couldn’t see, listened to by ears you couldn’t deafen, and talked about by mouths you couldn’t shut. 

But there was one thing you could do. 

As the woman tends to your bruised knees, you examine her tools. 

“Do you have something that I could use to mend my old gown? And do you know where it went?” Kaori looks up at you, her brown hair falling behind her ears as her face contorts into a confused expression.

“Your old dress is gone, my Lady.” 

“It is?” 

“Sent downriver to the nearest village and made to look like you had been killed.” The news of your faked death is alarming, to say the least. 

“You mean I’m--” 

“Like most captives, you will no longer be searched for.” How many others had this happened to? 

“I-” 

“And I know what you’re thinking, Lady y/n. I am not permitted any sharp tools aside from what I am allowed to use in the hot springs with the other ladies, but they are not sharp enough to take a life. I am sure Master Geto will allow you to join us one day, though.” 

“H-how many women has he had before me?” Kaori looks up at you again; her eyes cold and unforgiving. 

“Only one, and she almost ruined him.” Her hands return to your calf, massaging the muscle carefully. “But that will never happen again. That we will all make sure of.” 

Another blue kimono, another morning spent alone until lunch had been brought to you. You now roam around the camp, followed closely by Kaori and another young woman you don’t know yet. As you bite into the pear in your hand, you try to catch bits and pieces of their chatter, but you lose the noise as soon as you encounter something new - which is every three seconds. Out of all of the women you see - most young women probably not above the age of twenty-nine - none of them wear blue kimonos. They’re either in red or green, perhaps signifying rank or job. But in all of the days you’ve seen Kaori, she’s dressed in multiple different colors, all except blue. 

You wonder what that means for a moment before you chance upon a large, open field full of men practicing their swordsmanship and hand-to-hand combat. You’re standing on a high part of a hill just before it slopes downward to where they are sparring. As your eyes scan the crowd from above, you look for your long-haired captor, and you cannot find him until a hand points over your shoulder. 

“You see that ring there?” The other woman speaks, and your eyes instantly hone in on a ring of men huddled around two figures fighting. “Master Geto and Master Gojo fight there all the time.” 

“Who wins?” you wonder, looking back at the giggling maid. 

“Which way will the wind blow tomorrow?” she answers, and at your confused expression, Kaori steps in.

“Some days it is Master Geto. Other days it is Master Gojo. We can never tell until the spar has ended and the dust has settled.” Your eyes turn back to the men in the circle, and you see a long stream of jet black hair and then long white hair, but they’re moving much too fast for you to be able to discern their movements. 

“They won’t be done for a while,” The other maid adds, and places a hand on your shoulder. “I’m sure Master Geto will come find you when he’s ready to… unwind.” The giggles at this comment do nothing for your nerves. 

_______________________________________________________________________

The General returns to the tent after a few hours, cuts and bruises dotting his half-clothed physique. You eye him carefully as he stalks past you on the bed, followed by a male attendant who rushes to help him undress and take a bath on the other side of the curtain. 

He’s silent as the water sloshes around, and you can barely make out any other noises besides the occasional hiss of pain or deep exhale. It’s obvious that the man who attends to his wounds did his job properly when Geto emerges with only a bandage on his right side, blood dotting the cloth taped to his ribs. 

“Scoot over,” Geto waves his hand at you, flopping onto the space you’ve made with barely so much as a ‘thank you’.

“Did you win?” you inquire and Geto looks over at you before touching his arms behind his head and giving you a toothy grin. 

“Of course I did.” You both lapse into another silence before Geto clears his throat and slides a hand from under his head and onto your back. “You went to see us train… I’m surprised you’d be interested in that.” 

“I was walking around and happened to observe the melee.” 

“Kaori told you about how our fights end, then.” 

“She and her companion didn’t add much to the already obvious; you two spar well.” 

“Do you fight, little one?” he asks innocently. You give him a look and that’s all he needs to see to know that the answer is ‘no’. “I should teach you to fight, then.”

“Why, so I can fight you and then run away after I win against you?” you retort, and Geto laughs suddenly, clutching at his injured side. 

“I didn’t say I would teach you how to beat me, I just said ‘to fight’,” he chokes out, wiping away the tears that dot his bottom eyelid. “You have a very interesting sense of humor.”

“It keeps me alive,” you mumble and you feel the hand on your back run up and down your spine. While the comforting gesture is kind in nature, it makes your skin crawl that someone so evil could touch anyone in an affectionate way. 

“Did Yuko ever touch you like this?” At this question, you look over at the man who spoke, eyes blazing. 

“He would never,” you snarl.  

“Smart man,” Geto grumbles, sitting up; now placing his hand on your leg. “I told him not to touch my things. He learned that lesson as a child and it seems it has carried over well.” 

“I’m your thing, now?” You snatch your body away from his grip and climb off the bed, shuffling to the far side of the tent to be alone. “You know, when people get pets, they at least give them something to play with and keep them busy during the day.”

“You want something to play with?” Geto moves off of the bed and raises a brow, fingering the waistband of his pants thoughtfully. “That can be arranged.” Fear leaps into your throat even though the man doesn’t move a single inch closer to you. You swallow hard, then Geto speaks, running his hands through his hair exasperatedly. “When I imagined taking a woman, it did not seem as hard as it actually is. Besides the frustrating part, you vex me entirely in areas I have never been tried in. I’m trying to keep you pure, so when this is over and I can release you to your hometown and you’ll be free to do as you please… but little one, you make it hard for me to control myself when you act this way.”

“It is obvious that you are a patient man and tha-” 

“It is not enough when that very vexation causes me to be kinder than I’ve ever been toward someone who repeatedly disrespects my existence.” 

“Kind? To me?” You scoff, turning away and crossing your arms. 

“I have been far kinder to you than anyone else I have held captive.” He’s advancing on you, but you can’t do much except back up against the tent side with fear. 

“All for some war so you can take the throne?” 

“All for my rightful place as Emperor.” 

“As a bastard son of the current Emperor, really.” Your cheeks are squeezed between fingers, and you taste the tang of iron in your mouth. You try to yank your face out of his grip, but it’s too strong, and you find that you’re held quite close to him as a result. He brings your face closer to his, eyes running wild over your features for a moment as he holds you captive. 

“Watch your tongue,” Geto warns, then lets you go, inhaling deeply before shaking out an exhale. You rub at your cheeks and now bitten tongue mournfully, giving the General a nasty look. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I would if you told me everything,” you mumble, looking away from the way his muscles were illuminated and painted perfectly and to the ground. “If I’m to be a pawn in your game, at least let me in on your plan.” 

Geto looks over his shoulder at you, a small smile lifting the corners of his lips up. It’s something you can’t look away from, and your mouth dries up at the gesture of familiarity. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? I’ll tell you my secrets and then you’ll go and tell your kinsmen the plan, right? Somehow get that information to them… then plan your escape.” The smile falls, and the General turns back to you, his face now utterly serious. “I’m not a fool, little one. Foolishness did not get me this far, and I won’t begin to act like one now.” 

At this, he stalks out of the tent and leaves you alone again, stuck with your thoughts and your increasing desire to run away and never look back.

_______________________________________________________________________

Dinner. 

You’d come to dread the most decadent meal of the day where you would be sitting on the floor next to the General. You were not permitted to speak, but only eat from his hand and drink from his cup when allowed, and anyone could make fun of you behind hands or openly, as you were nothing more than an object. 

As you contemplate your fate yet again, you feel the familiar tap of something warm at your lips. 

“Eat.” Geto urges you, and you reluctantly open your mouth to accept the piece of meat. When you look around the table, you can just barely see the eyes of Gojo and Haibara following the motions of Geto’s hands as they converse about military strategy, but you can definitely see the eyes of the one they called Nanami following your movements with precision. 

Another piece of meat is presented for you to consume, and you do so mindlessly, observing the others at the table with less interest. That is, until you catch the little eyes of a child who sits at the other end of the table. He’s mid-chew with his little hands in the food, perhaps just now seeing you sitting on the floor like an obedient dog. 

You hadn’t seen children here before now, and it seems that the “little one” here was actually him, with his pink hair and brown eyes observing you curiously. It isn’t until he hops down from the table - his little hands plucking a piece of fish off of his plate - and disappears that your head eagerly follows his movements. 

Geto notices that you’re distracted and puts a hand on your shoulder, directing your attention back to him.

“If you--”

“Eat.” The voice of the child and the sliver of fish pressed to your mouth shocks both you and Geto, and the whole table is silenced by the interaction. “Eat.” The child encourages you again, and you accept the fish, his little fingers placing it in your mouth with care. As expected, the laughter begins anew, but you feel like laughing too as the child climbs back up to his seat and continues his own meal, unaware of the spectacle he’d just created. 

“It appears you have an effect on little Yuji, Geto,” Gojo howls at the end of the table, holding his stomach as he and Haibara roar with laughter. “Soon he’ll be feeding his own lady just like you!” 

And Geto laughs as well, tossing his head back and letting the sound carry into the night.

[graykageyama]

again.

SYNOPSIS: arguments are bound to happen to couples, especially those in the long-term ones. you just have to forgive the other right? but what if one of you was already tired from always being the one to reach out?

PAIRING: miya atsumu x reader

GENRE(S): angst

WARNINGS: cussing, swear words

WORD COUNT: 2.3K

-----

12:32 AM

It had been 3 hours already, and yet no text from Atsumu. You both had another argument which eventually led him to leave your shared apartment. You never even thought the argument would blow up like this. You don't even know where he went. As usual, he will never text you unless you do first. Not a trace from your boyfriend, you sighed as you recalled your last exchange.

-----

You opened the front door with a heavy heart. Today was a great day, well supposedly. You finally had been recognized for your efforts in the company you've been working for. It was supposed to be a big company party, where you can finally bring your boyfriend as your date. Receiving the trophy and announcing your new position, your eyes scanned once again the halls for the familiar blonde. But alas, he wasn't there.

"Where are you?" (Sent, 2:39 PM)

"I'm about to be called up on the stage soon. I'm so excited about this, TsumTsum!" (Sent, 3:15 PM)

"Finally, got it Tsum! HA! I can finally add a trophy of my own in our collection. I still hope there's some space though, after all, your trophies took up so much space. Tsktsk. Kidding! You know I am so proud of your achievement , babe! Anw, where are you? You missed me receiving my award, but maybe, you can still catch up to the party! Message me, okay?" (Sent, 3:38 PM)

"Hey, where are you baby? I thought you are able to celebrate with me?" (Sent, 4:05 PM)

"Baby.. Will you still be able to come here?" (Sent, 5:45 PM)

"The party just ended. I'm on my way home now. Reply soon babe, yeah?" (Sent, 6:27 PM)

"Home already, love." (Sent, 7:16 PM)

You went straight to the bedroom, and changed into your loungewear. You didn't bother to remove your makeup yet, still slightly hoping that Atsumu would make it up and bring you to a dinner date. You looked at the suit hanging on the handle of your closet. Still no text from Atsumu, you thought. Maybe practice is just running late? But he promised though, he told me he would support me today.

You heard some keys fumbling from the front door, and the lock being opened. You finally saw your boyfriend still in his casual clothes from training, taking off his shoes, and dropping the gym bag at the floor. You walked towards his direction.

"Hey, honey" you said with a weak smile. "Where were you today"?

Atsumu gave you a side hug as he fumbles with the pockets of his jackets to take out his keys, wallet and phone. "Training was so tiring, babe. Coach had us do 6 full sets today, but we were so evenly matched and grouped so each set ended like with around 30 points. But my serves were completely off today, which is why I wanted to work on them for about 2-3 hours after practice. I couldn’t even score a single service ace today." He grumbled as he walked towards the kitchen. "Hey, no food today? You haven't cooked dinner yet, honey? You know your cooking always cheers me up after a stressful day."

"Uhm, sorry honey. I had already eaten at the company earlier today, and I'm still quite full." Guilt coating your words with not being able to feed your boyfriend.

"Huh, well , I guess I have no choice but to order take out then. You should have ordered me one babe if you weren't planning to cook me some dinner." He said as his eyes quickly scrolled through his phone and called the Sushi place, missing the notifications of messages he received from you.

"Mhmm, I'm sorry love. Won't do it again, will make it up to you soon." 

The sushi delivery arrived after a few minutes, and Atsumu immediately scarfed down the meal. You sat across from him, while scrolling through the phone. "Leave the dish washing to me babe, it's the least I can do."

"Thanks babe, you're the best!" Atsumu chuckled as he took another bite. His eyes focused on you, noticing that there was slightly different with your makeup today. "You look pretty today, baby. Where did you go today? You only wear that makeup when there are parties you had to attend to, love" He took the last piece into his mouth, as he waited for your reply.

"I, uhmm, my promotion was finally announced today Tsum, at the company party.” You said with a low You saw Atsumu stiffen from your peripheral vision. He quickly opened his phone again and saw the date today. He also read the messages you had sent him today. 

“Fuck shit, I’m sorry Y/N. I completely forgot today, and training was so rough. I’ll make it up to you.” He said as he held your hands. 

“Uhmm, it’s alright Atsumu, I understand.” Your eyes still remained low as you cannot maintain the eye contact he was giving you. 

“You don’t look okay though, babe. Tell me, what’s wrong? ” He squeezed your hands and rubbed reassuring circles against your skin. “You told me we’ll be open to each other, yeah?”

You squeezed your eyes shut as you took a deep breath. “Well, this was not the first time this has happened Tsumu. You missed a lot of big events in my life. The time I had a successful presentation, the time I scored a huge client for the company, and the 7 times I was recognized as employee of the month.” You squeezed his hands as you tried to stop your tears from forming. “Not once, Tsumu. Not once did you attend any of them. “ 

“But I gave you gifts in return right? I was able to make it up you. I thought we’ve already talked and forgotten about this.” He retrieved his hands from you and cross them in front of his chest. “You’re being pathetic, Y/N. Stop bringing up past arguments, you know this does not have to do anything from them. I said I was sorry, okay? I also gave you those jewelry, and that red dress you absolutely loved. I thought we’ve already settled this”.

“I know, Tsumu, and I am truly thankful for the gifts you have given me. But I was just hoping that you would support me too with my career. I mean, I have always went to support you with your games and I just wanted you to do the same for me. “ Tears were definitely filling up your eyes as you choked up a sob. “Just once, Tsumu. Is it that hard to ask?”

“Well damn it, Y/N! You already know how busy my schedule can be. You can’t keep on demanding these things from me. My time is so limited, and I have to train hard since the tournament is coming up.” He stood up and raised his voice, pointing at you. ”You have always been so needy, so clingy of my time. Why can’t you understand that I am giving you the best I can give with my time? What else do you want, huh? Are you just making this up so I can buy you another purse? A pair of earrings? Tell me what you want so we can forget about this already.” Taking out his card, ready to give it to you.

Your eyes widened with his actions. “What do you think I am, Atsumu? A fucking gold digger? I just wanted your time for pete’s sake. I just wanted my boyfriend to watch me receive my award as recognition of my two-year efforts with this job. I wanted my boyfriend to hug me as I go down from the stage, telling me how proud he was of me.” You stood up as you met his eyes. Rage covered his honey-colored orbs, but you did not back down, not this time. “You just had to attend one company event for me, Tsumu. Just do the bare minimum for me. But apparently, I am not worth any of your time.” You seethed through your teeth. “You haven't even congratulated me ever since you came home late. Even noticed the one thing I wasn’t able to do for you today, and you made it definitely feel like I made huge mistake as your partner. I am so tired from this, Tsumu. It can’t always be me who had to do things for this relationship.” You closed your fists as you brought them up to your chest, like you’re trying to protect your heart from being broken. Tears were streaming down your face, staining the puffy, red cheeks with the smudged mascara. “I just wanted you to meet me halfway, babe. Just even a quarter, just make me feel like I’m not the only one doing things for our relationship.” 

“Well, I’m sorry Y/N. I can’t be the boyfriend you want.” He snapped as he rubbed his forehead. “You know what? I don’t want to deal with this right now. Talk to me when you’re finally okay and all moved on from this drama.” He went to the counter and grabbed his keys, phone and wallet. 

You stood up from your seat and followed him. “You told me to be open with my feelings, and I have just always been honest to you. You can’t just leave during our arguments, baby. Are you just gonna leave me hanging again? Will you really leave this unresolved? This happens every time, and I am so fucking tired --” The loud slam of the door shutting you off as your eyes stared at the empty space where your boyfriend had left. 

-----

This wasn’t the first time he escaped after one of your arguments. He was always like this. You were the type to be the one who wants to solve problems quickly. But your boyfriend was completely the opposite. You sighed as you pinched the bridge of your nose, as you tried to stop crying for the nth time. 

It had always been me. It was always me.

He wasn’t like this before though. At the start of your relationship, he was always the one who initiated the make ups after arguing. He would always try to comfort you and solve through the problems together. But after a year, with your relationship going on for three years, why did it have it go like this? He no longer was the first to message you, or give the reassuring touches.

But Atsumu was still a good boyfriend. He was physically affectionate, and he always tried to make up with you through dinner dates and gifts. He would try to fetch you in front of your workplace if he has the time. He would always respect your boundaries. He would smother your face with good morning kisses, and give you the best hugs when he arrives home. He had never cheated within those three years, well, not that you know of. You trusted him with your whole heart. You were always the happiest when you were with him. You know that he loves you, and he never fails to tell you that each day.

But why do you still feel unloved? 

You always had guarded your heart whenever you feel a problem is about to be brought up. You always tried to think of other versions of how you were going to express yourself to him. You were always scared of how he would react when you would fight. You were always scared that he would never return when he leaves you in an argument.

You felt secure with him when you were both okay, and happy. You had no problems with him being a great boyfriend in those happy moments. But on the other hand, you felt the most vulnerable when you need him the most, and he wasn’t there. It was like seeking comfort and security from the man who left you defenseless in the first place. Ironic, isn’t it?

You know that he would come home once you texted or called him, and told him that you had forgiven him already - that you could forget about it and move on from the problem just as always. Everything will be okay for the mean time. This was just a cycle you had to endure from your relationship with the MSBY setter. 

But is this the relationship you would want to have for the rest of your life?

-----

12:51 PM

Atsumu returned back to the shared apartment the next day, wondering why you haven’t messaged him to come home yet. He massaged his sore shoulders as he had spent the night at his brother’s place, cramped in the small couch in his living room. He really expected a thread of your messages to welcome him in the morning, or maybe a few calls last night telling him to come home to you already, and that he was forgiven. But to his dismay, he stared at his lock screen with no notifications from the one who he wanted from the most. 

He opened the door, expecting you to run to him and welcome him with a warm hug, a cheerful smile, and on your tippy toes as you try to reach him for a kiss. But he received no greetings from you. He walked through the space and glanced around. The apartment was quiet, and a wave of panic rushed through his body. He went straight to the bed room and saw that his closet was already half-empty. Your bottles of skin care and perfume gone, and your work table decluttered. He searched through all of the rooms in the apartment hoping to see those sweet eyes again, hoping to ask for another chance to make your relationship better again.  But, there was no you - no patient and understanding you to forgive him again. 

________________________________________________________________

[the-mystic-dragon]

OC Interview: Vraeen

Draw (or use an old drawing, don't worry!) or take a screen of your character in an interview setting and make them answer the following questions!

I was tagged by @long-journey, who is the rightful creator of this original post :) Thank you!!

INTRODUCTION:

1. Can you introduce yourself?: "Hello, I'm Vraeen. Most civilians know me as the Commander, the Champion of Aurene." She gave a small smile.

2. What is your gender identity, orientation and relationship status? "Well, gender identity has always been a fluid and fickle thing with sylvari race. However, I identity as a female." She pauses for a moment, tilting her head to the side in thought. "O-Orientation? Do you mean who I like?" She whispered to the interviewer, light laughter in her quizzical tone. "I believe the term is bisexual regarding myself on that matter. I'm single as well."

3. Where and when were you born?: "I was born- well sylvari aren't born in the natural sequence other races are. We are created by the Pale Tree, we come out of pods-" She stopped herself for a moment, waving her hand briefly to dismiss the tangent. "I awoke at night towards the end of the summer. I remember waking up right outside of the Grove, everything was glowing in Caledon. It was beautiful."

4. What is your weapon of choice and fighting style?: "I prefer my axe and dagger, one of the weapons I had found when I was able to control my new soulbeast capabilities in the Crystal Desert. I keep my short bow on me as well, when I need to create some distance between a foe and myself. My style would entail a quick and powerful take down for enemies, not before they are hit with traps and the nature below turning against them."

5. Lastly, are you happy?: She gave the interviewer an icy gaze for a few minutes. "Hm, you don't seem to have any hesitance with personal questions do you? I suppose I am, Tyria is still surviving."

FAMILY AND FRIENDS:

1. What's your family like? What is your relationship with them?: "Some sylvari say our race are brothers and sisters to one another, family members that span across generations and generations. I.. don't think I have any close brothers or sisters of my kind. Not in my generation, at least."

"Caithe I would consider an older sister, a mentor who has guided me through challenges in my sapling days. Our relationship was.. nice at first, we hit a rough part during the Maguuma campaign. It wasn't good. After some time passed, we were able to mend it. I'm glad I have her in my life, she's important to me."

2. Have you ever ran away from home?: "Ran away wouldn't be the terms I would use to describe my path. I was drawn away, a feeling gripped me like a tether pulling me to where I needed to be."

3. Would you consider marriage or having children?: "No, my responsibilities wouldn't let me be able to manage those things." She sighed. "I have not had any interest in marriage or children though."

4. Do you secretly hate one of your friends?: "In the past, I will admit I harbored deep resentment for Caithe for an action she did. I was blinded by anger, stress, and confusion while dealing with chaos in the thick jungle. I made sure she knew." She shook her head, casting her gaze down to the ground for a moment. "Those feelings only occured for a while however, I do not hate any friends I have."

5. Which friend knows everything about you?: "Caithe, Canach, and Aurene."

ASKED BY FANS:

1. Are you literate? Have you been to school?: "There are mentors in the Grove to teach saplings about valuable lessons in life. I... never went to those classes though." She paused, a light chuckle erupting from her lips. "I have not been to what other races consider traditional schooling I suppose, I have learned all I can from my experiences in the world and my time in the Priory."

2. The eeriest prediction you made that later came true?: "Predictions? I cannot recall any I have made."

3. What is something you were embarrassingly late to realize?: "You are asking a sylvari? I'd have quite a collection of occurrences! We would be here for awhile. Let's just say, when I was younger it was appreciated to have a helpful ally in the Priory answer numerous questions I had."

4. Do you have mental health or physical issues?: "Is that information you must know?"

5. What is your current main goal?: "Learn all I can about the Elder Dragon magic we are dealing with. Keep Tyria safe."

CHOICES:

1. Drink or food?: "Can I say both? There are so many flavors I have yet to try."

2. Cats or dogs?: She rested her hand over her chest, leaning back in her chair with her mouth agape in surprise. "I am a ranger, I love all animals equally."

While she shifted back to a comfortable position in her seat, she mumbled under her breath. "Cats."

3. Early bird or night owl?: "I am a Nightbloom, I prefer the night."

4. Optimist or pessimist?: "I am a optimist."

5. Sassy or sarcastic?: "Oh goodness, Canach has been a great teacher in these personal qualities. I'd like to say I am a bit of both, lots of banter and jokes between us. It never ends."

HAVE YOU EVER:

1. Been caught sneaking out: "In my early days in the Priory, Magister Sieran and I would sneak out of the fortress to explore and find new ruins or artifacts." She reminisced with a small smile, her eyes glossing over. "Gixx looked like he was about to- how do you say- blow a gasket, when he saw us creeping back in."

She leaned over to the interviewer, a hand over the side of her face to shield her mouth. "He may not show it, but he truly cares for every member of the Priory. It's just behind his no nonsense exterior." She whispered in a low tone, a small smirk on her face.

2. Broke a bone: "In my line of work, I have broken a few unfortunately."

3. Received flowers: "Yes I have! I have had quite a handful sent to or given to me by thankful citizens. It is such a kind gesture."

4. Ghosted someone: "Ghosted? What does that mean?"

Vraeen stepped off to the side; a hushed, short conversation was heard for a few minutes before she returned to her seat.

"I have done that to an assistant- er, bodyguard-" She was cut off by banging and people squabbling in the background. A deep, cool voice interjected up in a sharp shout. "HEY-- WAIT- VRAEEN-"

"Excuse me, I was speaking," she spoke up again, glaring towards the area of commotion in the background. "A charr associate that aids Dragons Watch, Valdoru Bladerend; who has graciously made her presence known off on the sidelines, did not get off to a great start with me when we first met in the Far Shiverspeaks. I tried to disappear off her radar a few times, but Ash Legion charr... they are hard to shake. They have skilled talents in stealth."

5. Pretended to laugh at a joke you didn't get: "Oh, many times. It took a little bit of time before I learned the meaning behind certain jokes, I was still gaining knowledge about aspects of life. Conversations included."

I tag (with no obligation of course!):

@cousinslavellan

@commander-wame

@commander-triangle

@commanders-sole-braincell

@astralarias

@commander-pleur

@kerra-and-company

[lokislittlesigyn]

OG616 : Thor: The Dark World - Pt.2 [Isolation]

[My masterlist, where all parts of this and my other fics can be found]

Pairing: Loki / Sigyn (basically an oc based off the marvel/myth namesake)

Warnings: None. again, unless you want a warning for sad sigyn and loki

Author’s Note: This one’s a bit longer. Apologies in advance for me being such a horse girl, I can’t help myself.

Taglist: @high-functioning-lokipath , @onaheroicmission

To be added to the taglist, just ask me here or send a message! <3 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After Frigga left, Sigyn looked around her room. With the exception of her dirty riding boots off in the corner and a few books and papers lying around, the room was practically untouched, as intended.

What would he want?

She paced a moment. Stopped. The bed… She smoothed her fingertips over the soft, velvety bedspread. Deep sapphire, with silvery accents. She smiled slowly, thinking of countless lazy mornings spent under it. He’ll like this.

She turned, surveying the room. Think. What will he be doing? Probably lots of reading… I should send him books. Where does he like to read...

She looked to their set of chairs and accompanying footstools, which were covered in a similar soft, deep blue fabric. Perfect.

Sigyn gathered a few more things: The book he’d been reading before his fall. A pitcher of water - and one of his favorite wines. A book of spells. Finally, she grabbed a sheet of paper and wrote a short note before folding the paper and tucking it into one of the books. Perhaps she’d do this again, in the future - send him books with letters, little love notes reminding him that someway, somehow, they’d see each other again. She clutched the book to her chest.

~~~~

Later, Sigyn went to Frigga, explaining what she wanted sent to Loki. The queen assured her the items would reach him, and explained she’d arranged for a few other pieces to be sent. Namely a bed, and a washing stand. But before Sigyn left, Frigga stopped her.

“Child,” Frigga said.

Sigyn turned, facing her. “Yes?”

“Please, do not seek Loki out. The Allfather has forbade you do so.”

Sigyn exhaled, nodding. She’d guessed Odin would forbid it - he’d be a fool not to. But then, perhaps he was a fool to think he could keep her away from him…

“I know.”

Frigga looked at her pointedly. “Promise me you won’t go to him yet. For now, these gifts will have to do.”

Silence hung between them.

“Promise me, Sigyn. Please. If you want any chance of seeing him, you must be patient.”

Sigyn’s shoulders sunk slightly. She nodded. “I.. I promise. I’ll wait. I trust you to tell me when it’s.. Suitable.. To speak to him.”

Frigga stood a moment, considering her words. “Good. Thank you.”

~~~~

Loki stood in the center of a crisp, white room. It felt sterile. Cold. Contrasting with what sat in the room - a bed, which he supposed Frigga must have had sent. It was plain, only having sheets and a set of plain pillows atop it. Perhaps Odin would only allow so much comfort. Besides that, and a washing stand with a bowl of clean water, the only other thing in the room was himself.

He turned to his right, faced the glowing orange barrier that separated him from the outside world.

Would death have been better than this? This life, separated from everyone and everything? Hatred was better than apathy, that much he knew. But isolation…

Could he find solace in it?

The dungeon doors opened. A troop of Einherjar, accompanied by a few women - thralls, by the looks of it - walked to Loki’s cell.

“Stand back.” Tyr, the Einherjar leader and seasoned old warrior, held his sword at the ready. The sorcerer at Tyr’s side cast a spell, and the barrier slowly receded, fading like an ebbing tide. 

Loki smiled coyly and stepped back with his hands held aloft. “Why, I had no idea you’d bring me gifts..” He eyed the furniture they brought in, his brow furrowing slightly. That chair - one from his bedroom. His footstool. The women brought in water, wine, and fruit, all set on a table. Another woman placed a pile of blankets on his bed - no, not just any blankets. His blankets. Finally, another woman set two books in front of him and quickly backed away, behind the Einherjar whose spears were pointed at Loki’s throat. 

“How very generous.” Loki sneered at the warriors.

“These are not ours,” Tyr said as the sorcerer re-cast his spell. The barrier flowed back in place, seeming to solidify. “They are from your wife.” 

Loki merely watched him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, he kept his jaw firm, his expression unwavering. “Send my regards.”

Tyr gave him a look. Without another word, the troop left, the heavy dungeon door shutting behind them with an echoing thunk.

Loki glanced at the food and water, only now realizing how hungry he was. Touched the back of the chair - still soft. Walked to the books, picking one up in each hand. The first, he recognized as one of his favorites - a book of spells he often reviewed. He sat it to the side. The second, he realized was a book he’d been reading through before, though had never finished…

He swallowed. Dragged his fingers along the old cover, then tugging the bookmark gently, he flipped it open to the page he’d left it at.

A piece of paper fell to the ground. He caught it just in time, standing back upright and setting the book aside to unfold the note. It was Sigyn’s handwriting.

My dear husband…

Words cannot express my love for you, nor the pain I have felt in your absence.

I cannot imagine the pain and anger you must feel. But believe me when I say, you are not alone. You are never alone. Mother and I are here for you. 

We will find a way to help you. And in time, we will be together again.

I love you.

Yours always,                             Sigyn

Loki’s gaze drifted up from the note, to the barrier of his cell, then beyond it to the door.

Out and to the left. Up, until you reached the main level of the palace. Then up again, with a few turns, would lead you to their room - it was safe there. A place entirely their own, calm and quiet and familiar. She’d be waiting there - waiting for him.

She was probably waiting now, after Odin demanded she be kept there.

Both of us in isolation.

Loki folded the note, tucking it back into the book, which he left on the table. He walked to the bed. Grabbing the blanket, he brought it up to his face - his fingers twitching into a fist as he did. It smelled like her, sweet and warm. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent…

After a moment, he opened his eyes. Laid down on the bed, on his side, clutching the blanket in a tight embrace. 

~~~~

Weeks passed. Sigyn kept her promise to Frigga, never once daring to venture too close to the dungeons. Eventually, she grew bored of staying in the palace, where her good behavior would be on display for all the Einherjar, who were no doubt reporting her actions to the king. It had been long enough, hadn’t it? She could stand to leave the safety of Valaskjalf and venture into the city...

So one morning Sigyn slipped on her boots and sleek riding outfit and went to the stables. She could feel the Einherjar’s gaze follow her as she walked, as though expecting her to make a beeline for the dungeons. And as much as she desperately wanted to run down there as fast as her legs could carry her, she still had a promise to keep. She had to wait. 

She reached the stables just as the bleak morning gave way to golden sun. Breathed in the deep, calming scent of hay. She smiled.

“Princess,” A stablehand greeted her, walking one of the horses in from pasture. “Shall I saddle your horse?”

“I’ll saddle him, thank you.”

The boy nodded. “He’s out in the eastern paddock.”

Sigyn thanked him, making her way through the grand stable - a few friendly faces greeted her along the way, big brown and blue eyes turning her way, ears swiveling to catch her footsteps when she passed.

Out in the paddock stood her sturdy dapple grey horse, Villieldr. His name meant wildfire - a name which suited his free spirited nature. Next to him, a chestnut whose satiny coat shone the same color as rust: Sinir. Sinewy, his name meant, and his lean, muscular figure certainly reflected that. They were both geldings, and after so many rides together over the years, they’d become close stablemates.

“Sinir,” Sigyn cooed, and the chestnut turned her way, twitching his shoulder. Loki’s horse always had a soft spot for her. Villieldr walked out to meet Sigyn, his velvety muzzle blowing grass-scented air over her face. “Mm, I missed you too.” She giggled, gently pushing his nose away. 

Sinir ambled over, and Villieldr tilted his ears back at the approach.

“Hush, you baby.” Sigyn scratched under his chin, then turned to the chestnut. “Hello, friend. I’m sorry Loki hasn’t been around to see you… You must be missing him, too.” 

Sinir lowered his head as she stroked his neck.

“In fact… Forgive me, Vill, but I think Sinir needs some proper attention.”

After giving Sinir breakfast and a thorough brushing, then dressing him in the tack Loki had chosen for him, Sigyn eased into the saddle. She clicked her tongue, and he sprung forward, eager to finally be going somewhere. All the horses were allowed to roam the paddocks throughout the day on a regular rotation - and when necessary, stable hands would exercise them. But Sinir had, no doubt, been bored in his master’s absence. Loki was forever his favorite person.

Villieldr’s distraught whinnies carried over the wind. He was pacing at the portion of the paddock nearest to the entrance, snorting, with his ears pinned back.

“I’ll be back tomorrow!” Sigyn smiled despite herself when Villieldr whinnied again, and led Sinir down toward the city.

Through the streets they rode, past houses and merchants and taverns, down to the rainbow bridge. 

Sinir tensed beneath her when they approached the Bifrost, his trot growing choppy.

“Want to run?” She stood in the saddle, squeezing his sides - he didn’t need any other signals. Sinir moved into a hurried canter, then soon into a gallop, bouncing Sigyn down the bridge until she found his stride.

By the time they made it to the observatory, Sinir’s coat shone with sweat. 

“Ho,” Sigyn slowed him down, slipping out of the saddle once he was still. “What a brilliant boy you are,” Sigyn stroked his neck and he arched it, his head low. “Thank you for the ride.” She ground tied him, then walked into the Observatory.

“How fare the realms, Heimdall?”

The Gatekeeper stood with his back turned to her, staring out the grand window of the Observatory. Naturally, he wasn’t at all surprised by her approach. 

“Full of unrest, my lady. Raiders continue to pillage and plunder, souls are left lost without homes.”

Sigyn stopped next to him, crossing her arms. “I suppose there’s no way to help from here...”

“Einherjar have been dispatched across the realms. Prince Thor, as well.”

“And the Warriors Three?”

“Mm.” Heimdall nodded. “They fight bravely.”

“Do you see Midgard, Heimdall?”

“Of course.”

“How do they fare?”

“After the battle?”

Sigyn nodded.

“Humans are surprisingly resilient creatures - they will rebuild. Even now, Thor’s new friend Stark rebuilds his tower.”

“How far can you see, Heimdall?” She inched closer to the window, watching the vastness of the sky. Even during the day, Asgard’s light only shone so far into the endlessness of Yggdrasil. There before her lay an endless ocean of space, full of planets, galaxies, and nebulae. It felt as though if she leaned too far, she’d fall into it.

She stepped back, looking at Heimdall, who was now watching her.

“What is it you seek?” He asked, seeing right through her question.

“After Loki fell, did you see him? Were you able to see him at all?”

“No.. If I had, I would have told you as soon as I found he was alive.”

Sigyn shifted her weight. Wherever Loki was, for whatever reason he was with those creatures in that mysterious abyss, none of it could be good. Something must have happened there, something that inspired him to attack Midgard…

“What about now?”

Heimdall smirked. Turned, his gaze settling on Asgard. “Reading in his bed. He seems content, all things considered.”

Sigyn exhaled a relieved breath. “Thank you.. I may return, ask you to check on him from time to time..”

“I’d be happy to, my lady.” He offered a small nod as she left.

~~~~

That night, Sigyn sat at the table in her chambers. One half of the chair set was gone, now - thought the thought of Loki using his half of it made its absence easier to bear. 

She grabbed a fountain pen and a piece of parchment.

My love,

I took Sinir for a ride today. He misses you - as do I. Vill was less than enthusiastic about it, but he’ll come around. Perhaps you’re right about him being spoiled.

I hope you are enjoying the gifts, if you can call them that: they’re yours anyway, after all. 

Someday we’ll go for a ride together again. I’m sure of it.

         Yours,                                                               Sigyn

Sigyn folded the paper, slipping it into a book of poetry and setting it aside, to be given to Frigga in the morning. She glanced toward the bed. 

Empty.

It shouldn’t be empty. Not now, not when Loki was so close… 

“Promise me you won’t go to him yet.” Frigga’s words echoed in her head.

She had to be patient. But she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep that promise…

Sigyn grabbed a blanket and settled back into the chair, closing her eyes.

[mihidecet]

Sbi&co d&d AU: The Runaway Prince (3/?)

Simply because I cannot wait for a minute longer, here’s the new chapter!

This one’s once again for the lovely folks back in our AU’s Discord, I love yall <3 And also a special dedication to Ozzie, who’s the Number One Eret fan. Hope you enjoy ;) [Also if you like the AU and would like to hang out, you can find a link to the Discord server in my dnd AU masterpost!]

I hope you’ll enjoy! Stay safe, friends, and take care <3

Eret feels before they see Sapnap's fist collide with his shield - arm raising to catch the blow purely out of instinct, still reeling from the sudden outburst of speed. 

When Dream had said Sapnap was fast, she hadn't expected the human to be that fast. 

And yet.

Sapnap had disappeared from the edge of the training field and reappeared in front of Eret, his right hand slamming against the metal with so much momentum that the elf's arm almost gave out. 

A loud whoop comes from behind Sapnap: Dream's cheering for his friend, arms raised and eyes glinting - not that Eret can see that, they're a bit more preoccupied with their friendly spar.

Eret's eyes widen in shock, but he has no time to accept the fact that her teammate is terrifyingly nimble since the shorter man's left hand grabs the shield a split second later. 

Eret grips the shield tighter: they expect his opponent to try and wrench it out of their hands, or maybe move it out of the way to hit her in the chest; instead, Sapnap just grins - an almost feral thing that makes Eret's fight or flight response kick in - and hoists himself up, taking advantage of the fact that now Eret's holding the shield up more firmly, and flies up, straight over Eret's head. 

The elf has a split second to make her decision: either they bend down or shift away, possibly moving into Sapnap's next attack, or he starts to fight back. 

Because the thing is, physics is on his side at that moment. 

So, instead of trying to move away from the squirrely monk grinning down at her, Eret grins back, and puts all of their strength into raising the shield to follow the direction of Sapnap's movement. 

Again, Eret isn't able to see it, but on the sidelines George's lips twitch with a suppressed smile while Dream's jaw falls open.

The monk's eyes widen in surprise as suddenly he's being thrusted forward, moving the hand that had been raised to punch Eret to grab at the shield in an attempt to stay attached. 

For a split second, Eret's reminded of a childhood memory, of afternoons spent sledding down snowy mountains using wooden planks, and he has to stop herself from chuckling.

Splendid, Eret thinks, letting their back bend further, following the momentum of Sapnap's body and transforming what had been a jump upward into an arch back towards the ground. 

"Oh shit-" she hears Sapnap curse as their feet leave the ground. Eret flies upside down above Sapnap for a split second that stretches for an eternity - thank the Nine Hells for the endless hours of ballet dancing - , the monk still gripping the shield more out of shock than anything else, then she brings her feet on the shield and lets gravity do the work. 

The shield crashes - sadly - onto the grassy ground below, since Sapnap managed to roll out of the way just in time to avoid being crushed; Eret rolls the other way, avoiding a kick aimed at their side before standing up. 

The two of them stare at each other for a moment, breathing hard, eyes wide but smiling.

"That was fucking badass, man!" Sapnap breathes out, grin still firmly planted on his face - Eret's eyes fly over his form, notice the scraped knuckles on his right hand and internally he flinches. She'll have to patch him up later, but for now, they can afford to show off a bit more. 

Eret grins back, bending his head in thanks, then their hand moves to the hilt of her sword. 

Eret unsheathes her sword with flash of light against metal, immaculate blade flying through the air as they show off some extremely fancy and definitely not combat-useful manoeuvres. 

An appreciative whistle from behind Sapnap makes him chuckle, instead the monk huffs out and turns to glare at his taller friend. 

"I thought you were on my side!" The monk complains, shoulders dropping a little, and Dream just shakes his head, eyes crinkling at the sides as he smiles - one tusk pushes into his cheek, Eret wonders how annoying it is, if they ever hurt.

"We're all on the same team, dumbass." The half-orc replies, in a tone so fond that Eret almost lets out a cooing sound - but then stops, because maybe it's a bit too early for that.

When Sapnap turns back, eyes rolling and grumbling under his breath, the point of Eret's sword is pointing straight at him.

"Ready for round two?" 

 By the time Eret manages to pin Sapnap to the ground - his sword nailing the side of the human's shirt to the ground, to the shorter man's dismay - they're both breathing heavily and sweating profusely; Eret's win is decided more by a mutual agreement that maybe they can have a break now. 

In fact, the instant Dream calls the end of their spar, Eret lets out a deep sigh and lets herself slide to the ground, arms spread open and head resting on the surprisingly soft grass - it reminds them so much of home that for a moment their heart aches and he almost expects a servant to arrive and let him know that he's late for one of many scheduled duties. 

Sapnap turns his head to the side, a tired grin on his face as he lightly punches Eret's shoulders; the elf simply chuckles in answer, lightly punching him back before the sun suddenly disappears as a figure moves to stand next to the pair. 

"Sap, I can't believe you got your ass handed to you!" Dream exclaims, pretending to be shocked as he kneels down on the grass next to his friend and shooting a quick wink towards Eret, who immediately bursts out laughing.

"What?! That is so not true, man, what the fuck!" Sapnap protests, pouting as he crosses his arms over his chest - slowly and gingerly because he can already feel a bruise forming on the inside of his left arm where Eret slapped him with their sword. Stil, pretending to be offended is worth it, since Dream does help him up immediately after. The half-orc then proceeds to ruffle his hair and wrap him up in a hug, which shouldn't make him feel immediately better but it still does. 

Still on the ground, Eret watches with fondness - and a tiny bit of envy, she's strong enough to admit - the pair; then their eyes catch George doing the exact same a couple of paces behind and he can't help but chuckle to themself. The wizard startles, as if waking from a charming spell, and quickly looks away, brows furrowed and grumbling to himself as he moves to get closer to Eret, starting to grab some rations from his backpack. 

"Here -" he says, sitting down cross legged and helping Eret to sit up "- We can eat and then we'll go over the general way the tournament works."

Dream peeks down at the food in their hands curiously and hurries to grab a loaf of bread for himself before it gets snatched by a ravenous Sapnap. 

"Sounds good to me." Eret concedes, digging into their meal, but Dream lightly elbows George's side.

"Why aren't we sparring today?" The half orc asks with a grin, to which George blinks nonplussed.

"I mean, I guess if you want to lose that badly- I figured it could wait a while before I destroyed you on the battlefield." George replies, completely monotone, leaving Dream apparently stunned as the half-orc's jaw falls open. Eret snorts into his hand, trying to cover up the laughter that threatens to spill; meanwhile Sapnap is unabashedly rolling on the floor, clutching at his stomach and slamming his hand on the ground. 

That, at least, seems to reawaken Dream.

"I- shut up, Sapnap. That's not that funny, shut up." He protests, pout clear in his voice as he lightly kicks the monk's shin - Sapnap lets out a pained "ow" between one chuckle and the other, but it still takes him a while to calm down. 

"I could kick your ass, by the way!" Dream protests: George's answer doesn't come, since the mage simply decides to trace a pattern into the air. A moment later, a translucent, spectral hand appears where George's hand had been, and it gently floats towards the waterskin the mage had left by the entrance. 

"Alright, I mean, that's not that cool." The half-orc adds with a slight frown, watching the hand bring the waterskin to George. But then, while the mage is taking a sip of water, the ghostly hand swiftly turns and- flicks him on the forehead, leaving Dream sputtering at nothing and prompting Sapnap and Eret to burst into a fit of giggles once more. 

"Who knew George could be funny!" Sapnap, the fool, the absolute fool, exclaims. George levels him with a judgemental stare, and a moment later the ghostly hand is dumping the rest of his water on Sapnap's head.

Dream fights like a marksman shoots. 

While Eret's attacks flow like water, a continuous dance of flesh and iron alike, Dream is slower, more methodical. 

He paces the battlefield almost lethargically, stalking his enemy like a predator - Sapnap knows him, knows this behaviour is as much of an integral part of his tactics as the strength of his blows. Another extremely important part of Dream’s fighting technique is his mask: it’s impressive how much insight your emotions and eye movement can give to your enemy. 

The clear ceramic conceals most of what Dream is thinking, and it’s usually what gives him the most advantage - yes, it sometimes becomes cumbersome and it does slightly restrict his eyesight, but he’s learnt to deal with it. It’s also, according to Dream, a necessary tool, as he considers himself too much of an open book. 

Dream stops his slow walking, seemingly waiting for George to make the first move, and gestures to the empty space between them with his axe. 

“Come on, I’ll let you go first, since you’re so sure you’ll win.” The half-orc goades, tone urgent, the thrill of the fight almost making him bounce on his feet, while George merely raises an eyebrow, looking almost lethargic.

“Alright, since you’re so kindly allowing it.”

He reaches out with one palm open, muttering something under his breath - Eret recognises the harsh intonation of the Draconic language but is unable to understand what it means. A softly glowing sphere of light appears next to his head as he closes his fist, then he quickly twists his wrist while opening his hand again, as if letting go of a feather in the wind: one after the other, about a dozen other spheres appear around him, forming a set of three concentric circles - satellites orbiting around him, their speed increasing rapidly.

“Oh boy.” Sapnap mutters, eyes wide as they move quickly between his two friends. Dream raises his shield, and when he speaks the grin on his face is extremely visible despite the mask covering his face. 

“Come on, Georgie! Bring it on!” The half orc calls enthusiastically; Eret, who has been intently staring at George, manages to catch the suppressed amused smile that appears for just a split second on the mage’s face. A moment later, the half-elf’s hand pushes forward, and the spheres of energy snap in motion, like darts from a crossbow. 

It all happens extremely quickly. The globes start moving, flying in the air, and from the other side of the field Dream makes his battleaxe clash against his shield. A shimmering purple light appears over the shining metal, enlarging until it forms a translucent bubble around the half-orc. 

There is a split second during which George looks actually shocked - Eret feels the same, neither had expected him to be able to cast spells - but then his stare hardens, brows furrowing as he snaps his fingers. 

"Oh no, you don't." The half-elf says, and all everyone else can do is stare, shocked, as Dream's arcane shield shatters a split second before George's spheres of energies slam into the half-orc's body. 

Eret's hand darts to their side, a subconscious act as she feels Sapnap shift forwards as if to move towards his injured friend. The human stops, thoughts visibly stuttering to a halt as he seems to come back to himself - realising Dream isn't actually in danger, just injured, as the half-orc is still standing and slightly panting. 

There are a handful of already forming bruises on his arms, his chest is hurting and he’s a little out of breath, but all Dream can think of is that that was awesome. 

And. He may not know George that well, but he does know a bit about spellcasting. And using two high level spells one after the other does take a toll on one’s energy reserves - a trained eye, like Sapnap’s for example, might be able to spot the slight tremble in George’s casting arm and the light blue staining the tips of his fingers as residual magic clings to his body. What Dream can instead do is hope that the stunt George just pulled isn’t something he usually does. 

So he twirls the axe in his hand and grins, leaning back to prepare himself for a sprint forwards as he calls, in a singsong tone:

“Oh George.” 

[aenwoedbeannaa]

Forest Fires | Geralt x Reader | Pt. 4

Summary: You are a Huntress who has been living in the forest for years, as far from civilization as you can get. Until recently, you were quite content living there alone, until one day you find a gravely wounded Witcher in the forest. It has been two weeks, and you have grown to need one another. But sooner or later, you fear that your secret will come out, and you have no idea how Geralt of Rivia will respond when it does.

Note: You know… I could have ended it here with some fluff and tied up with a nice little bow, but then I realized it is me, and the dark storylines and action were bound to happen sometime. Sooo here we go. Hope you enjoy!

Also, this is Part 4, so make sure to read the first three parts here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3. Make sure to follow so you don’t miss out on future chapters!

Warnings: Mentioned smut, also sad.

Morning came slowly—the kind of morning where you feel as if you are floating, wrapped in happiness and warmth, a haze that brings comfort rather than fear. For a few moments, you do not open your eyes. You want to savor this moment, where every inch of your body was pressed up against Geralt in a tangle of limbs.

You feel his chest, rising and falling at an inhumanly slow pace, and you feel his heart beating a slow steady rhythm. That, and the Witcher’s arm still draped around you, has you never wanting to leave this bed—you never want to leave his arms.

But still, you know that you have to get up sooner or later. You still have to skin the deer that you’d hunted yesterday, and you needed to do the same with the rabbits. In Geralts embrace, you cannot feel the chill in the air, but you can tell by the slight frost built up along the edges of the windows that it is growing colder. Winter always seemed to approach this way—one day it was warm with a cool breeze, the next it was gray and cold, with icy wind blowing through the forest.

The Witcher must have felt the flutter of your eyelashes against his chest as you blinked them open and looked about, because you hear him sigh contentedly and feel him shift slightly on the bed, fingers tracing invisible patterns on your bare skin.

“Morning,” you finally say, a little unsure. You’d certainly taken men to your bed and woken up to find them gone, and for some reason, you almost felt as if you were only imagining his warm strength next to you, but you know that its really him.

“Morning,” he responds in the even deeper, tired voice that you have grown used to hearing as you prepared for you days.

You gingerly shift away from him slightly so that you can prop yourself up on one elbow and look at the still fresh scars across his shoulder and chest. “How are you feeling?” you ask, eyes scanning over the area. You don’t notice any swelling, and his face appears relaxed, not like before, when he’d grimace and try to hide his pain with a smile.

“Never better,” he said with a grin, rolling onto his side so he is facing you.

Trying not to read too much into the words, you let out a huff of a laugh, chewing your lower lip. “Oh, come on, Witcher—I’m certain you’ve had better mornings than this.” It would be hard to believe, by any stretch of the imagination, that the famous Geralt of Rivia would be so happy to be shut up in a middle-of-nowhere cabin with an antisocial huntress. And yet, the softness of his gaze told another story.

“I’ve never had a morning like this one.” His only response comes out in a matter-of-fact sentence that somehow still edged with emotion, sharp as a knife.

You blush, still chewing your lip as you try to think of a proper response. But before you can say anything, Geralt catches your gaze once more before his eyes move to your lips. “Is this you asking me to kiss you?” he quips, catching your chin between his forefinger and thumb.

You start to laugh, still frantically searching for words that will never come, but Geralt silences you by pressing his lips to yours, soft and sweet. A morning kiss from a person you… care about.

 When he finally pulls away, he still grins down at you, brushing some stray hairs from your face and then running his thumb over your cheek, warm to the touch from blushing so heavily. “You are adorable,” he says after a moment of consideration. “If I hadn’t seen you shoot that bow and arrow, I might’ve mistaken you for a deer.” He kisses you once more, a soft peck on your forehead.

“Now, as much as I’d like to lay here all day, I’m starving,” the Witcher admits. You nod in agreement, as you’d been thinking the same thing. Long days of work followed by long nights of, well, everything the two of you did the night before, certainly helped you work up quite an appetite.

“I can make porridge,” you offer with a shrug. Nothing special, but it is the breakfast you usually make. You’d have to go to the market for fresh eggs, as you had no hens. You could get them from birds’ nests, but you could never quire bring yourself to do it. They seemed too delicate, and the thought of a bird coming back to an empty nest was heartbreaking. So, no eggs.

Thinking for another moment, you add, “I can make bacon as well.” Somehow, you feel that this breakfast should be special, as if having sex means you have to feed him better now. Or maybe, you don’t want him to know how much you’ve been rationing the last couple of weeks. You always had enough food for yourself, but you’d never even considered that anyone else would be joining you in your little home in the forest. It was a safe-haven away from the cities and towns, a place where you could hide from the war, pretend like it wasn’t happening; guests were not a thing you planned for.

“Hm,” the Witcher muses, “Bacon does sound delicious.”

You smile, slowly sitting up, bracing yourself against the slight chill as you let the covers fall from around you. The fire has died down now to only a few smoldering pieces of wood and charcoal. You’ll have to re-light that as well. However, before you can step out of bed, the Witcher sits up, wrapping his arms around you and pressing himself against your back. All at once, the warmth returns, and the goosebumps covering your skin disappear.

“You stay warm,” he says, “I can take care of it.”

You want to protest, to tell him that you are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, as you have been for years now. But there is nothing patronizing in his voice, nothing to suggest that he actually thinks you are incapable. Instead, it is just the kind of warm kindness of someone who just wants to do something kind for somebody else. How strange, you think, that all my life I’ve been told Witchers are monsters. Granted, you have only met one Witcher, but he acts more like a man than any you’ve ever met.

As he gets out of bed and pulls on his trousers and a shirt, you catch his arm before he walks away.

“Geralt,” you say quickly, stumbling slightly over the words, “I… Thank you.”

“No need,” he responds quickly, bending over to place a kiss on top of your head.

*

You try to stay in bed, curled up among the covers, but only a few minutes pass before you get up and start dressing. You’ve never been one who can lay about all day. Especially when there is work to be done, you cannot make yourself stay still. Geralt is out in the shed, which you use for salting and drying meat. He lit the fire with one of those Witcher signs that you couldn’t quite understand, so the cottage is warm and cozy once again—a sharp contrast to the cold, wild forest that surrounds it.

He had also already placed a pot over the stove, slowly bringing the oats to a boil. You give it a quick stir before setting the heavy lid back on top of the pot. Then, you head outside and around back to the cellar doors, bumping into Geralt on the way.

“I thought I told you to stay in bed!” he says with fake disappointment, shaking his head as he looks you up and down. You’re dressed in your usual leathers and lace-up top. You don’t own many dresses – hunting is rather difficult in them. You never quite felt pretty before, but those amber eyes somehow change your mind. You must be beautiful, for him to look at you like that.

“I’m just running down to the cellar to get some ale,” you tell him, “Bought some at the market a few weeks back.” You’d never tried brewing your own ale – the whole process just seemed far too complicated. Lots of waiting around, and lots of room for error. Besides, you made a decent living selling extra furs, leathers, and meats to the village folk. You could splurge here and there.

“In that case, by all means, go ahead,” Geralt says with a smirk, patting you on the back as he walks back toward the cottage. You laugh and watch him until he’s rounded the corner, then head to the cellar doors, lifting the heavy wood and walking carefully down the crude wooden steps. You didn’t bring a candle, so you leave the cellar door open to let a stream of light in.

You make your way to the back, in the corner that never gets any light, where you keep things that need to stay as cold as possible. It takes you a moment to feel along the shelf, searching for the right jug. But then, all of a sudden, you feel the jugs start to rattle. Your eyes widen almost immediately, once you realize that it’s not all in your head.

“What the hell?” You back away from the shelf as the rattling intensifies, sure that the glass and earthenware jugs are going to start falling if this keeps up. Panic rises into your throat as you back towards the stream of light and the stairs. You have no idea what is happening, but you know that you need to get out of there.

The next realization hits as you make it to the stairs—there are only two things that can be making the ground shake so violently. Magic, or a cavalry, and a large one at that.

“Geralt!” It comes out in a desperate yell, though you are certain he is more aware of what is happening than you are.

You trip on the third stair, having attempted to run up them too quickly. Thankfully, you don’t hit your head. The last thing you need now would be to knock yourself unconscious. Whoever is coming, it is unlikely that they’re friendly.

“Y/N!” the Witcher’s voice pulls you out of your head, and you look up to see him at the entrance to the cellar above you, offering you a hand. He has your bow and quiver in the other, and two swords on his back.

You take his free hand and he hauls you up. You don’t even have time to question what is going on as he hands you your bow.

“Does anyone know that you’re here?” he asks you, one hand still gripping your arm. You just shake your head, eyes wide with surprise. Niflguaard has made their way across most of the Northern Kingdoms, but that has been going on for quite some time. You’d picked this place, so far from the nearest town, let alone city, partly because of that fact. You hadn’t expected Nilfguaard or any of the other armies to come anywhere close to your hideout, let alone close enough that the ground shakes.

“A few family members?” You desperately search your mind for anyone else who might know, anyone who would have connections to Nilfguaard. Of course, that could be a lost cause. Armies didn’t need a reason to tear across land; it’s just what they do. But the stories you heard—the things the Nilfguaardians would do—make your hair stand on end and your grip tighten on your bow.

The Witcher finally speaks, pulling you away from the cottage and further into the trees, where the shade bathes the two of you in shadow. “I’m sorry.”

You look at him, confusion streaking your face. “Sorry… What do you--?”

“Nilfguaard is looking for me,” he speaks before you can finish your question, “They may have learned that I’m here somehow... They’ve got spies. Dammit, they must have figured it out, and now you’re in danger, too. Fuck!”

You are silent for a moment, staring down at your feet before finally lifting your head to look at him. You breathe in and out, steadying your breath before finally looking up at him. “No, Geralt,” you tell him, shaking your head, “They’ve been looking for me for years.”

You slowly reach into your pocket, pulling out the brass necklace, an ornate crystal moon hanging from it. You haven’t worn it since he’s been here—in fact, you haven’t worn it in years. “I thought.. I thought perhaps if I hid out here, didn’t use magic, that they would give up. They would think I was dead.” You look at the man you’ve come to care so much for, expecting to see him looking back at you with disgust. This whole time, he’d been with a Sorceress, and you hadn’t even told him. But he wasn’t looking at you with disgust. Surprise, yes, but he didn’t look ready to run for the hills.

“Not a bad plan,” he finally says, that same matter-of-fact tone you are so used to hearing from him, though he’s speaking in a whisper. “What did you do to piss them off?” he asks a moment later, a rueful smile on his lips.

“It’s a long story,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I used to be a mage at court.” The ground is still rumbling, even, the sound growing even louder now as the two of you weave between trees, looking for a place to hide. He doesn’t say anything, just continues to pull you along, his hand still wrapped around your forearm. You find that you are glad for it, like it is an anchor holding you to the world, staving off your rising panic.

“They put a bounty on my head after I refused to kidnap a girl, a child… I couldn’t do it, so I ran.”

At that, he stops moving and stares down at you. A moment of silence passes, where the only sound to be heard is the sound of hooves hitting the ground faster and faster, coming from the direction of your cottage.

“Cirilla?”

You stare back at him, and slowly nod. But before either of you can ask another question, you realize that the sound of horses running has died away, leaving only ear-splitting silence. You are shaking now, and you draw closer to him, the two of you hiding behind a large tree.

You smell the fire before you see it, but you know exactly where it is coming from. You lean out, peering around the tree, to see the orange glow of flames and the obsidian-black smoke of fire as flames engulf your home.

*

To be continued.

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Taglist: @dark-night-sky-99​, @pantrashtic​, @lilred254​, @cilorawr​,  @blackravena​, @keithseabrook27​, @danielarlington​, @jesseswartzwelder​, @fairytale07​, @divaroze​, @geeksareunique​, @evyiione​, @salmonbutter​

[jarienn972]

La Sirena - Chapter Four

Captain Swan Supernatural Summer

After a slight delay caused by yesterday’s storm knocking out our power (and throwing the router offline for the rest of the day), Chapter 4 of this @cssns​ story ​ is finally ready!  In the last chapter, Killian was finally back on his feet (and slightly embarrassed) as he ventured out for the first time. Emma even invited him into the cavern for the first time where he found some new clothing amidst her collection of old maritime chests.  Things couldn’t be more perfect...

So now does anyone think that Killian might be getting a little bit suspicious that something weird is going on?  When we left off from Chapter 3, he thought he was imagining torches and lanterns lighting without being touched and then found himself puzzled when Emma warned him of a storm he saw no signs of. He’s treading a fine line between believing he’s just questioning and thinking he’s hallucinating - but those scales are about to be tipped and there will be no turning back.

Thanks again to my wonderful beta, @kmomof4​ for all of your assistance and also to @courtorderedcake​ for the beautiful watercolor art she made for this fic!  

Catch up from the beginning here: One  Two  Three  or on AO3 & FF.net

Magic Has a Price

Trusting in her instruction, Killian rushed back through the narrow passageways of the cavern, making his way to the springs where he could view the changes in the skies above through the void in the cave ceiling. Here, he could remain protected from nature's furies as he huddled beneath an overhang while keeping a watchful eye on the heavens. He expected to witness the sky darken as clouds rolled in and rain filtered through the natural skylight yet he saw nothing of the sort.

There was no thunder. No lightning. No gathering of dismal grey clouds to mar the brilliant blue above. Not a single drop of precipitation fell between the cracks in the rock, leaving him a tad bewildered. Why had Emma been so adamant that a storm was imminent? She hadn't joined him in the cave either, muttering something about the storm being here for her. What in blazes did that mean?

He'd intended to remain obediently inside the cavern, but his curiosity grew too great and won out. He needed to learn what the meaning of her cryptic statement was and what she may have been seeking to conceal from him. There clearly was no pending meteorological event as it had been unnervingly quiet. Something was amiss and despite Emma's warnings, he was determined to learn what was troubling her. He owed her that much.

**********

After delivering her stern order for Killian to return to the relative safety of the cavern, Emma mentally scolded herself for the sad excuse she'd given. She had wanted an explanation for not joining him, but instead, she'd likely implanted a seed of doubt. How foolish of her to state that the storm was coming for her, even if it was the truth. Nonetheless, she paused near the mouth of the cave until he was out of her sight then set her jaw, scowling as she marched to the beach. She hated that she hadn't been entirely truthful about the origin of the impending storm, but this was far too personal.

She should have known better. She'd become careless in her desire to shelter Killian as she'd grown rather fond of her human companion over the course of the past few days. As much as he'd soothed the bitter ache in her soul, her fondness had placed them both at risk. How would she explain herself? She had to think of something in a hurry, knowing who would be awaiting her in the shallows of the bay.

"Erimetha…," she heard the deep, familiar feminine voice call to her as the crown of perfectly coiffed dark hair broke the surface of the water. Emma already knew who the voice belonged to and it wasn't anyone she had a desire to see. "Or are you still calling yourself Emma these days?"

"As much as you prefer to call yourself Regina, sister," Emma replied as the olive-skinned torso of her sibling raised from the sea with a swish of her lithe, regal purple and gold hued tentacles. "Whatever brings you here to the dregs of our realm?"

"You appear to be doing well for yourself since your banishment, sister. I'm not certain what would possess you to wear that silly frock though. Are you trying to look like some pitiful human up there on the sand? Have you forgotten what it's like to thrive in the sea?"

"I was never banished. Need I remind you that it was my choice to leave?" Emma huffed, not willing to give in to her sister's taunts. "I had no desire to live that life anymore. This is my home now and I live how I please. If I choose to wear a silly frock like a human, then I shall. I've no one to answer to."

"Oh, that's right - the siren with a conscience bit," Regina said snidely. "The gods created you to sing and lure those horrible, unworthy creatures to their demise. That is who you are and you can't deny that."

"You're right, Regina, I cannot deny what I was created to be. However, I can choose not to be that demon any longer. I am sorry if that bothers you but I am no threat to you in your desire to please Triton."

"You sound so self-righteous," Regina scoffed, flicking a splash of water into the air with the tip of a tentacle. "You can't fight what you were born to be."

"We shall see. All I know is that you didn't swim all this way to berate me and call me self-righteous. Why are you here?"

"So impatient, little sister… Always so impatient… I'm here because we members of the council sensed a little magic ripple that originated from this pathetic little corner of the realm. You've not used your powers in eons so some were a little worried… These little things do travel, you know?"

"It was hardly anything for the council of sirens to worry themselves over. I merely had a desire to grow some new fruits and vegetables here and conjured up a few plants to expand my diet. I could have waited for seeds to blow in with the trade winds, but as you said, I'm impatient."

"Food? Of course…," Regina sneered. "Growing food like a lowly human when you could be feasting like a queen…"

"My choice," Emma reminded her.

"So be it," the brunette siren shrugged. "Just be warned that the council will be keeping watch on you."

"Whatever for? What does the council care about what I do? I have no interest in anything of that life!"

"Considering your sad development of a conscience, the council - myself included - expressed concern that you might show pity upon an unexpected survivor."

"Survivor?" Emma gulped, trying hard to conceal her surprise at Regina's statement. "What are you talking about?"

"A few sunrises ago, an unfortunate ship sailed into our waters. None were deemed worthy to pass and they succumbed to our song before the ship ran aground and sank not far from this cove. Since then, there has been scuttle amongst the sea creatures that one of those vile humans survived. It's highly unlikely, but you know how the council gets… Your weaknesses made you a concern - that you might attempt to rescue such an unfortunate being."

"Why is this such a bother to the council? The rule has always been that any human immune to our song would be allowed safe passage. No man can resist the song so there hasn't been a survivor in centuries."

"And that rule still stands but no human is worthy to pass through our realm. In all the ages, only one has ever been able to resist. They're simply inferior beings."

"But you know that the one human who was able to resist the song gained favor with Poseidon and united his kingdom with ours - even if only for a brief moment in time."

"Because the new leaders of the human's kingdom angered the gods again and their realm was reclaimed by the sea. They're all evil. Poseidon should allow us to reclaim all of the human realms!"

"He doesn't because he knows that there are good ones among them and I believe that as well. The siren's council controls only one realm and it should stay that way! I refused to send any more of those humans to their deaths."

"Well," Regina began with an indignant huff, "unlike you, I shall continue to defend our waters from those humans! I won't allow myself to grow weak with worry about morality or humanity!"

"Did you ever once consider that resisting our urge to tempt sailors is the strength, not the weakness?" Emma countered, ire increasing at her sister's callousness and disregard for her choice to exit the council of sirens.

"Whatever you want to believe, Emma," Regina dismissed her with disdain. "You are still a siren, no matter what you're trying to make yourself believe. It's who you are. The siren song is a part of you and perhaps one day you'll realize that. For now, remember this - if you are found to be harboring a human, the decision of what will become of you will no longer be up to the council. You'll be answering to the gods themselves."

"I have nothing to answer for," Emma stated, although she secretly hoped that she'd never be called upon to back up that statement. "Take care, sister."

Regina huffed and whipped her tentacles around before diving beneath the gentle waves and leaving Emma standing silently on the shore, staring blankly at the horizon. She trembled while repeatedly chastising herself for daring to use her powers. She had only wanted to provide for Killian, not endanger him. She hadn't envisioned that after so many years, her single use of magic would reverberate back to the council. Regina would undoubtedly return and she wouldn't be alone next time.

What could she do? Had she already done too much?

Killian couldn't immediately locate Emma when he emerged from the cavern but as his intuition had been correct and there was no storm, he was left mildly perturbed and greatly confounded by her deception. He ventured out to the ridge of ancient volcanic rock that separated the cave from the shoreline and stopped himself before crossing it.

Instead of the rumble of thunderstorms, he heard the sound of two distinct, aggravated voices. He recognized Emma's but there was a second, sultrier female voice present. Emma had insisted that the two of them were alone on this distant cove but unless he was hallucinating, he held no doubt that he was hearing another woman's voice - and by their tone, there were no pleasantries being exchanged.

He held back out of sight, fearful of being noticed and tried to discern what was transpiring. Did Emma get visitors regularly? Her often awkward interaction with him would certainly lead one to believe that she had little contact with others. Despite that, the tone of the exchange he was overhearing seemed to be decidedly personal. Emma knew the person on the other end of the conversation, but that wasn't going to help him.

Unfortunately for his prying ears, the two women were speaking in the same Ancient Greek dialect that he couldn't quite translate. He could pick out a few words here and there but nowhere near enough to get the context of the conversation. He surmised that the other woman's name was Regina and thought he understood Emma calling her sister.

He so desperately wanted to poke his head over the ridge line to see what was going on but he didn't dare risk angering Emma. Whomever she was speaking with, she hadn't wanted him to see - or perhaps be seen by. Why else would she have ordered him to dart back into the cavern under the false pretense of an impending storm? Was there a reason she wouldn't want her sister to know he was there, assuming this woman was actually her sister?

He shrank back to the opening of the cave as he sensed their conversation was waning. Although the stretch of beach where Emma and the mysterious Regina weren't in his purview, he could see out to another section of the cove where the turquoise sea met the azure sky, expecting to see the crown of a ship's mast out on the horizon. There was none. Where had this other woman come from? If she didn't arrive by ship, had Emma not been truthful about a village being nearby? He had so many questions but all were shook from his mind when he felt an unseen hand tighten around his forearm, yanking him forcefully into the darkness of the cavern depths.

"I thought I told you to go back to the spring?" Emma scolded him while he silently sighed in relief that it was her and not some angry, unknown stranger. Not that she wasn't angry…

"My apologies. My curiosity garnered the better of me when I sensed no sign of weather anomalies," he responded, unable to meet her gaze.

"The storm I spoke of was a tempest of a different sort," she sighed loudly as her voice softened. She maintained her clench on his arm until they reached the spring. "How much did you hear?"

Killian lowered his head in shame, found guilty of spying on this woman who had shown him nothing but kindness. Whatever fibs she may have told, she'd had her reasons and the exchange he had overheard hadn't been intended for his ears. "I couldn't make out much of what you were saying. I just heard you conversing with the other woman - Regina, was it? I thought I heard you call her sister, but no matter the relation, there seemed to be a great deal of tension between you. I am quite sorry. I should never have intruded…"

"Oh, Killian…," she began as she released her grip on his forearm, raising her hand to his chin and giving it a gentle push upward, forcing him to look directly at her. The glistening tears welling in her eyes only intensified the confusion present in his stare. She knew she couldn't harbor her secrets any longer…

"There is so much you don't know about me… Oh, where to start…? The other voice you heard did indeed belong to one of my sisters and the disagreement you overheard was due to her lack of understanding my choice to leave the life I was born into." She squeezed her eyes closed and allowed a single tear to roll over her cheekbone before continuing. "There's something that you need to know about me…"

"It has often been my experience that when a woman makes such a statement, the remainder of the conversation tends not to be pleasant…"

"If I am to protect you, you need to hear me out. What you're about to hear puts you in grave danger, but I can't hide it from you any longer."

"How does learning that you have sisters and that we aren't entirely alone here on this isle put me in such peril?"

"I do live alone here," she assured him, "at least I did until you arrived. I have not seen or heard from Regina in eons but she traveled a long way to confront me because I broke one of my own rules…" She lowered her chin, her blonde locks tumbling over her face to hide her own shame. "I used magic. I shouldn't have used my powers, but I did and somehow, the effect of that action reached all the way back to my homeland. Now Regina and the rest of the council are suspicious of me and they're watching. She will be back and she won't be alone so we have to be ready…"

Dumbfounded, Killian shook his head in disbelief, raking his fingers through his tousled hair as he struggled to make sense of this. He leaned back against one of the larger chests as a myriad of thoughts bombarded his overloaded brain.

"Be ready for what?" he queried, although it wasn't really the most pressing question he was thinking of. He found himself staring absentmindedly at the cavern floor, kicking up a bit of volcanic sand as he flexed his bare toes. He was almost afraid to ask the other questions but he had to. "And what do you mean you used magic?" He raised up his head to face her again, mesmerized by the way the flickering light of the torch illuminated her ivory skin. It almost made it appear to be glowing on its own as she stood there before him.

He wasn't prepared for her answer.

"Like all of my people, I was born with certain magical gifts… or curses, depending on how you view them," she explained as she shifted her sight away from him.

"Are you some sort of witch?" he asked, voice wavering.

"No, I'm not a witch, but your kind would likely consider me a similar monster…"

His brow furrowed at her words. How could Emma ever refer to herself as such? "You're hardly a monster."

"Killian, you've not yet scratched the surface of what I am." Without looking at him, she extended a hand in his direction. "Come with me over to the spring…" He may have been wary of the gesture, but he placed his hand into her open palm and allowed her to lead him to the edge of the hot spring. She could hear his breath hitch in his throat as she let go of his fingers and descended the carved steps into the pool, raising her flowing gown over her head and tossing it aside.

Ever the gentleman, Killian's cheeks instantly flushed bright red as he averted his gaze from her nudity. "Emma, love… this isn't exactly proper…"

"Don't be ashamed of my nakedness. You needn't look away - I want you to see my true form." He heard a faint splash over the thundering of his own heartbeat as she lowered herself into the spring. "Killian - look at me," she insisted, but he was still unsure.

"Is this why you're purported to be a monster?" he wondered. "Some sort of wanton nymph here to tempt me into lascivious behavior?" He heard Emma chuckle before he dared glance over to the pool, finding her lounging against the steps with her arms extended at her sides (although she was submerged from her bosom down).

"You're not far off with your mention of a nymph, but you have the wrong creature," she stated as she playfully kicked a bare foot into the air, showering him with a pattering of warm water.

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand…," he blushed, resisting the carnal urge to jump into the steamy spring with her. Part of his psyche was holding him back, unconsciously telling him that despite her friendly teasing, he wasn't going to like what she was about to say. And now, he was frozen in trepidation.

"I'm not human," she said bluntly, drawing her leg beneath the water's surface once more. Before he could even attempt to process that confession, a shimmering tail fin raised up out of the spring. "I am a shape-shifting sea being that you know as a siren."

His jaw fell slack, mouth gaping as his gaze fell upon the sparkling green, gold and turquoise hues reflecting from the minute scales adorning her tail. Her tail. It was an awe-inspiring wonder as he took in the sight of the head and torso of the woman he'd come to admire over the past few days paired with the shiny, scaly tail of a fish.

This couldn't be. He must be delirious…

"No…, no…" he stammered. "This cannot be…" He staggered backwards, away from the spring, senses and sensibility overwhelmed.

"Killian, I promise - I can explain!" She pleaded with him, dejected by the panic in his eyes as he stumbled away from her. "Please, let me explain…"

He couldn't form a response, but he couldn't look away from her either. He continued his hasty retreat with eyes still locked on her unbelievable form, but he'd momentarily forgotten that he was still inside a cave. As he neared the four chests, he lost his footing in the uneven, loose sand. With nothing near him to reach for, he fell, arms pinwheeling awkwardly in a desperate attempt to stop himself. His head collided with a protruding slab of rock as he struck the wall and he dropped motionless beside the still-open chest where he'd found his new clothing.

"Killian!" she cried, rapidly transforming back to her human legs as she splashed her way out of the pool and hurried to his side. She knelt beside his unresponsive body, drawing her fingertips over the prickly stubble along his jaw. "Oh no… What have I done?"

[theoriginalladya]

Ooh, That Scene for Seeing Reds and Young & Proud?

Why does it not surprise me you would ask about these two???  Thank you so much for asking about them!  <3

Okay, let me see.  For Seeing Reds, the first scene I came up with, the one that convinced me to write the fic in the first place, was one of the last scenes in the actual story.  It’s a scene where Caleb is basically seeking sanctuary with Athair and they are hiding out on the island.  I’ve always known that Athair would be a big influence in Caleb’s life, even from afar, and it all starts back during Caleb’s years as a young child and in the Reds.  I wanted to have that almost father-like person in his life, sort of guiding him, almost like a ‘conscience on his shoulder’ type of an influence, one that will help him get to a point where he can go on and become the Commander Shepard that we know from the games, but I don’t think I realized just HOW much of an impact he would end up having for him.

Skeptical, Caleb asks, “Have you brought any other Reds here?”

The priest shakes his head.  “No, son,” he replies in a more solemn tone, “you are the first.”

Caleb’s shoulders slump slightly.  The food has no taste and his mouth is dry as he stares down at his hands.  “And the last.”

“Perhaps.”  The priest rises and walks back over to Caleb where he crouches down and pats his shoulder.  “You cannot worry about them now.  There is nothing you can do for –.”

Caleb jumps to his feet, anger surging uncontrollably as he knocks the priest backwards.  It only takes a few of his long-legged strides to reach the opposite wall where he slams his fist against the stone wall, knuckles first and heedless of slicing pain that shoots up his arm while at the same time, an unending roar of anguish that has nothing to do with his hand is ripped from the center of his chest.

For half a breath, as his cry rolls and reverberates throughout the room, as the skies outside seemingly echo his pain with a sudden explosion of light followed practically immediately by rolling thunder, the world comes to a halt and everything is still.  Save for his heaving lungs, searching for more air to fuel another such outburst, all is quiet …

He turns on his heels, facing the priest, his eyes wild and seething.  “The only way there is nothing I can do is if I am dead!” he bellows defiantly.

Athair stands and folds his arms across his chest as if waiting patiently for a storm to blow itself out.  It is maddening, but not unexpected.  And yet, Caleb knows from experience, this priest is a man of complexities; this is not the reaction he expects.  Not this time.  Not this situation.  Eyes narrowed, Athair asks flatly, “Are you quite finished?”

Like kindling meeting flame, Caleb erupts again.  Before he knows it, and without conscious thought, his arm swings in the direction of Athair, and there is nothing he can do to stop himself.  There is a half second where, in the back of Caleb’s mind, he considers the repercussions of this action, the cost of attacking the one man in all the world who might be able to help him, but it is fleeting.  In the next moment, the older man throws himself away from the fist while reaching to grasp Caleb’s arm, and somehow manages to twist in such a way that he pulls it up behind the teen, pressing it against his spine as he wraps his arms around and holds him close, immobile.  “Let it go, son, now,” he breathes near Caleb’s ear, his voice a mixture of authority and pleading, “let it go before it eats you alive!”

Caleb chokes for air, horrified and stunned by the turn of events in the last few seconds.  What have I done?  Beneath him, his legs weaken and he crumples to the floor, sobs wracking his thin frame.  Athair follows, his arms loosening but he does not release Caleb completely until the younger man’s body goes completely limp, all the while murmuring half formed prayers and words of comfort.

As for Young & Proud, it’s actually two scenes that blend into one another.  Surprise, surprise, it’s a pub brawl! lol  (I know you’re going to enjoy this one!)

“So, the Alliance allows any old Paddy into the service now, is it?  Damned blighters can’t even aim properly!”

Images of the first brawl with Coats pass before Caleb’s eyes.  Before he can respond, however, Coats slides between them.  “C’mon, mate, it was your buddy over there who caused the ruckus,” he points at the other man now at the bar, “not him.”

The civilian places his beefy hands on Coats’ shoulders, pushing him aside to bring Caleb directly into view once more.  “Wasn’t asking you, friend.  Was asking –”

Coats’ hand wraps around one of the man’s wrists, removing it as he slips back between them.  “You misunderstand, friend.  If you’re talking to him, you’re talking to me.  First.  Or are you too thick to get that much?”

Caleb sighs, eyes rolling.  He already knows how this is going to end, Coats’ stubbornness gives it away.  A quick look over at the barman assures him he can see it too as he’s already making a call.  “Hammersmith, let it go.”

But Coats shakes his head.  “No, not this time.”  He leans in nose to nose with the civilian.  Caleb shifts to his right, attempting to get back a line of sight when the civilian’s hand flies up and solidly hits Coats’ left jaw.  His friend grunts heavily in pain and surprise, but holds his ground.

“If I end up back in hospital, you’re explaining to Ceila again about how intellectual we are,” Caleb mutters just before throwing a punch with his left arm into the civilian’s solar plexus.  

The fight that ensues is weirdly satisfying on several levels, not the least of which is that Caleb manages to avoid being hit. Whether that is due to Coats and the way he constantly jockeys around to protect him, or the rest of their sniper class who also get involved, Caleb doesn’t know, but by the end of the fight, as he and the others are being escorted out of the pub and back to base by the police, and the only pain in his shoulder is the residual ache left over from his surgery as his medication starts to wear off.  

They are escorted to the Administrative section where he and Coats are directed straight into Major Walker’s office only to find that it isn’t their CO standing there, but none other than Commander David Anderson.  

Startled, Caleb stands at attention, unable to salute due to the bandages on his shoulder.  Coats is less than a second behind him.  The older man eyes them both critically, his face a neutral mask.  Caleb swallows and curses softly to himself in silence, hoping he hasn’t just ruined his one shot at a decent life outside of Ireland in front of the very man who gave it to him.  

“Well, now,” the booming voice of the commander begins as he steps out from around the desk, “would one of you like to tell me what the hell is going on?”  One dark brow arches sharply upward, but there is a hint of a twitch at the left corner of his lips that leaves Caleb wondering.  

Neither Caleb nor Coats moves, but both try to find an extra inch of spine in their apprehension at the scrutiny, eyes straight ahead.  Anderson crosses the room and shuts the door behind them.  “At ease,” he finally tells them.

Caleb pauses, breath catching in his lungs. Beside him, he senses Coats’ trepidation as well.  “Sir…?” he dares when Anderson returns to his previous position.  

The commander’s face pinches slightly around the eyes, his lips pressed thin.  This isn’t the face of a man about to dress them down, Caleb decides after a moment of study.  He darts a quick look over at Coats, but his friend shrugs almost imperceptibly.

“Sit down,” Anderson says, a huff of laughter escaping with the words.  “Go on, sit down.”  A slow smile curves across his face, reaching his dark eyes.  Both Caleb and Coats do as Anderson instructs, dropping into the uncomfortable seats.  As the man leans forward, arms resting on the desk, he says, “Now, I think it is about time we three have a little chat.”

Coats is the first to respond.  “A chat?  Sir?”

Anderson nods.  “I understand you two have had a bit of a…struggle with one another since your arrival.”

Caleb sits very still in his chair, opting to stay silent.  The little he knows of this man, the few conversations they’ve had and the short time they’ve spent together, all which happened over a couple of years before just prior to his being sent to basic training, now tickles at the back of his mind. Anderson has a wicked sense of humor – that much he recalls.  Add in his friendship with Athair, and it only makes the pieces that much more puzzling to put together, but he has an idea.  The gleam in Anderson’s eyes is a hint at confirmation.  

“Struggle?” Coats exclaims, darting a quick look over at Caleb as he huffs.  “That’s putting it mildly.”

Caleb ponders a way to approach it without sounding like an accusation.  The man had done him, and by extension Athair, a huge favor, but there were still limits to how far he could presume upon their friendship.  Still, something about this current situation suggests he has a bit of leeway.  “Sir, was this…a set up?”

Anderson’s gaze zeros in on him with the question, and for the first time, Caleb knows what it means to be targeted ‘in someone’s sights.’  It isn’t a comfortable feeling as such, but he’s sticking to his decision come hell or high water.  “’Set up’ might be putting too fine a point on it.”

“So, you’re the one behind this?”  Coats, apparently, isn’t afraid to sound accusatory.

“Behind you two being roommates?  I am.”  

There is a history here between the two, he thinks. Caleb knows from first-hand experience that Anderson is a man who masks his reactions well.  Coats is good, but not quite that level of good.  He recognizes a knowing glint in Coats’ steely eyes, the twitch of the corner of his lips as they curl upward just enough to form a smug, half-grin.  Curious.  Caleb sits back to watch.  

Basically, I KNEW I wanted Coats and Caleb to be at odds with each other, to be English vs. Irish most of the way through sniper school, but by the end of it, they were going to be best friends.  I ALSO knew that Anderson was responsible for it - setting them up as roommates.  There’s a history there, between Coats and Anderson, one Caleb really wants to find out (and we likely will find out further details down the road...).

Thanks so much for asking!

[coloursflyaway]

Let’s Repeat Our Chorus Triumphantly [1/4]

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier

Rating: T

Word Count: 5.800

Tags: Angst and fluff, fix-it of sorts, past character death, falling in love (and everything that goes along with it)

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Read on AO3

“Where to now, then?”, Jaskier asks, excitement so very obvious in his voice, as if someone had caught the sun’s light in a bottle and offered it to the bard to drink. He’s a fool for following Geralt in the first place, even more of one for not having left already. Even a bard, even someone as hopelessly cheerful, as untainted by the world as Jaskier is, should know that the Path is dangerous, that Geralt is. And yet, he’s still here, not dissuaded by the insults Geralt throws at him, by the silence, the long marches and the sparse food. If Geralt allowed it to be, it could be intriguing.

He hums in response, not wanting to say more, because where Jaskier goes is none of his concern, but the bard pouts next to him, brandishing his lute like a weapon, and for once, Geralt gives in. “Lindenvale”, he tells Jaskier and watches his face light up once more, bright with imagined possibility. “There’s a contract for a couple of drowners. Doesn’t pay much, but enough for a night in an inn.” “Drowners, huh? Ghastly blue things, bulging eyes, those ones?” “Hm.” “Hardly the monsters great ballads are sung about”, Jaskier comments, not quite complains, but strums his lute anyway, looking at Geralt for second almost wistfully before he turns his eyes back to the road ahead. “But don’t worry, my dear Witcher, I will do my very best to change that.”

 He hears the melody drifting through a window, soft like a summer’s breeze, as familiar as his own heartbeat and immeasurably more loved. Weeks have passed since he last heard it; they do not sing his songs as frequently anymore, too much time has passed. So much time. And yet, here in Lindenvale, the tune drifts through the streets, and Geralt stops, because there is nothing else he could do. There’s a griffin’s head tied to Roach’s saddle, ready to be swapped for coin, but he hoists his old, aching limbs off his mare and leads her closer, ever closer, to the source of the music. It’s sweet and longing and Geralt has felt old so often, but never as much as he does whenever he hears those tunes; at the same time, he never feels more alive.

Lindenvale has grown since they passed through it together, has gained an inn and three taverns, more merchants and a silk trader that Geralt cannot set foot in fear of blues and purples and deep, deep reds. And yet, he finds his way easily, every note making his heart sing, his heart ache, even before a voice joins the lute. When it does, it’s a young woman singing, and secretly, Geralt is glad for it; it would never be a competition, and yet it’s easier to try and not compare the singer’s voice to the one he knows by heart when it’s higher, clearer, possesses not the smoothness of velvet and honeyed wine, but instead the clarity of birdsong.

“O’er glistening roofs, you float” the woman sings, and Geralt turns a corner to find himself in front of another inn, one that even he didn’t know existed. “Through lily-strewn rivers, you dive…” Her emphasis is wrong, her fingers a little to clumsy for her instrument, but it matters not, Geralt still feels the words vibrate through his bones, his flesh, his heart. Hears them sung by another, pensive and bathed in sunlight, a lifetime before. Sees pink lips curl around a quill, which stains them grey, dark lashes pensively fan across cornflower eyes, brown hair that shimmers silver around the temples, as if a spider had caught him in his web.

“Yet one day, I will know your truths…”, the woman sings and Geralt pushes the door to the inn open, finds it cosy and warm and utterly forgettable. The singer doesn’t seem to notice her new audience, and he is glad for it, takes in her chestnut hair and tan skin, the green dress she’s wearing and aches so fiercely that he almost expects his tattered knees to buckle. “…if only I am still alive…”

Because that’s it. That’s the one wound he carries that even his mutations are unable to heal, even if they have carried him through everything else, the one blow that ruined him and yet wasn’t merciful enough to let him die. Because it’s been sixty-four years since Jaskier died, quietly and gently and in Geralt’s arms.

 “I am certain you have heard it before”, Jaskier tells him, mere months after they have met, his eyes so blue that Geralt cannot look away, even though he desperately wants to. “But you’re a bit of an arsehole.” There is no venom in his voice, if anything, he looks amused, but Geralt still bristles internally, unsure why the opinion of a bard would matter anything at all, but somehow, it does. “Hm.” Jaskier cocks his head, then chuckles, a bright, joyful sound that seems to echo somewhere between Geralt’s ribs, the vast, empty space of his chest. “Oh no, you don’t have to worry”, Jaskier tells Geralt, just as if he already knew how to read him. “I like that about you.” And he smiles, and somehow, even that matters.

 The last notes fade, sweet and familiar and taking another piece of Geralt’s heart with them; he lets them, gladly. After all, it’s not like he needs it any longer. In front of him, a tankard of ale is waiting, ordered more out of politeness, out of habit than want, because Geralt has stopped to try and drink his pain away more than forty years ago. Still, he takes a gulp, then another, before he gets up and walks over to the young singer, who is fiddling with the strings of her lute, brows drawn together in displeasure. She looks up at him anyway, and her eyes are blue. Not the right shade, although even Geralt isn’t sure which one it would be anymore, but they are blue nonetheless, and for a moment, Geralt considers turning back, because he doesn’t know if he can speak.

“Yes?”, she prompts when he doesn’t, raises an eyebrow inquisitively. She’s pretty without being stunning, but there’s a light in her blue, blue eyes that makes it easy to forget about it. “Do you need something?” He does, but nothing she can give him; nonetheless, Geralt does his best to smile a little, because he knows that is what Jaskier would have done. “Yes”, he tells her, and knows that the rest of the pain is still etched into his words, won’t go away for hours. “I wanted to ask – do you know more of his songs? Any of them, it doesn’t matter which. It’s just, it has been too long since I last heard them.”

Although it’s been decades since Jaskier passed, Geralt cannot force his name from his lips, fears it would slice them to shreds, but the singer seems to understand what he means anyway. She looks confused, but nods slowly, eyes narrowing. “…I do. There’s that one about the Witcher, I know that fairly well. I can play it, if you want.” Geralt doesn’t tell her that her description hardly narrows it down, Jaskier has written countless songs about Witchers, about him and Lambert and Vesemir and Eskel and far, far later, about Ciri, too, instead he just nods, tries to give her another smile, but fails. There are no tears, because he has already shed more of them than one lifetime could permit, but Geralt can still feel his throat go tight, the roof of his mouth start to hurt, even if his eyes stay dry. He knows what song she means.

“I’d appreciate it”, he says instead, heart so swollen in his chest that it is hard to breathe. “Thank you.”

 “Thank you”, Jaskier says softly as they walk towards the castle, Geralt dressed in black silk that crinkles with every step he takes, driving him slowly insane. “I know you didn’t want to come, even if there is food and beer and women. I really appreciate it.” It’s not like the bard to talk like this, sound so honest, so sincere, and despite himself, it makes Geralt turn to look at him. The same thing happened earlier this evening, Jaskier crouching in front of his bathtub, his expression so unguarded that Geralt had wondered if the bard wanted him to read a secret in his eyes, his voice so soft when he muttered, “And yet, here we are.”

He doesn’t look quite the same now, but there is still something in his gaze that Geralt thinks he could decipher, if he only tried hard enough. “Don’t mention it”, he answers, keeping his voice low, monotone and looks away so whatever Jaskier is hiding can stay hidden. “Just make sure I don’t have to leave this mess sober.” Jaskier chuckles and there is an edge to even his voice, but before Geralt can decide if he wants to figure it out after all, the bard puts a hand on his shoulder, just for a moment. “Of course, my dear Witcher. Whatever you want.”

 She sings and Geralt listens, sees Jaskier walk in front of him, hair tousled in the wind, a nuisance he wasn’t able to get of rid of, yet. Sees Jaskier, leaning against a table and singing along with the crowd, the stench of selkiemore guts on his tongue, the bard’s soft eyes in his mind. Sees Jaskier standing on a table, wobbling dangerously as he tries to conduct the crowd around him as they sing, a tankard of ale in his hand and his smile so bright it put every celestial body to shame, and his body warm in Geralt’s arms later, when he had slipped and the Witcher had caught him mid-air. Sees Jaskier, his hair as silver as Geralt’s, but his smile so much brighter, playing his lute in their favourite tavern in Oxenfurt because the barmaid had asked for it so nicely.

It’s impossible to look at her, so Geralt doesn’t try, instead keeps his eyes on the rough surface of the table, traces the lines in the wood with his gaze while he listens to Jaskier’s words, sung by the wrong person, always the wrong person. “He’s a friend of humanity, so give him the rest-”, she sings, and Geralt sees Jaskier, every version of him so clearly that he can almost trick himself into thinking the bard will be there when he looks up again. “That’s my epic tale, our champion prevailed, defeated the villain…”

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t dare to, but cannot help but to wish that his tears had not yet dried up so he could shed them again.

 Geralt doesn’t watch Jaskier leave, because even if he is so angry he can feel himself tremble with it, he knows that those would be memories he wouldn’t know how to get rid of again. Everything seems to be crumbling around him and he doesn’t know how to stop it, doesn’t know how to cope, but he knows how to lash out, how to hurt. And hurt he did, he doesn’t need to watch Jaskier to know that. Maybe it’s better this way, because it would have happened sooner or later, Geralt knows it, because he knows humans and he knows himself. Maybe it’s better if Jaskier leaves before Geralt has figured out what the bard hides behind the blue of his eyes.

 Leaving the tavern is more difficult than Geralt would have thought, as if Jaskier’s melodies had ingrained themselves in the walls to make them matter, but there is still a reward to be collected, and even if Geralt wishes it was different, as long as he continues to breathe, he needs the money. The singer’s eyes follow him as he leaves, blue and bright and beautiful.

 Time has passed, but it seems it hasn’t changed a thing. Geralt is tired, so tired that he can feel it in his bones, his very soul. And yet, it only takes one look at Jaskier’s face for him to forget how coming here, every step had felt like walking a mile. He looks different and yet the same, blue eyes and brown hair, lips that should be smiling, but are pressed together in a thin line although Jaskier is surrounded by people, by ale, by music. The tavern is everything he should want and yet Jaskier looks broken, battered, and Geralt hates himself for causing this, hates himself for still feeling relief flood through him, just because he’s in the bard’s presence again.

It had been difficult to admit at first, but oh, he has missed Jaskier, and missed him terribly; yet, it might be the hardest thing he has ever done to cross the room. Their surroundings are loud, people talking and drinking, but Geralt doesn’t even make it half the way before Jaskier looks up and directly at him, as if it was him with the mutated senses, not Geralt. For a second he seems to be frozen in time, but then his eyes widen, his lips part with a silent gasp that Geralt can nonetheless hear across the chatter, the clanking of tankards. And Geralt is lost, because there's pain written still on Jaskier's face, inked into the blue of his eyes, and Geralt feels. For years, oh so many of them, he has refused to name it, that tightening of his chest, the breathlessness, the warmth that looking at Jaskier brings, but now the feeling names itself, declares itself to be love and Geralt cannot do more than nod mutely, and agree.

"Jaskier", he rasps out and hopes that the bard's human ears won't pick up on what his hear so clearly: the tightening of his chest, the breathlessness, the warmth. Everything around them seems to fall away, as easy as raindrops would; how could it dare to matter when Geralt hasn’t seen Jaskier in such a long time, when he has missed him so fiercely that he can still feel the remnants of pain gripping his heart, clouding his vision. He had been nervous coming here, but there is no room left for it now, no need, because there is pain on Jaskier’s face, and pain means there is still feeling left. And Jaskier has always been far too good a person to refuse forgiveness.

Geralt’s feet cross the remaining distance without him commanding them to, stop when Jaskier is so close that, if he dared to, Geralt could reach out and touch him. He doesn’t, but not for lack of wanting to. “Jaskier”, he repeats, just because the name feels right on his lips, because it’s been so long since he has uttered it. The bard’s companions are watching them, but it matters little when Geralt is back in the one home he thinks he has found, within Jaskier’s sight. “Forgive me. I meant none of it, not even in my weakest moment. It doesn’t make it right, and I know I do not deserve it, but please, forgive me nonetheless.”

After the way Geralt has treated him, Jaskier would deserve far more, an apology only a poet could craft, but this is all he has to offer, for better or for worse, and after all the time they spent together, Geralt trusts Jaskier to know as much. Trusts him with every fibre of his being, trusts him against every bit of training they tried to ingrain in him, trusts him because it’s Jaskier and he has never done anything but earn it.

A few moments pass, in which Geralt doesn’t allow himself to doubt, because Jaskier’s eye glisten blue and wet in the light of the fireplace, then Jaskier’s head jerks to the side, he wipes his eyes and there’s a sound coming from him that is as close to a sob as Geralt has ever heard, rich with emotion, slick with tears. But when he looks up, there’s a smile on his face, brighter still than the ones Geralt can remember, his cheeks are flushed, and Geralt wants nothing but to hold him, feel how warm his skin is when it presses against the Witcher’s. “Of course, I do”, Jaskier answers softly, and his voice is still half sob, half laugh, his eyes so wild and happy they take Geralt’s breath away. “You know I do.  I was just waiting for you to ask me to.”

And he reaches out across the distance between them to take one of Geralt’s hands in his, holding it tightly for just a moment. Geralt’s skin burns for the rest of the night.

 Roach is waiting outside for him, just as reliable as her predecessors were, nudges Geralt’s hand as he unties her as if she can feel something is wrong. This version of Roach didn’t know Jaskier, just like the one before didn’t and the thought is enough for Geralt’s overfull, empty heart to clench painfully. “Come on”, he tells her and wraps the reins around his hand; the merchant who hired him doesn’t live far away, so he doesn’t bother to mount the mare, just leads her through dusty, unfamiliar streets until they reach the small house. It’s seen better days, Geralt can still make out cracked white paint under the grime as he leaves Roach outside, taking the trophy with him, the bag he stored it in wet with blood and Roach’s sweat. The sturdy oak door underneath the merchant’s sign seems out of place on such a house, or in Lindenvale in general. Perhaps it agrees, Geralt can hear Jaskier tease as he pushes it open to reveal the small shop and he cannot keep the smile from tugging at his lips. Jaskier would love it, knowing that Geralt can still hear his voice so many decades later, that he talked enough for his words not to only last his, but Geralt’s lifetime.

“Killed your griffin”, he tells the shopkeeper when the older man doesn’t look up immediately, crosses the distance between them quickly; he can see bolts of fabric in the back of the room, white and green and cornflower blue. The faster he can leave again, the better. He drops the soiled bag onto the counter, undoubtedly ruining the papers the merchant was working on, but Geralt is too old, has seen too many people bluster and grumble and rail to care any longer. This merchant doesn’t even seem inclined to do that, only looks down at the trophy with shock painted across his face for a few moments, before raising his eyes to meet Geralt’s. They are brown and scared and Geralt breathes a sigh of relief.

“….yes, yes, of course, thank you, Master Witcher, certainly – “, he stutters out, pale around the nose as if he has never seen blood before. He very well might not have, but as long as he doesn’t faint, Geralt cannot bring himself to care, not when the echo of Jaskier’s ballad is still ringing in his ears. The merchant rummages through a drawer for a few seconds before retrieving a pouch of coins, sufficiently heavy for Geralt not to count them after the man has handed it to him. It should be enough for a few nights in an inn, food and drink and some supplies, and it has been so, so long since Geralt asked for any more.

He grunts in the merchant’s direction, turns to leave, but a timid voice stops him, fragile and with a hint of desperation clinging to words. “What – what am I supposed to do with this?” And Geralt suddenly is so, so tired. Of the same people, the same questions, the same fear and shock and disgust and loathing, the same towns and the same monsters, the same sun rising and setting again, illuminating everything Geralt has already seen and isn’t able to leave behind “I don’t know”, he growls, far more vicious than intended and yet not able to hold himself back. “Sell it, burn it, throw it out for all I care. It’s just meat and bones, nothing more and nothing less than any of us.”

 When Geralt wakes, it’s still early, the morning sun only just sending out her first rays of light into a world that seems lighter than usual, even without it. It’s only been a few weeks since Jaskier allowed Geralt back into his life, and up until now, the novelty of it has not yet worn off. It seems to tinge every second of the day, makes steps lighter, words come easier and Geralt’s heart ache in the most pleasant way every time he looks over and finds Jaskier smiling.

They’ve gone west for no reason at all, but although money is tight, it’s the best Geralt has felt in what seems like an eternity. And the lack of funds brings one thing Geralt has never before been able to truly appreciate, it seems. Brings nights camped out in the wilderness in which Jaskier sits close to him to soak up the fire’s warmth, sings soft songs that are not for a crowd, but only for Geralt’s ears, wakes up beside him, dark lashes fluttering open like a butterfly’s tender wings.

If he hadn’t yet accepted the way his feelings have changed, Geralt thinks he would have to do so now, because there is a tenderness gripping his heart when he looks at Jaskier which he hasn’t felt with anyone before, not with Triss, not even with Yennefer, who he thought for so long he loved. But Jaskier is different, bold where Yen was harsh, gentle where she was fierce, sweet where she was forced to be bitter. Sometimes, Geralt still thinks of her, still misses her, but if so, then for her wit and her determination, not her kisses.

The sun is creeping up the sky, turning it pink and golden; it won’t take long until it wakes Jaskier, so Geralt uses the little time he still has to allow himself to watch Jaskier sleep and to finally be happy.

 Since it’s only midday, Geralt knows he could go on, find a new contract in a new village, help people, like Jaskier asked him to all those years ago, but he cannot bring himself to leave, not when there is a chance to hear his bard’s music again. So instead, he leads Roach to nearest inn, pats her chestnut fur and listens to her whinny softly. She’s getting older too, her mane losing its shine and her stamina fading, but Geralt still loves her dearly, can’t imagine trading her for a younger mare. Hopes deep down that this time, it’ll be Roach who loses her rider and not the other way around.

The inn is small, but the stables where he leaves Roach are clean enough, a young boy promising to take care of her for a few orens, and there is a room left for him inside. It’s furniture is sparse, a bed, a small table and a water basin, but it’s more than enough for Geralt. He’s used to less, to makeshift camps on the side of the road, to the cold of Kaer Morhen, to the emptiness of their house and bed and garden in Novigrad after Jaskier had passed. So he drops his bags on the table and starts to take off the armour, his muscles crying out their gratitude; it’s been days since he allowed himself rest for more than a few hours and even his mutated body isn’t as spry as it used to be, aching from old wounds and new, aching most of all because Geralt has long since stopped taking care of it.

 They stumble into the room, Geralt’s arm slung across Jaskier’s shoulder so he can keep himself steady, the bard’s hands warm as he helps him sit down onto the bed. There’s blood staining his palms, bright red on pale skin, and Geralt wonders for a short, delirious moment if Jaskier would allow him to kiss it away. “I’m not sure if I should scold you or patch you up first”, Jaskier grumbles, even as he starts to pull off Geralt’s armour piece by piece, by now as familiar with the buckles and clasps as the Witcher is himself. But there is panic hidden in his scent, sharp and metallic, and Geralt would do anything to soothe him. “What a silly thing to do, letting that slyzard get so close to you. How did you even make it this long, if something so – so hideous gets close enough to you to do this. Couldn’t you just use your pretty fingers to make your pretty signs and not get sliced apart by that disgusting phallus with wings?”

Geralt can’t help but chuckle, regretting it just a moment later when the motion aggravates the wound on his chest, the one on his ribs. It was a hideous thing, Jaskier was right, with a tail that had whipped the sword right out of his hands, the breath from his lungs. But - “It was coming right at you, Jaskier”, he explains quietly, trying not to wince when Jaskier removes his breastplate, then the tattered shirt he wears underneath. “It would have torn you to shreds, I couldn’t let that happen.” The hands inspecting his chest falter in their rhythm as Jaskier looks up from where he is kneeling in front of Geralt, something tender hidden in the blue of his eyes, something else that Geralt now wants to decipher more than anything else but hasn’t managed yet. Jaskier’s fingers trail idly across his collarbone, far away from the actual wound but still enough to make Geralt shiver.

“I appreciate the sentiment, believe me, my dear Witcher, I do”, he says softly, and his fingers have not yet stopped moving across Geralt’s skin. “But by now you should know that if anything were to happen to you, it would do just the same.”

 He calls for a bath to soothe his ever aching muscles, because that is what Jaskier would have done,  even if, without someone by his side to work out the kinks in his back, someone to press soft fingers into the tense mess of scars that covers his entire body, the relief will fade quickly. The bath doesn’t take long to come, two boys, carrying a large tub between them, that will still only just fit Geralt’s body. They’re followed by another two girls, pretty things that steal looks at Geralt’s form as they empty jug after jug of water into the bath until it is full, steam filling the small room until the air feels stifling. Fleetingly, Geralt hopes that what they saw was no monster, but a man, yet the thought vanishes and leaves no trace of its existence behind.

Instead of hoping, Geralt undresses and sinks into the bath, which should smell like chamomile and lavender, but instead has no scent at all. Still, the heat is pleasant, chases away some of the tension in his limbs, the strain in his neck and the sheen of sweat and blood that has collected on his skin since he started hunting the griffin. It was an easy enough beast to slay, yet enough to inflict scratches, which smart in the water, even if in the most pleasant of ways. He takes a deep breath, letting the steam feel his lungs until it feels like he is drowning in it, then dunks his head under water until he can believe it.

 As much as Geralt teases Jaskier about his oils, his bathing salts, it’s hard to pretend that he doesn’t enjoy them now as the whole room smells of herbs and flowers as he steps into it. The scent must be a remnant of the bath Jaskier had ordered just before Geralt had left to stock up on supplies, on dried meat, alcohest and grease for the bard’s beloved lute. It’s not the one he usually uses, Geralt notices, it’s not as sweet, but carries a hint of tartness, the scent of fool’s parsley and ranogrin. And Jaskier doesn’t look like he usually does either, because Geralt doesn’t find him humming under his breath or plucking away on his lute, doesn’t find him spread out on the bed with a quill in his hand and dark ink stains on his fingertips. Instead, Jaskier is sitting on the mattress, his back against the wall and his skin still flushed from the hot water, the steam that still lingers in the air. He’s not wearing his doublet, his chemise half tucked into his breeches, and he looks beautiful, looks soft, looks like everything Geralt wants to look at for the rest of his days.

But at the same time, he looks more pensive than Geralt is used to, elegant brows drawn together as he studies the hands he has clasped in his lap, quite as if he held in them a mystery he can’t begin to solve. Even to look up at Geralt takes him a few moments, and while that doesn’t hurt, it might sting a little. “Jaskier?”, he asks, setting aside his bag and stepping closer to the bed, the bard’s cornflower eyes finally on him, following his steps. “What’s the matter?”

What Geralt expects is that one of the stable hands had insulted his singing, or a maid had rebuffed advances that he truly had meant, a small reason, easily fixed with ale and a good night’s rest, but instead Jaskier slowly blinks, then fixes his eyes– and by Melitele, how are they so blue, so bright even if Jaskier is distraught? – on Geralt, a new determination seeping into the furrows of his brow, into the curve of his pink mouth. “What are we to each other, Geralt?”, he asks and there is a shiver in his voice that Geralt hears but cannot understand.

He cannot understand the question either and maybe it’s that what causes his chest to constrict painfully, his heart turn to ice within it, because whatever is hidden behind those word, it matters to Jaskier and Geralt doesn’t know the right answer. Doesn’t know what will happen if he gives the wrong one.

Gingerly, he steps forward, feeling like he is crossing a river on the thinnest ice, only stops when he’s so close that he could touch Jaskier, if he only had the courage to do so. “What do you mean? We are… friends. Are we not?” It is the first time he says it out-loud, but surely, Jaskier must know already. After all, Geralt has stopped denying it years ago, has listened to his songs and shared his camp, his food, his life with Jaskier. He has always been better with actions than words, meant I care for you every time he allowed Jaskier to ride on Roach when his feet were aching but the next town too far away, meant Don’t leave me every time he let Jaskier pick their next destination, was trying to say I love you with every look, every touch, every breath. Maybe it wasn’t enough, he thinks, and it strikes fear in his heart unlike any monster could.

“That I know”, Jaskier replies, his eyes softening but the resolve is still there, hidden behind shining eyes; for a moment, Geralt breathes a bit more easily. “But it’s not what I mean.” “What then? You’re not making sense.” “How long have we known each other?”, Jaskier, asks, leaning forward, but doesn’t give Geralt a chance to answer. “Decades. And we travelled many of those years together, so I would never have wanted to disturb our relationship by asking for something you couldn’t give, and yet I cannot help but wonder… it used to be that we travelled together for a few months, then split and met up again when the time for it was right, but think of the last time we parted. It’s been years, I think. You even spent the last winter with me in Oxenfurt instead of Kaer Morhen, although I know you hate the city.”

Jaskier laughs softly, his eyes crinkling at the edges, and he is right, Geralt hates the city and yet hated the thought of leaving his bard even more. For a moment, he wants to say something, but Jaskier isn’t finished. “You have seen me at my best and at my worst”, he continues, and his voice is soft, contemplative. “When I was successful and when I had failed, when I got injured, rejected, thrown aside, and when I was happy, silly, drunk with love or ale or a crowd’s adoration. And yet, it seems that you haven’t tired of me. You let me dress your wounds, wash your hair, keep you company in your worst moments, in your best.”

He takes a deep breath and something deep inside of Geralt aches with the need to hold him, trembles with fear because he still doesn’t know where Jaskier wants to take him with those sweet words that feel like they could be either a beginning or an end. But he can’t, not yet, maybe not ever. “I hope-”, Jaskier starts once more, looks up at him, and this is it, this is where everything will change, Geralt can feel it, a tension crackling through the air. “I hope you know that I would never expect anything from you that you didn’t want to give. And I hope that, if you don’t reciprocate what I feel for you, that it doesn’t change the friendship we have. But I just – I can’t help but hope, because of the way you sometimes look at me, and touch me, and because you let me say all this without interrupting me once… Geralt, tell me, is there really nothing but friendship between us?”

 He stays in the bath until the water has gone cold, then gets out to dress in the same shirt and breeches as before, feels the rough material scratch at his skin as if to ask him to spend the rest of his days submerged in water and memory. The light has changed since Geralt has last looked outside, midday giving way to a sunny afternoon. The bed seems to be calling out to him, a sweet siren song, and he could stay here, sleep until the next morning, but his herb supplies are running low, his whetstones almost ground to dust. And there is another song, ingrained in every of his cells, that draws him back to the tavern, back to the singer’s too-high voice and inept fingers. It’s the one temptation Geralt can’t withstand, even if it’s no longer his siren who weaves the tunes. So, he leaves the room behind and pretends he can smell ranogrin, fool’s parsley and the saccharine scent of love.

[solynaceawrites]

Promise Me Forever [4]

Fandom: Devil May Cry Characters: Dante, Lirael Thorne (OC) Tags: Slow Burn, Romance, Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe, First Time, Friends to Lovers Chapters: 3/14 co-written by @lickitysplitfic​ Summary: An old, long-forgotten promise between gods comes back to haunt Dante when it deposits an unfamiliar woman on his door. Claiming to be the descendant of Ler, she says that they’re meant to fulfill the oath made by Sparda centuries ago, and all he can do is watch as she turns his life upside down. Yet when her parents come knocking, demanding the oath be fulfilled, he’s forced to choose: return to the bachelor ways he loved so much, or give in to the emotions brewing between him.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

It turns out to be another sleepless night for Dante. At first, he simply cannot get comfortable; blaming it on the humidity caused by a storm rolling in, he opens the windows and strips himself nude, and kicks the covers to the foot of the bed. Then comes the restlessness he knows all too well, the kind that can usually be solved with a nice little round of masturbation. Yet the second his hand touches his cock, the image of Lir comes to mind, and he releases it with a curse. He might be an asshole, but he's not that kind of asshole.

All of that serves to leave him irritable and more than a little wound up the next morning, and he spends a long time in the shower, trying to get himself under control. If he doesn't, he'll snap at her sooner or later, or worse, and she doesn't deserve that. Dante is careful not to drip too much water on the floors as he dries off, and then he dresses and heads down into the shop.

“—will be alright," he hears Lir say. Pausing, he leans over the railing, his brows going up at the sight of her sitting on the couch with a woman sobbing into a tissue. "Dante will be able to take care of it."

Her position lets him drink in her figure, the braid of her hair exposing the elegant sweep of her neck. He swallows thickly, listening to the conversation unfold. "Are you sure?" the woman sniffles.

"Yes. He's very good at this. I've seen it," Lir reassures her. "I know you must be feeling hopeless, but he can help you."

"Help with what?" he calls as he takes the stairs two at a time.

Lir stands and gestures him over. "You have a new client," she says, beaming with pride. 

Dante remembers the fuss she made over him killing the demons last night, and he clears his throat uncomfortably as he sits at his desk. "What's the situation?" he asks.

The woman sniffles as she describes what sounds like a very basic haunting: Demons have taken over her garage, nasty little devils that are eating the stray cats. "My poor babies," she sobs, blowing her nose. "I leave food out for all the neighborhood cats. I tried to keep them safe, but they've been devoured, one by one!"

"That must have been very upsetting," Lir says sympathetically.

She nods as Lir pats her shoulder. "Misty had a litter two days ago, and I know they'll be next. Please, you have to help me!"

Lir looks at him expectantly. It's obvious she wants him to say something comforting, but he frowns. "Why are you feeding all the vermin anyway?" he asks. "Stray cats are a nuisance."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows his mistake. Lir's eyes go wide as the woman leans forward and hisses viciously, "Listen, you, those are God's creatures you're talking about, and those evil, disgusting demons need to go straight back to hell where they belong!"

Dante holds up his hands to defend himself, but Lir quickly interrupts, "What Dante meant is that you should feed them elsewhere until he can take care of the demons for you. Didn't you, Dante?" she finishes, giving him a pointed look.

". . . Yeah." The woman deflates, her tears returning, and he feels a brief stab of irritation he tries to ignore. "It sounds easy enough. You and your . . ." Lir shakes her head subtly. "You and your friends should find a place to stay for a few days, until the job is done."

Watery eyes fix on his own. "You'll be careful, won't you? Those . . . those things have caused enough damage."

He does his best to hold in a sharp retort, though his voice is clipped when he replies, "I'll do what I can."

"Come on," Lir says gently, helping the woman to her feet. "Let me make you a cup of tea, and then we can work on getting your contact information, okay?"

She leads her away, Dante tracking the sway of her hips. It's only been two days since she arrived, bringing another mess for him to sort through, yet he's finding himself more and more adjusted to her presence, more at ease with having her around. And it helps that she's pretty to look at, even if that train of thought is likely to lead him to other, less polite ones. 

After Lir serves tea she produces a contract for her to sign, which the woman does as she rambles on about her cats. Dante tunes out Lir's polite questions after the felines to wonder how she had found them—hell, after Morrison had given him a stack of boilerplates years ago, he stuffed them in a drawer and forgot about them. Did she clean his desk too?

The woman leaves and Lir makes sure the door is firmly shut before bursting into giggles. "That was a strange one!" she remarks, walking over to his desk and handing him the contract. "Are all your cases so interesting?"

"Yeah. Hey, how did you do that?" he asks.

Lir blinks at him, her arm still extended, holding out the paper for him to take. "Do what?"

"That. With that client. She left . . ." Dante grasps for the word. "Happy?"

Her brows furrow, and he's filled with the sudden, ridiculous urge to kiss the indent between them to smooth it away. "Do your clients tend to leave unhappy?"

"Maybe. I dunno." He takes the contract from her and leans back in his chair to get a little more space before he does something she'll regret. "They certainly aren't saying thank you, or smiling."

"I . . . I was just nice to her. That's all." Lir tugs at the hem of her shirt, her fingers worrying the fabric. "I was taught how to be a good hostess, in case I ever needed to be, so I just . . . talked to her?"

"Talk to her," he muses, opening a drawer in the desk. "I'll have to try that some time.”

He looks down and frowns again, spying hanging file folders neatly labeled and lined in order. When did she have time to do all this?

"Are you hungry?" Lir asks. "I didn't get much done with the client here so early, but I did manage to bake some muffins and brew some fresh coffee."

"Come here," he says, pushing the drawer closed with his foot. She does as he's asked, stepping around the desk until she's next to him, and there's the same nervous energy from the other night, when he'd cornered her in the laundry room. Slowly, he stands, leaning down to study her face. "You sleep at all?"

"What? Yes, of course." She looks up at him, a faint rosy hue to her cheeks. "Why do you ask?"

"Just wonderin'. You got a lot done over the past few days."

Lir chuckles. "I've never been one to need a lot of sleep. Besides, I've been training my whole life to take care of a son of Sparda. And I . . . like it." The last part is almost a whisper, and she blushes and looks away. "You've been very kind to me, letting me stay here. It's the least I could do."

"Show me these muffins," he says, and Lir gives him another smile that leaves him a bit hot under the collar.

He is on his third when the phone rings back in the office. "I'll get it," Lir says, breezing out of the kitchen.

Her voice filters in with, "Devil May Cry, how can I help you?" as he looks over the remaining muffins, when Lir calls, "Dante! It's Lady!"

"Alright!" he calls back. Snagging a blueberry muffin and popping as much of it as he can into his mouth, he saunters back to his desk, swallowing as he grabs the receiver. "'Bout time you called."

"Yeah, yeah." Her voice is a bit crackly. "Almost thought I had the wrong shop for a minute. When'd you let her start answering calls?"

Dante glances over to Lir, who is carefully sweeping the rug by the door. "I don't let her do anything. She chooses to. I just don't stop her."

"Well, aren't you getting soft?" Lady laughs. Ignoring his sputtered protests, she continues, "I found her home. It's a town called Llyrlen, about three hours away from Fortuna by car. Pretty self-contained, too."

"Llyrlen, huh?"

"Yeah. Seems they take this god thing pretty seriously." She sighs. "But, from what I could gather, it's all true. Sparda and this Ler met and made a promise, and Lir, as the god's direct descendant and the only of her sisters eligible to marry, was sent to fulfill it."

He rubs his lips. "What happens if she doesn't?"

"From what I heard, exactly what she said. She'll be an outcast, stripped of everything and sent to work in the archives for the rest of her life. Kind of like a nun, only less pleasant."

"Okay." He glances at Lir, who watches him expectantly. Can he really let that happen? "Thanks for doing this. I'll see you when you get back."

"Yeah. Don't let Lir leave, okay? I'm going to make a quick stop but I'll be there in a few days. Then I'll help her figure out what to do."

Dante feels a bit of a burn in his throat at the implication that he wouldn't bother doing the same. "Yeah. I won't. And, hey, listen, they didn't know you were there, right? Lir's family?"

"What do you take me for? I'm a professional."

With that the line goes dead, and he sighs as he hangs up the receiver. "What did she say?" Lir asks tightly.

Dante shrugs. "You were right. We're supposed to get married."

He waits for the accusatory response, but instead she looks at him, her eyes more hesitant than he'd like. "What do you want to do?" The question startles him; shouldn't he be asking her that? "Should I pack my things?"

"No! No, you're not goin' anywhere." He runs a hand through his hair, leaning heavily against his desk. "I don't think marriage is in the cards and, after you seein' what I'm really like, I'd be surprised if you still wanted to. But you can . . . Having you around is nice. If you want to stay, you can." 

Dante expects her to respond with her usual enthusiasm, but instead, she seems to deflate. "I can't impose on you like that."

"Sure you can," he says. "I don't mind."

Lir shakes her head. "It's not . . . you're the son of Sparda, and—"

"Would you lay off that son of Sparda stuff?" Dante snaps. 

"Well! It's the truth!" she fires back, taking him by surprise. "And I can't stay here if we're not married. It's not proper."

Her expression is furious, but Dante bursts into laughter. "Proper? Like marrying a stranger is proper?"

She folds her arms in a huff. "That's different."

"How?"

"Because it was . . . It was . . . It just is!"

"I'll pay you," he chuckles, trying not to focus on how cute she is when she's mad, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, trying not to wonder if she'd look like that after he kissed her. It's not the time, it's not the place, and he's got no right to think those things about her. "You stay here, work the phones, greet clients, and I'll pay you in room and board."

"Forty percent," she says.

"What!" he exclaims. "No way. That's robbery."

Lir shrugs. "Fine. Thirty."

"Ten."

"Twenty-five."

Dante growls. "Twenty and I'll take you to the aquarium and the zoo."

"Deal!" She sticks her hand out with a grin. "See how good I am at negotiating?"

"Damn near ruthless," he agrees, clasping her fingers between his own. Yet he finds it harder than he'd like to let go; blaming it on whatever it is that's making him so horny, he forces himself to drop her hand. "Well, looks like we've got the rest of the day to ourselves. Anything you want to do?"

Lir taps her chin. "I need to see what I can cook for dinner tonight, but, before that, I'd like to finish cleaning upstairs. If that's okay?"

"Be my guest."

She smiles at him. "Okay. I'll make a fresh pot of coffee. Oh! And you need to start getting ready for that job, right?"

"Right. Cat lady." Lir gives him a look and he rolls his eyes. "Fine, fine. Sooner I get that done the better." He walks around his desk and grabs the guitar case, slinging it over his back. "You'll be okay for a few hours?"

"Yup!" she says. Then Lir smiles shyly. "You'll be safe, won't you?

That makes him pause. When was the last time anyone had been worried for his safety? Usually everyone assumed he would be fine, and he always was, but something about having her ask makes him feel warm in a way he doesn't quite understand. "Don't worry that pretty head too much. I doubt I'll need more than the girls to handle this." Seeing her confusion, he amends, "The guns."

"Oh! I see. Well, then. Hm." Dante waits to hear whatever it is she's trying to say, but what he's not expecting is for her to brace her hands on his shoulders and lean up to press the briefest of kisses to his cheek. "For luck."

His skin burns with her kiss, and Dante quickly spins, giving a weak salute as he heads out the door. Suddenly filled with way, way too much energy, he decides to head to the job on foot, whistling to himself as he moves through the city.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Dante practically crawls back to the Devil May Cry, sighing with relief when he turns the knob of the front door. 

He winces, his fingers and hands covered in scratches that leave tracks all the way up his arms and over his chest. They don't hurt terribly bad, but the sheer amount of scrapes all combined cause him to ache every time he moves. The rest of him hadn't fared much better, his clothes splattered with now-dried blood, sweat and dirt making his cuts sting.

All he wants is a beer and a nap, maybe in that order. But the second he steps inside the shop and smells the cleaning products and fails to trip over some stuff on the floor, he remembers he's not alone anymore.

"Dante! You're back!" Lir calls excitedly over from the couch. He turns around and gingerly takes off his coat, hanging it on the door as her voice gets closer. "I was starting to worry. I didn't make anything but I can heat up—oh my goodness! You're hurt!"

Her hands are on his arms, pushing up his sleeves as she chews on her lip. "Nah, I'm fine," he says.

Lir gives him a sharp look, making him feel scolded. "What happened?" she demands.

"Those damn cats," Dante growls. "The demons were no problem, but the cats didn't like me much."

"Oh," she breathes. "I'm sorry, I didn't even think to . . . Of course they'd be aggressive towards you. Cats can sense demons, and one was attacking them. Sit here." She tugs him to the couch, and he allows her to guide him, sinking onto the cushions with a sigh. "I'll be right back. I think I saw a first aid kit in the bathroom."

Dante waits until she's gone to lean his head back, and it isn't long until he's dozing. The sensation of cool hands against his skin rouses him a bit. He cracks open his eyes to find Lir kneeling between his legs, her hair tucked behind her ears as she carefully dabs antiseptic over his scrapes, a bottle of beer sitting next to her on the floor. He lifts a hand to graze his fingers over her cheek, and her eyes flick to his face, a soft smile curling her lips.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she says quietly. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," he chuckles. "But I'm good."

Lir gives him a shy smile. Then she shifts to lean over him, brushing his hair back so she can swab his forehead. "These don't look too bad, you know. They'll be healed in a few days."

"Sooner than that," he murmurs.

Dante can feel his healing working already, but some part of him wishes it wouldn't, so she can still keep working on him. Lir searches his face before going back to checking his arms, and he uses the opportunity to just gaze at her.

It's not the first time he's studied her, but it is the first that he's been this close while doing it. Her brows and lashes are darker than her hair, an ashy gray, and they almost seem to glow with the pale amber of her eyes. There are no freckles or other markings on her creamy skin, though a faint scar tracks along her temple, and, with her straight nose and full lips, she's gorgeous. Dante brushes a few strands of hair from her face, his heart thudding uncomfortably when she leans into the touch after a second's hesitation.

When she looks up again, they are close, close enough that he can feel her breath fan on his lips. His own part and her eyes dart down, and Dante feels his heart thudding as her mouth curves up into a smile. "I think you're going to live," she murmurs.

"Lucky me," he replies.

Lir licks her lips. The gesture makes something inside him tighten, but then she eases away, leaning over to clean up her supplies. "I was thinking of doing a delivery order," she says, her back to him. "Now that I'm staying I can get more groceries in. There are also some items that I can use to make different oils and potions you can use."

"Potions?" murmurs Dante, his eyes sliding along her spine.

She peeks at him over her shoulder with a grin. "Yeah. Like for when you come back from fighting some stray cats covered in cuts and bruises?"

"As long as you're the one putting it on me." She stiffens for a moment before laughing quietly, and he decides that he likes the sound of it almost as much as he does the sound of her talking to him. "You know, I gotta ask. Pretty girl, good head on her shoulders, and her family sends her off to marry someone she's never met? How'd you wind up with this gig?"

Lir hums, latching the kit. "I have three older sisters. One of them is married, and the other two are betrothed. I was next in line. That's all."

"Three sisters?"

"Older sisters," she corrects. "There's a younger one, as well."

"That's a . . . lot." He chuckles, the sound cutting off when she stands.

Lir shrugs. "I guess they figured they needed enough daughters in case one of you showed up."

"And what if I didn't?" Dante puts his arms up on the back of the couch, the soreness already faded. "How did you even find me?"

"Fortuna," she answers. "Kind of hard not to notice you."

Dante huffs a laugh as he shakes his head. "Yeah, that was a fuck-up in every way. But suppose I hadn't been there. We wouldn't have ever met."

It isn't a question so much as a realization, and he ends up frowning as she nods in agreement. "I probably would have been married off. If my sisters and I did not marry the son of Sparda, then we would be tasked with creating the next generation of brides."

She offers him a smile before carrying the first aid kit away, her steps soft on the steps. Dante scratches his head, thinking on what she told him. Honestly, it was creepy as hell.

"The next generation of brides," he mumbles. "What the hell did you do, you old bastard?"

Not wanting to get anywhere close to that conversation topic again—at least, not now—he grabs the remote from the coffee table and turns on the television, flicking through until he finds Netflix. Patty had set it up for him and given him one of the slots on her account, but he's never really used it; but maybe there will be something Lir will like. Though why that matters, he doesn't know.

She comes back as he's scrolling through different horror movies, and he hears her gasp and looks up to find her covering her mouth with her hand. "What . . . What is that?"

"This? It's . . . Oh. Shit, I'm sorry." Cursing, he flicks back up to something far less gory. "It's called Netflix. All sorts of movies and shows to watch. Thought you might want to pick something for tonight, if you're up to it?"

Lir plops down on the couch next to him, one leg tucked under her, but he notes how she still sits very straight, as if it is practiced. "I don't know," she says very matter-of-factly, turning to look at him. "What kind of entertainment do you like?"

"Uh . . . I guess action? Or maybe a scary movie?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing scary, please. But action would be okay."

Dante nods and scrolls to the right screen. He chooses a movie about aliens invading, the world sending its best fighters to fight, the hero's girl trapped and needing rescuing. Lir had brought him back a plate with some reheated lasagna, which he tucks into as she relaxes just a bit, her eyes on the screen.

But his eyes drift to her again and again, gauging her reactions. At first he tells himself because he wants to see if it's too intense, or if she understood a joke, but eventually he realizes because he just likes watching her. It's almost like reliving it through her, and when she shouts at a lame jumpscare he chuckles. Lir leans in towards him a bit, her eyes glued to the screen, and Dante decides to experiment, pretending to yawn as he reaches his arm up and around her back.

She looks at him, a mixture of concern and confusion playing across her features. "Am I crowding you?" she whispers. "I'm sorry, I'll move."

"No, no, I thought . . ." He yanks his arm back and places it next to him. "Nevermind."

Lir gives him a curious look before turning back to the television. Dante clears his throat, shifting a bit, but now way too distracted by his crash and burn.

It occurs to him briefly that Lir might not know he is trying to flirt a bit, so he decides to take a more direct approach. "Hey, Lir," he murmurs, tilting his head towards her. "Did you know—"

"Sh," she hisses, her eyes glued to the screen.

He sinks back into his seat, steadfastly keeping his own gaze focused on the movie. This no longer seems like a good idea; between her semi-ignorance of the things outside of her home and his inner turmoil growing the longer she's around, being on this couch with her is probably the worst way to be, and it's all made worse by the dull, insistent ache in his groin. Not that it's her fault. Well, maybe it is. Lir readjusts next to him, and her thigh feels like a brand when it brushes his own. 

What he needs is a magazine, a bit of lotion, and a bit of time to himself.

"This is really fun!" Lir exclaims, flashing him a grin.

"Yeah," Dante sighs, stretching his legs out and propping them up on the table. "It's swell."

[bubblyani]

Deeper Relations :02

(Freddie Jackson x Reader)

A Freddie Jackson Multi Chapter Series

Chapter 02: The Confusion

Summary: Being the youngest sister of Jackie and Maggie, you were quite young when Freddie Jackson went to prison. Upon his return, you cannot help but recall your innocent love you had for him back then. And surprised by your transformation into womanhood, Freddie cannot help but form a desire towards you. Will a dangerously seductive attraction grow between the two of you? What will be the consequences?

Requested by: @97freaknik​ Thank you for your detailed request 😘

Author’s Note: Sorry for the major delay. Busy schedule had been keeping me distracted. Can’t wait to explore this story further. Enjoy!

Chapter 1 HERE

“Oh hoho! Did she now? Hehehe...She sounds quite feisty” “She is...but...” “But what?” “Eh...I don’t know if I’m feeling it”

Your eyes may have been on your Professor, enthusiastically sharing his knowledge with his students. But your eyes, they could not help but roll upon hearing the conversation that took place right beside you. French History apparently seemed moot to the two young men sitting next to you. Shaking your head gently, you simply could not believe they were actually who you called friends. 

“But I don’t understand…” Marcus began, “The first few days you were mad about the woman, and now this? What’s wrong with you, mate?” He asked Heath.

“Yeah…what is wrong with you?” You hissed, agreeing with him as you and Marcus both looked at him with judgmental eyes. Heath, the blonde merely shrugged his broad shoulders. Chuckling, Marcus nudged him in the shoulder.

“Really can’t make up ya mind, can ya?” He teased. “Piss Off!”

Smiling, you focused on your notes once again, scribbling away any important notes your ears could grasp on.

Guess it was certainly true: Young men really do have a hard time deciding when it came to relationships. No wonder it annoyed you.

Why must they abide with this general law? Why can’t they all take a stand and make a change? Why can’t they be like their older counterparts? Like Freddie for exam-

Your scribbling suddenly halted, making your eyebrows furrow with confusion. Why all the sudden would your thoughts steer towards Freddie? Out of all people in the world, why take him as an example? Rubbing your temples, you forced yourself out of the confusion, by diving into the professor’s enthusiastic voice once again.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Family dinner was always a joyous occasion, and seeing the family being completed brought warmth to your heart.The atmosphere at home seemed livelier with Freddie around again. Being back in his usual business, he remained as you remembered him to be. His jokes made all of you smile whilst the meals were prepared and the table was set.  After years of prison, You wondered it had changed Freddie for better. Given how you much you knew him, you figured it was not that much.

Lena, your mother, Maggie and Jimmy, Jackie and Freddie with the children; you watched all of them with an affectionate feeling. You certainly adored their company, but in large group settings like these, you truthfully preferred to be one of the silent observers with very little engaging. Though you were the youngest amongst the sisters, you felt like the middle child on most occasions. And you did not mind. You indulged in the invisibility, listening to the stories of others, laughing alongside them. But as soon as Lena Summers raised her fork up, pointing it towards your direction, you knew you were being steered into the dreaded conversation.

“So, Y/N…How’s your friend?”

As you swallowed the roasted potatoes, you felt all eyes on you.

“Friend?” You asked, with a chuckle, “You have to be more specific, Mum”

“You know...your friend…” Lena flashed a knowing smile, “…from university”

Completely clueless, you detested the silence that had overcome the atmosphere. As if he read your thoughts, Freddie suddenly cleared his throat, signaling the others to resume eating. Only by hearing the sound of cutlery did you feel calm.

“You mean Molly?” You asked, proceeding to eat, “She’s doing alright-”

“No No No…” your mother interrupted, “ I mean...that nice boy...which one was it? Ah yes Marcus. How is he?”

Still quite clueless, you kept looking at the food on your plate.

“He’s quite alright” you replied, looking up “Mum, why are you so curious about him?” “Nothing...he seems like a nice boy” “Yes, I suppose he is” You said, nodding as she was right about him. You would have never befriended him if he were a bad egg. “Why don’t you consider him then?” Eyes widened, you stared at your mother with shock upon hearing her inquiry. Being the youngest, you were always teased about not having a steady boyfriend yet. Little did you know this would come up so soon at dinner. “Mum…WHAT?” You yelled. “Why not? You’re old enough” Jackie casually joining in the conversation made you even more uncomfortable.   “You too, Jackie?” Turning to her, you exclaimed, “Wha-firstly how do you all even know so much-” pausing, you looked over to the other sister, “Maggie! Did you tell them?”

With Jimmy’s arm over her shoulder, Maggie Summers sat there, guilt evident in her eyes. Being the only family member you trusted enough to vent, you didn’t expect her to do this.

“There’s no need for you to get so worked up, Y/N” she said kindly. “Yeah! there’s nothing wrong” Jimmy quickly chimed in with support, as he should. However, you were not pleased. “Yes, THERE IS…” you snapped, “It’s my business and Marcus is just a friend. Why even bring him up? He just dropped me off home once…So?” “He just seems quite nice-” “Aww come on…”  Freddie began, “…leave Y/N alone now will ya?” He said, looking at everyone at the table, “She’s an adult…and she can make her own bloody decisions just like the rest of us” “Exactly!” You said in an instant, “Thank you, Freddie” You added, glad to have Freddie in your corner. Lena was highly offended.

“Y/N…” she began , “…as your mother, don’t I get a say in this?”

“NO YOU DON’T…” You yelled, standing up, “GOD!!” Groaning in frustration, you really had enough of it. Years of tormenting had set you off, and today you took your stand, by storming out of the dining room to everyone’s surprise. “Y/N, Wait!”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Taking deep breaths and long strides across the garden, you tried to calm yourself down. You loved your family, you really did. But Family had failed to love you the way you expected it to. Finding romance was never easy for you. The struggle you face internally, it could never be compared to your sisters luck. So, a constant reminder of that struggle was not what you needed.

“Boo!” Freddie’s sudden voice made you turn to him with a jump. “Christ! Freddie” You breathed, clutching your chest as he looked amused. “Sorry, cupcake…” he said, “…you alright?” He asked with a softer tone. No matter how much he teased, he was your source of comfort. You sighed. “Not really…” you answered him in all honesty. Lighting a cigarette, Freddie looked in to the distance while you both observed the garden. “Parents…” He began, “They try so hard, yeah? But don’t know when to fucking shut up”

Chuckling, you nodded, “I suppose….Hehe thanks” you said shyly, when he offered you a smoke. His eyes never left you as you took a puff. The nicotine entered your system, calming you in the process, which surprised you. In your opinion, this time you felt like a professional compared to  the previous attempt at the party.

“Hah!” Freddie sounded gleeful as you blew out the smoke “You’re getting used to it, cupcake”

Wearing a proud smile, you took a bow as he clapped. Warmth came over you once again, and suddenly all that humiliation and suffering from earlier felt non-existent.

“Oh! Shit!” You blurted, “…sorry” you added, pointing at the red lipstick mark that stained around his cigarette, as you gave it to him, which he barely even cared for.

“Ah! that’s alright” he said, casually taking it in his lips. Those lips, they were just as you remembered back them. You envied each cigarette that succeeded to kiss those lips daily. Come to think of it, with your lipstick stains marked on this one, your mind could not help but wonder if that was an indirect kiss shared between the two of you. Wait! Why would you even think that?

“Freddie?”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve ever done shotgun kisses?

Your morality raised it’s eyebrows with concern. What the bloody hell are you on about? Smiling mischievously, Freddie nodded, “Ohhh yeah” “How was it?” You asked, folding your arms. “The best…” he winked, whilst taking another puff.

Smiling to yourself, you looked over to the garden once again. The sheer thought of blowing smoke into another’s lips in the form of a kiss, it fascinated you. Excitement rushed in alongside it.

“Guess I should try it out myself sometime…” you said, with a chuckle “…maybe with a friend. Hah! Maybe even with Marcus-” “Why don’t we try it?” You froze. “What?” You inquired, slowly turning to face him, for you could not believe what you just heard. Looking back at you, Freddie appeared nonchalant, yet his eyes were dead serious. As if he was not joking around. Not about this.

And you swore, you felt your heart suddenly beat fast. Why the fuck would he say that?

“Ah! you two!!”

Both of you jumped the moment Jimmy’s voice appeared from nowhere. Standing by the door with his hands on his waist, Freddie’s cousin gave a warm smile, “ Come on now Y/N…everyone’s worried. Let’s go” he said gently, urging you with a tilted head.

You may have walked inside along with them in compliance. Silence may have been gifted to you in the dinning table as a peace offering. Yet, you were left feeling even more confused than ever before. All because of Freddie Jackson.

What was he doing to you?

——————————————————

Chapter 3 HERE

Tagged: @starlightmornings​ @rogerfxckingtaylor​​ @daydreamerinadazedworld​​ @courtney-thevixeniris​​ 

Check my MASTERLIST for more :)

[alltheworldsinmyhead]

                                     i’ll spend this summer by your side

{Lord Gendry Baratheon and Lady Arya Stark meet in Winterfell when they are just kids. Eventually, they grow up and the time for grown-up decisions comes. // a.k.a. gendrya arranged marriage childhood-friends-to-lovers au}

*ao3

*dedicated to the wonderful @yanak324​ - darling, without you I would’ve never written this fic, let along post it. thank you so much for everything <3

When the bones are good, the rest don't matter

Yeah, the paint could peel, the glass could shatter

Let it rain 'cause you and I remain the same

When there ain't a crack in the foundation

Baby, I know any storm we're facing

Will blow right over while we stay put

The house don't fall when the bones are good

- The Bones, Marren Morris & Hozier

A day’s ride away from Storm’s End, Arya falls asleep in a deep, damp forest that smells so much different than the ones in the North. With a crumpled-up letter underneath her pillow, she dreams of the summer afternoon many years ago – of when Gendry first arrived at Winterfell.

She was a child then, of course, but she remembers it surprisingly well; clutching on her mother’s skirts and watching, wide-eyed, a procession of horses and wheelhouses streaming in through the castle’s main gate. Robert Baratheon looked like a giant from Old Nan’s tales with his black beard and booming voice, and she had to tell herself to be brave many, many times before she managed to clumsily curtsy in front of him; anxiousness making her tremble, lose her balance and stain the hem of her dress with mud.

She recalls that Sansa giggled quietly under her breath while she gracefully dipped down, all auburn-haired and perfect. And Arya could just hear it perfectly clear in this laughter, her sisters’ and Jeyne’s dirty little horseface-s, murmured behind her back all day long, so she lowered her eyes as her cheeks reddened.

But then someone kneeled in front of her, taking her gloved hands in his. And when she raised her chin slightly, there was the bluest stare that she has ever seen, bright and clear and looking at her softly.

‘’Greetings, my lady. My name’s Gendry. Can I ask for yours?’’

Gendry. He looked far older than her, of Jon’s age. And he had the same kindness in his voice, the same warmth hidden somewhere in those winter eyes and that gave her all the courage she needed.

With back straight and head held high, she answered:

‘’Arya. I’m not a lady, tho. Don’t call me that.’’

Her mother hissed her name sharply and Sansa gasped, but none of that even mattered, as Gendry smiled. Still on one knee, he raised her right hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles delicately, just like stupid knights in Sansa’s stupid songs.

‘’As you wish, my lady.’’

***

He is to be fostered in Stark’s household, yet another one her mother had sighed, but with no malice in her voice. It is an honor, no matter how one looked at it and even Arya understands that. First Theon Greyjoy, brought by Father like a souvenir from Rebellion. Prince Jon next, on the insistence of his mother, the Queen, who wanted her son to grow up in the North as she did.  And then the heir to Lord Paramount of Stormlands, son of Father’s dear childhood friend.

Other boys give him some space to adjust to Winterfell and Sansa quickly deems him awfully gloomy and refuses to interact with him at all, her apparent delusions about finally meeting ‘’a true Southern nobleman ‘’ whatever that even means, shattered by Gendry’s stormy glare.

‘’I mean, he cannot even hold a proper conversation.’’ Arya overhears Sansa talking to Jeyne as they are sitting in the sewing room, embroidery hoops in their hands. That’s easily the most interesting thing Sansa has ever said around her.

But Arya herself is pretty curious about him. It is true, he looks gloomy and moody, he scowls all the time and doesn’t speak much at all, but so was Jon when he had first got here.  Maybe he’s just shy?  - she's wondering, although the notion does not work well with how he greeted her.

So, when she catches Gendry  alone one time during breakfast, just as he’s stuffing his face with oatmeal in a decidedly-unlordlike manner, she laces her fingers behind her back and asks him boldly:

‘’Do you miss your home much?’’

His chewing stops abruptly and he’s staring at her all surprised, his cheeks puffed out with food. He looks so comedic like that, that she feels a bubble of laughter buzzing in her throat, but she is determined to keep it there. Laughing at him now would be unkind and Arya wants to be kind to Gendry, the way he was kind to her in the courtyard. So she just hops on the bench next to him, uninvited, and waits patiently for him to swallow his oats.

‘’I- I don’t know, really.’’ He answers sheepishly at last, a little red on the face and still looking at her as if he was not sure what she’s even doing, sitting so close to him.

‘’You don’t know if you miss your home?’’ she repeats, bewildered. ‘’I would die if they made me leave Winterfell!’’

No doubt about it. Lyarra left some time ago, Sansa’s constantly moaning and whining about going South, to Reach or King’s Landing, and even  Robb has asked Father once or twice if he could go stay with their grandfather in the Riverlands -  but Arya’s of North. She was born here and here she intends to stay.

The corners of Gendry’s mouth twitch a little, as if he was fighting a smile.

‘’I miss my sisters a lot, but it’s enough of you that it almost feels like they were with me.’’ He explains. ‘’And it’s as beautiful here as in Stormlands, if not more. Even, if it’s so darn cold.’’

Arya's heart swells. No one has ever told her that they think North is more beautiful than South, not even Jon who just keeps on repeating that it’s decidedly less stinky than the capital.

‘’I think it’s beautiful too.’’ She admits quietly. ‘’Sansa says one day Father will have to marry me off to one of his bannermen, cause no Southern lord will want me, but I don’t think it’s a bad thing at all. I never want to live in a place where there is no godswood. And I don’t want to marry anyway.’’

This time, he actually smiles at her and even chuckles for good measure.

It feels like an achievement, somehow.

‘’What do you want to do, then? If you don’t wish to marry?’’

Countless adults have asked her that before, but always in half-teasing, half-mocking tone, not believing any word she says. Gendry…  Gendry seemed to be actually interested in her answer. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and back bent so they are on the same eye level.

And once again, she is hit by how blue his eyes are. Her mother has blue eyes, same as Robb and Sansa and Bran and even baby Rickon. Arya’s living surrounded by the sea of Tully blue eyes. And yet, Gendry’s are more intense somehow, less washed-down.

‘’I’m going to go behind a Wall and be a spear wife. Or be an explorer, like Sea Snake or Elisa Farman.’’ She dreams about all that and more, about adventure and thrill. ‘’I’m gonna go to Shivering Sea and bring back an ice dragon with me, so everyone would know they really exist. I want to see the Wall and the Lands of Always Winter. ’’

She’s fully prepared for him to laugh at her. Everyone does. Even Father, even Jon, although their laugh is good-natured.

But Gendry doesn’t.

He just nods at her declarations and states:

‘’I don’t want to marry either, or to be a lord. If I could, I’d just be a blacksmith.’’

And just like that, suddenly, they are friends.

***

Sansa and Arya have their lessons separately of boys, probably to avoid subjects that may possibly wound their delicate young minds, but Arya keeps on begging Gendry long and hard enough that he gives in eventually and tells her more about Rheagar’s Rebellion, about Tourney at Harrenhall and The Great Conspiracy.

It is a little embarrassing, talking to him about all this, but less so if she touched the topic with Jon, who is always very tight-lipped about his parents. However, with years passing by, Arya begins thinking about her aunt more and more, with this kind of insatiable curiosity that surpasses any notions of being proper. Everyone knows that Rheagar Targaryen offered her grandfather a crown for his daughter in exchange for Rickard Stark’s men and loyalty. Everyone knows that Lyanna was promised to Gendry’s father at that time, but Lord Rickard, being an ambitious and reasonable man, agreed to Prince’s proposal, having easily calculated how far above Lady of Storm’s End is Queen of The Seven Kingdoms. Everyone knows of the Rebellion and King Aerys’ death and how Baratheons were the last ones to kneel in front of the new king.

The one thing that Arya wonders about is what exactly was Lyanna’s Stark position in all that.

Jeyne and Sansa and even Lyarra always make it into a song; of love forbidden, of blue winter roses, of Wolf Lady and Dragon Prince.

To Arya, it seems more mundane; more like a girl sold to the highest bidder.

‘’I met her, once.’’ Gendry tells her in Godswood, skipping rocks on the still surface of one of the hot pools. ‘’During the royal tour through Westeros.’’

‘’What she’s like?’’ she asks, hungry for details. Father never wants to talk much about aunt Lyanna. Jon rarely even mentions her name and every time he does, it is laced with such a desperate longing that Arya quickly learned to avoid the subject to spare him the hurt.

‘’Beautiful.’’ Gendry crunches on the bank of the lake, staring at the circles on the water. The cold breeze is playing with his dark hair, making it even messier than possible. He’s one and ten now, already taller than Theon and Robb and it doesn’t seem he’s about to stop growing any time soon. Standing next to him, Arya feels even smaller than usual. ‘’Dark-haired, long-faced. She looks like your father and you.’’

Her cheeks redden against her will. Many Northerners have told her that, which makes her head spin a bit, unsure how to imagine a woman who was somehow both beautiful and similar to her.

‘’Yeah, but I’m not asking about her appearance. I’m asking what she’s like.’’

Gendry ponders about her question for a bit, which she is well used to by now. He always takes his time thinking, making people call him stupid and slow behind his back. Which is both unfair and untrue – he doesn’t have a head for numbers like Arya or for houses and histories like Bran, but he is not dim-witted in any way. Especially when the issues of household management and smallfolk are concerned.  

I know he doesn’t want that, but he’ll make a wonderful lord one day, crosses her mind from time to time, watching as Gendry calls every single servant by their name and how he always remembers to pay a visit to the orphanage when they are in Winter Town.

‘’Sad.’’ He settles on, still avoiding her gaze. ‘’Kind and sad. For me, she looked quite lonely.’’

‘’How else can she look like? A wolf can never be happy in the cage. And I heard Father saying she has true wolf's blood, the way uncle Brandon had.’’ Arya doesn’t remember him well; he died when she was barely more than a child, slain while storming Great Wyk. His wife and daughter used to live with them a few years after he passed away, but then Lady Barbrey decided to go back to Rills to her father, so now even Lyarra is not around to remind everyone of Brandon’s hot-blooded nature and  Arya lost a partner in horse riding or secret archery lessons.

‘’Well, good luck to anyone ever trying to cage you.’’ Gendry says, playfully tugging on the end of her braid and making her shriek. ‘’You’re way too wild for that, Arya. Also, you’re all dirty from that leaves and we are already late for dinner, so enough of histories for now.’’

***

‘’One more time.’’ She orders, smirking, when the only answer she hears is a pained groan. ‘’Come on, you were the one who asked me to help you.’’

‘’It’s utterly embarrassing that you’re so good at this and I’m so hopeless.’’ Gendry fixes his stare on the parchment on the desk as if it personally offended him. ‘’These are just swimming in front of my eyes.’’

‘’Books are important.’’ Arya rests her cheek on the stone wall, letting it warm her skin pleasantly. ‘’If you don’t understand books-‘’

‘’-my liege lords will cheat me out of taxes, yeah, I know. But still. Can’t I just ask someone to check them for me?’’

‘’I suppose you can. If you trust this person enough.’’

Gendry sends her a side smile and leans back on his chair.

‘’Well, shame I don’t trust you then. As I don’t know anyone better at sums than you.’’

‘’Why don’t you trust me? How dare you even say so.’’ She presses her hands to her chest in fake-offense, deciding to ignore his praise. ‘’The audacity you have.’’

‘’Don’t play with me, Arry. You’re a terrible cheat. Especially at cards.’’

‘’It’s called strategy!’’

‘’Sure it is.’’

‘’It’s not my fault you are a sore loser.’’

‘’Only with you, my lady. Only with you. I wouldn’t be a sore loser if you were winning fair and square.’’

''Besides, I don't think it's really possible to cheat at monsters-and-maidens. Or come-into-my-castle.''

''And somehow you manage to do just so.''

***

Father lets Gendry work in the forge with Mikken sometimes when all his other duties are done, and Gendry simply loves it, loves it beyond all else – it doesn’t take a lot to notice that. Arya thinks him content enough most of the time, maybe even happy when he spars with Robb on the courtyard, warhammer against sword, or when he playfully wrestles with Bran and Rickon, always letting them win, or when he goes riding with Jon and they sneak her out so she can join them. But smithing, smithing is something else entirely.

‘’That’s just so common.’’ Jeyne Poole wheezes once, outraged, as Gendry passes them on a way to his chambers, soot coving his forearms.

Arya could just strangle her. Instead, she stops abruptly and stomps her foot.

‘’I don’t see how it’s something wrong. Other lords hunt with hawks or gamble – at least Gendry will do something useful at Storm’s End!’’

Jeyne opens her mouth and then closes it, clearly shocked. For a moment she seems to be looking for a good enough reply, but apparently comes short, because she eventually settles on gasping loudly and hurrying away, leaving Arya on the corridor alone.

Escaping from her embroidery lessons, Arya often goes to watch Gendry, as Septa Mordane would never even think of looking for her in the forge. So she has perfected sneaking in and perching on the workbench after discarding outer layers to bask in the heat.  They don’t talk -  to be honest, she is not sure he notices her much at all, too engrossed in his work. Surrounded by the sound of metal hitting metal and billows of smoke, Gendry looks so much different than he usually does, almost like he is some stranger.

Like he is a baseborn blacksmith, not a highborn heir to one of the Seven Kingdoms.

And Arya is wondering many times, as Gendry’s hammering hilts of swords with such force that the sound must be echoing through very bones of Winterfell; would they even meet if he was not nobility? If they both weren’t noble? For sure they wouldn’t, coming from where they come from, a whole continent between them. Even if they both were bastards (she scoffs internally at the idea; as if her father could ever have any children outside wedlock) she would be a Snow and he would be a Storm and bastard boys don’t get fostered, so they would never cross paths.

So, as much as she hates the notion of being a noble lady sitting idly and sewing all day long, she is grateful for being a Stark and she is grateful that he is a Baratheon. If only because she gets to sit between Gendry and Jon during meals and toss her greens onto their plates.  If only because she got to meet Gendry and to bicker with him and to see his smile.

On her tenth name day, he and Jon wake her up early and the first thing she sees is a short, narrow sword in Gendry’s hands.

��’It’s – uhm, it’s for you.’’ He mumbles, his head low as he’s setting it on her lap.

Arya, breathless, runs her fingers along the hilt, tracing the elegant twist of silver metal. It’s perfect, it’s beautiful, it’s everything she has ever wanted. Sharp and slight, just like her.

Sansa can keep her sewing needles. I’ve got a Needle of my own.

‘’It was Jon’s idea.’’ Gendry adds hastily, before she manages to open her mouth.

‘’Aye, but Gendry made it.’’ Jon smiles with this shy, gentle smile of his. ‘’Don’t sell yourself short.’’

‘’You… made it for me?’’ Arya lets out, bewildered. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she registers Jon’s ruffling her hair and wishing her happy birthday, but all she has eyes for are Gendry’s blushed face, his blue stare and grime underneath his fingernails that flashes when he fiddles with the pelt on her bed.

His hands. He made a sword for her with these hands.

Gendry just nods in reply, smiling.

‘’It’s mostly Mikken work, to be honest, I just helped out, so it should be- uff!’’

Arya has her arms around his neck before he can even finish the sentence, burying her face in his shoulder. When he tentatively hugs her back, she feels so, so happy she could burst.

***

Old Nan is saying to anyone who cares to listen that it’s the longest summer in the living memory and it feels like that sometimes, it really does.

After snows have melted and it got warmer, warm enough that even Northerners shed their furs and expose their pale skin to the sun, one sunny morning, all of them, Winterfell little lords and ladies, go to the hot pools.

It is Arya’s favorite day ever and remains so for many years to come.

Even Sansa comes, sweeter than usually and giggling lightly in her pretty periwinkle dress as she sits on the blanket and plays with Lady, who is desperately trying to catch the loose ribbons around her mistress’ wrists.  

Jon also doesn’t swim; he's just standing awkwardly in the shallow part for the whole time, refusing to go any deeper no matter how they all push and pull, Robb and Theon laughing at him as they cut through the water with ease. The direwolves are still just puppies, all adorably confused by the lake before bravely hopping in and paddling one by one around the edge of the pool - all but Ghost, who, mirroring his master, is deeply distrustful of going in. Instead of following, he opts for sniffling the cattails and stumbling on his little paws in haste to get away when his siblings climb out and shrug water from their fur.

Rickon jumps in with a wild roar, splashing everyone head-to-toe and diving to nip at their ankles until Robb loops his little arms around his neck and hauls him across the lake and back.

And Gendry grabs Arya by the waist and seats her on his shoulders, so that she can reach up and pick fluffy white catkins from the willow trees above them, gathering them in her palms before letting them scatter on his dark hair like snowflakes.  He holds her pale calves tightly, grinning up at her and avoiding incoming swimmers so she won’t fall into the water.

The air smells like grass and berries and lemon cakes; it’s vibrant with laughter.  Gendry’s wet hair sticks to his head after he ducks underwater with her still perched on his shoulders and she uses this moment to jump off, right underneath the surface. They meet face-to-face, bubbles of air escaping from the corners of their mouths, but he doesn’t see her; he’s keeping his eyes closed as he’s floating.

He’s smiling so widely that she’s afraid his cheeks will split.

When she reaches for his hands and his fingers immediately curl around hers, instinctively knowing it’s her without having to open his eyes, something beautiful and painful blooms in her chest for the very first time.

***

‘’Tell me, Arya, whom do you prefer, Jon or Gendry?’’ Bran asks her once when she is ten and two and she scrunches her nose at how weirdly this question is phrased.

‘’What do you even mean by that?’’

‘’Well.’’ Bran slides from the windowsill to take a seat in front of her, the abandoned board of cyvasse spread in between them. ‘’You know they will probably marry you off to one of them, right?’’

What.

‘’How do you know that?’’ she manages to stutter.  Marry... Jon?  Her? Jon has been like an older brother to her for so long that at some point she forgot he is actually her cousin.

And Gendry?

Gendry, a maiden’s daydream. Even Sansa can’t ignore him anymore and suddenly stopped complaining about his rough manners. Even Jeyne keeps her mouth shut now and turns red when he says hello to her.  He is too tall for that, too broad and too skilled with his warhammer. Whores in Winter Town fawn at the sight of him, making him walk with his head low when he is passing brothels.

Marrying Gendry would be-

No, just no.

‘’That’s obvious. They both seem to like you a lot, gods know why-‘’ Bran smoothly avoids her smack, leaning back on his chair and continuing his rant, ‘’- and with Sansa going to King’s Landing – well, I think Mother and Father would make a very smart deal, arranging your marriage with either of them. These are also the only betrothals you could possibly agree too.’’

‘’I would never agree to marry Jon.’’ Arya states, suddenly feeling hot. She keeps her eyes glued to the dices laying on the table, just not to see Bran’s mischievous eyes. She knows what he is going to say and he doesn’t prove her wrong.

‘’And Gendry?’’

Gendry; billows of steam around him.

Gendry; his chest glistening with sweat as he brings the hammer down.

Gendry; calling her ‘’my lady’’ and laughing as she gets mad.

You would like Stormlands, he told her once, when they were deep in the forest, looking for wild berries. It’s harsh in the same way North is.

But it’s too hot, she moaned in response. - Northerners were not made to live that far South.

You could also say Southerners were not made to live that far North, he countered, reaching for her hand and helping her jump over a toppled tree trunk.-  But I and your mother live here and we manage just fine.

Instead of answering, she silently stands up and leaves the solar, fuming,  with Bran’s triumphant laughter chasing her.

***

Arya hates passionately nearly all the female skills Septa Mordane tries to instill in her, be it riding sidesaddle, embroidery or the art of polite yet meaningless conversations - but there is one exception that makes all the difference.

Dancing.

She loves, loves dancing, and even tho those least proper are her favorite, she does not find it too painful to go through the most formal ones.  There is something about spinning and clapping to the rhythm of the music that reminds her very much of sparring with Bran, her Needle in her hand.

After all, sword duels do look like dancing at times, in cases when it’s more about swiftness and agility than brute strength. When she was ten, her father secretly hired her a Braavosi water dancing teacher and well, let’s just say that spinning has long become a natural way of moving for her.

Still, everyone is shocked when she takes to her dancing lessons with no complaining; more so, when in mere weeks she twirls around her teacher gracefully, her skirts swishing around her ankles. She’s good at that, effortlessly; for the first time in her life she truly good at being a girl, shutting everyone’s mouths and making Mother smile proudly in the same way she smiles when Sansa presents her with needlework – and it makes  Arya feel both weirdly unsteady and giddy.  To her delight, she manages to learn slower styles quickly enough, that soon she’s going through faster and more complex steps, never missing a beat, smiling widely at Jon who often offers to partner her.

There is nothing challenging for her about dancing, really.

Not until she gets to dance with Gendry.

‘’You’re such an oaf.’’ – she whines, trying to adjust his stiff grip on her waist. ‘’It’s not so hard, seven hells, let loose a bit!’’

And he just stares at her, wide-eyed and unsure like a newborn fawn. One could think that she has him on knifepoint, not in the empty chambers where she asked him to help her practice.

In the hindsight, she should’ve just waited for Jon.

‘’Didn’t they teach you to dance in Storm’s End? Didn’t they teach you here, with the rest of boys?’’ she asks as he steps on her toes for the fourth time, completely out of rhythm even though she counts it out loud for his benefit.

‘’They did.’’ He spits roughly in response, suddenly dropping her hands and turning his back on her.

Arya’s left standing frozen, her arms loose by her sides and mouth opened.

‘’What has gotten into-‘’

‘’What’s that dress?’’

She looks down at her gown. It’s an old one of Sansa’s, altered in order fit Arya’s shorter frame. She needs a dress to practice dancing well, unfortunately, so she’s taken to wearing them more often, and this one is not terrible. It’s fairly practical, without those stupid dragging sleeves or a train. Just yellow linen trimmed with white lace around the collar.

She thinks it’s quite pretty.

‘’What about it?’’ she asked, bewildered.

‘’How come you’re walking around now, wearing dresses and dancing? Though you did not want any of this?’’ He is still not facing her, so she cannot read his expression. But his voice sounds heavy and rough and so, so unlike his. ‘’Though it was not you. Have you forgotten? You’re not Jeyne or Sansa, Arya. ’’

There is silence stretching between them and for a moment, all Arya hears is the hum of blood in her ears, boiling with anger.

She crosses the room in two long strides and slams her fists onto Gendry’s back, furiously hitting him until he turns around and seizes her wrists.

‘’Ough, Arya, seven hells-‘’

‘’How dare you!’’ There are tears spilling down her cheeks, hot tears of anger, but she just doesn’t care because how dare he. ‘’You think – just because- you think it’s only for Sansa? That I cannot be good at anything like that just because I’m – I’m-‘’

Against her best intentions get drowned in sobs and suddenly she falls forwards into Gendry’s arms, her forehead pressed against his chest. He’s anxiously patting her back, mumbling to her to calm down, but all she can do is cry.

‘’Just because I’m ugly, do you think I cannot be any good in dancing?’’ she sobs, her voice drowned against the leather of his doublet and she gasps in surprise as he grabs her shoulders and tears her away from him, leaning down to look her in the eyes.

‘’Arya, what are you even talking about?’’ he whispers, clumsily wiping tears from her cheeks. ‘’You’re pretty. So pretty. How can you even – don’t listen to Sansa, gods.’’

Gendry is a honest lad. He does not really try to kiss anyone’s arse or  play pleasantries. He has also never been in  any way dishonest to her. But now… now he’s both serious and honest, as he, once again, takes her hands into hers and repeats, loud and clear:

‘’You are not ugly. Don’t ever think like that.’’

She bits on her lip, searching for any note of falsehood in his voice, on his face. But she comes empty-handed.

‘’So why did you get angry?’’ she asks quietly, lowering her eyes to their linked hands.

He also looks down, suddenly sheepish, with faint blush coloring his cheekbones.

‘’It was stupid. I was stupid, I’m sorry. I just thought that you’re not interested in – all of that. And that maybe now you decided to mimic other girls. Which you don’t have to do. Sorry.’’ He shrugs and Arya knows that if he had free hands, he would be scratching the back of his neck.

‘’I am not.’’ She admits. ‘’I’m not – I’m not trying to be Jeyne. Or Sansa. I still think most of those things that Septa Mordane teaches me are stupid. But I like dancing.’’ She pauses for a moment, unsure how to put her thoughts into words. ‘’And I like this dress. And I think – maybe I don’t have to be one thing only. Maybe I could be a good dancer and a good horse rider. And I don’t need breeches to be a good archer. Maybe... I could be just me. ’’

Mother would gasp at her logic, Father would shake his head with this kind, sad smile of his.

Gendry just nods slowly, straightens his back and pulls them into a starting position again, this time leading her on the floor with a grace she would never suspect he possesses. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t reply to her words. He just smiles at her softly, his grip gentle, as they move through steps and figures. And she knows that he understands exactly what she means.

***

The night before Gendry leaves Winterfell, she jumps from under the covers the exact moment when Sansa starts to snore and quickly wraps herself up in furs to keep the chill away. The castle is quiet and basked in the light of the full moon; not that it matters in slightest.  She could probably make her way blindfolded, for how well she knows it.

She finds him exactly where she expected; he adds some extra logs to the fireplace in the forge, stripped to his shirt and breeches. When she loudly coughs to announce her presence, he swiftly spins on the balls of his feet and greets her with a smile devoid of even an ounce of surprise.

‘’Came to say goodbye, didn’t you?’’ she asks, trying to keep her tone light, but she obviously fails, cause his brow immediately furrows and the corners of his lips drop down.

‘’Yeah.’’ His voice is soft like kitten’s fur, softer than ever before. He sits on the workbench and motions for her to move closer. Settling on the worn-out wood, she feels something heavy dropping in her stomach. She has been in this forge a thousand times and more already, but without Gendry here, she will have no reason to come again.

It’s almost as if he’s to take a part of her home away with him.

She lays her head on his shoulder and he takes her hands in his (when did his hands grow so big, how did that happen?) and for a moment, they just sit in silence uninterrupted by anything except the crackling of the fire and the sound of their breathing.

‘’I’m gonna miss it so much.’’ He admits at last, keeping his head low as always when he’s being very serious.

‘’The forge?’’

‘’The forge, Winterfell. The North. Your family. Jon.’’ he counts down. ‘’Hmm, and I suppose I will maybe miss you. Just a little though. Finally, some rest from your blabber.’’

Arya gasps at that, showing him off the bench to the floor, where he lays, laughing.

‘’I do not blabber!’’

‘’You do, sometimes.’’

‘’I do not!’’

They shoot back and forth, until Arya quiets down and bites on her lip. No more bickering.

Her eyes sting a bit, so she closes them and flops down on the bench.

‘’Will we ever see each other again?’’ she asks, refusing to look at him and swallowing the bile in the throat. She instantly wishes she did not utter this question, because how will she make it through if he says they won’t?

But Gendry is Gendry, so he doesn’t.

He raises up on his feet and sits down on her right side, this time wrapping his arm around her and pressing her closer to him, so that her head is resting on his chest.

‘’We will.’’ He answers, full of will and conviction. ‘’I don’t think there is anyone who could stop you from doing what you  really want, Arya. So if you will ever want to see me, you will find a way. And I-‘’ he hesitates for a moment as if he was trying to phrase his thoughts in a right way. ‘’- and I will find a way to see you again too.’’

‘’Okay.’’ She says softly, gripping the material of his linen undershirt and pressing her nose to it, trying to memorize how he smells, how he sounds, how he feels, trying to burn it in her mind. ‘’Okay, Gendry. No goodbyes, then.’’

He rests his chin on her head and when he breaths out deeply, her stomach does a somersault. Suddenly, a thought crosses her mind like a flash;  how we must look like, sitting like this. What would someone say, if they saw us now?

But it quickly evaporates, when his lips brush her hair and she hears his whisper.

‘’Aye, Arry. No goodbyes.’’

***

To her despair, Jon soon follows Gendry; riding back to King’s Landing, he leaves behind a string of maidens with broken hearts and Arya’s parents pretending they were not trying to find an excuse to make him stay as long as possible.  And with his departure, things start to change for good right in front of her eyes.

For starters, for the very first time in her life,  Arya learns how terribly and crushing lonely one can feel in their own home, surrounded by their own family.  She has already flowered, meaning that even Father won’t allow her to roll in the mud with a training sword anymore – not that she would have any partners in that anyway, with Syrio Forell also leaving, claiming loudly that he’s ‘’too old for living in such a stern climate and freezing his bones off every night’’.

Margaery Tyrell comes to Winterfell, all pretty and smiling, her rose-embroidered dresses too light for the cold and her cheeks always rosy. And Robb falls, even Arya can see that - he falls so hard and quick that it seems almost unbelievable. Soon, he’s all for strolling around the castle, chest puffed like a peacock and his betrothed by his side, too busy with getting out of his skin to impress Margaery to even notice anyone else, let alone his little underfoot sister.

And Arya likes Margaery well enough, even if she’s instantly Sansa’s new best friend the moment she steps through the threshold (she’s kinder than Jeyne, at least) – but the whole flurry of wedding-related activity makes her sick, especially since she cannot sit in the back of the room with Gendry and make fun of all this pomp and extravagance.

Right before Robb’s wedding, Mother starts to get terrible headaches (the aftermath of raising too many children, she grumbles) and is often bed-ridden, which forces her to finally allow Father to send Rickon to Riverrun. He is to stay with uncle Blackfish for a while, with the hope that maybe it will temper his wild energy a little – fool’s hope, in Arya’s humble opinion, but it’s not like anyone asks her for it.

Bran squires for one of Stark’s bannermen and every free time he has, he devotes to visiting Greywater Watch and the Reeds.

Arya is deprived even of Sansa’s meager company as both her sister and goodsister are busy preparing a dowry for Sansa’s upcoming nuptials. Then Sansa goes South, as eagerly as possible, and the castle becomes ever quieter, unnerving Arya so that she feels she’s surely going to go mad.  Robb’s all Lord-like now, Margaery’s wobbling around pregnant and glowing and it’s all terribly, excruciatingly dull.

So Arya fills her days with silently sitting by Father’s and Robb’s sides as they ‘re taking petitions and lonely horse rides with Nymeria. The winter is truly and well coming now, so there is a lot of work with properly securing livestock and supplies coming from the Reach and every pair of hands is needed, even if hers are small and soft.  She goes to visit Lyarra and aunt Barbrey once or twice and tags along with Bran to meet his betrothed, Meera. She practices archery with Theon, bothers Winterfell’s staff for hours with no end and talks with smallfolk more than it is proper. Twice a week, there are kids in the Winter Town orphanage waiting for her to come and teach them letters and it’s honestly far more fun than she thought it would be.

However, there are letters of another kind that become her main source of entertainment; every day she nags Maester Luwin endlessly, inquiring about ravens and looking for them in the sky or locking herself up with ink and quills in her chambers, pouring all the unsaid words on the parchment.  

Jon writes often;  mostly narrations of his days at court and some amusing anecdotes about annoying nobles. His letters abruptly stop coming for four moons around a year after his departure and when they resume,  he is different. Head over heels in love and married.

To his aunt in fact, which would be a little weird in any other case, but Arya supposes they are Targaryens after all. Even if King Rheagar decided to try to stop the traditional inbreeding by sending for Northern bride for his eldest son and marrying Princess Rhaenys into House Tyrell, no one is really that shocked by Princess Daenerys giving her hand to Prince Jon, especially given that her brother, Prince Viserys, has been one of the victims of the Rebellion.

I heard she’s gorgeous. Congratulations on your marriage, Jon. – she replies politely to the announcement and buries her face in her hands, sitting still for hours afterward.

Dear Arya, I am so very happy, becomes an opening line of every Jon’s letter since then and it makes her oh so confused and even more conflicted.

She has taken to watching her parents closer than ever; observing how they speak with each other, how they seem to understand one another even without any words exchanged. How they stroll through glass gardens during sunny afternoons, laughing quietly.

Accidental marriage, that’s what we are, her mother said to Sansa once, forgetting that Arya was also present, which seems to be a theme for women in her family. I was to marry your late uncle Brandon and gods forgive me, I was not very pleased when I ended up with his brother, nor was my lord father. But it all turned out for the best. By the time I became Lady of Winterfell, I didn’t care much for the title at all. I just wanted to be by Ned’s side.

Arya knows she is well past betrothal age. She knows everyone is wondering why her parents turned every single one of her suitors down. She would very much like to believe that’s because they decided to let her never marry and stay in Winterfell forever like she has begged them for many years, but it’s been a long time since that afternoon game of cyvasse with Bran and she is nowhere as naïve now as then.

She is spoken for, promised to, even if silently, even with no one mentioning that at all. And she is still trying to figure out if it makes her angry or not at all.

She feels Father’s gaze heavy on her every time she makes her way into the Godswood, a letter pressed to her chest.

Gendry writes rarely and even when he does, his letters are shorter than Jon’s, which also makes them infinitely more significant. He is not a man of many words and he is very busy now – it is not spoken loudly, but it is practically a common knowledge that Robert Baratheon is well on his way to drink and whore himself to death, so any duties that Gendry’s mother was fulfilling during his stay in Winterfell  fell on his shoulders as soon as he returned.  Arya understands all of that. At the same time, she still selfishly wishes for more; she just misses talking to him, the banter and silliness and honesty – all of it. There’s no one else who gets her better. No one who takes her as seriously as he did.

So she dutifully sends her own letters every week, raven after raven, even when there’s not much to write about, and cherishes whatever reply appears.

One time, sitting in Godswood with Nymeria’s heavy head resting on her lap, she realizes that, at some point, all of it has stopped feeling like living; it feels like endless waiting, holding her breath.  She is still in Winterfell, but what good is that if everyone else is gone or different. Everyone seems to be moving on to some grand things, with only her stubbornly stuck.  

And then.

Do you think still that marriage is always a cage? Gendry writes to her exactly three years after he went away and Arya’s not stupid. She knows where this conversation would lead.

She just isn’t sure if she wants to actually have it.

I think there are cages in which one feels content. - she replies carefully, after trying out tens of different ways of conveying her thoughts and tearing them all into pieces.-  But I still think caging a wolf may not be the wisest idea at all.

That time, the letter from Storm’s End comes quickly, probably as quickly as the raven managed, poor thing.

She goes riding for half a day until she gathers enough courage to read it, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of parchment all spotted with fat blotches of ink, as if Gendry pressed his quill way too hard in several places.

Even wolves have their hunting grounds, right? Vast, with a lot of space to breath. Their pack around them, running together. Not a cage, but a home.

With her heart beating fast, she closes her eyes for a second. All of it feels so heavy, so final. Couldn’t they just go back to being children in Winterfell? Why must they all grow up?

It makes her so angry. Where are those summer afternoons, what happened with them – with Gendry’s hands innocent on her ankles, keeping her safe and secure?

But then she comes back to reading and gasps at the next paragraph.

Arya, I am no bard, really. You know that. Must we do it this way? I need a lady and miss you so much and gods damn me, if you weren’t always the only lady for me.  Come to Stormlands. Marry me. I promise, I will never cage you. You can call yourself a lord. You can call yourself a blacksmith’s wife. I don’t care. Please, just be with me.

‘’Stupid.’’ Arya murmurs under her breath, feeling fondness filling her head to toe. Gendry always had a way of making things simple, of making her feel at ease.

She looks out of the window; at the silent courtyard, empty, save for a few servants hurrying to the kitchens for their supper. She supposes she could stay here, or tell her parents she will marry close to home and come back as often as possible. She doesn’t have to leave or cross the entire continent.

But her days would be long and empty; her nights -  cold. She would feel like a tree with its roots unmovable, forever in Winterfell’s soil. Bored out of her mind and static. She would be content enough, probably, only it’s never what she wanted. What she wanted was an adventure –

And what is a bigger adventure than going South? Managing a castle the way she wants? Spending the rest of her life with her very best friend?

There’s also the issue of duty, of course. Her duty towards her parents, towards the North. As much as Arya hates politics, she’s aware of how powerful betrothals are. Marriages mean security and supplies and wellbeing of the Houses involves and those, who serve those Houses. It was a coincidence that Robb’s bride came from Reach just as the winter was about to come for good. And her marriage to Gendry would potentially bring many, many benefits for the North, for the still-too-empty coffers and stocks.

Besides. Much better her best friend than some random Northern lord, who would take her Needle away and delegate her to women’s quarters to bear one child after another and gossip with other ladies until her ears fall off. Gendry would never do that to her, of that she can be sure.

Maybe it will be summer again, by his side.

***

Arya likes long letters, rambling and elaborate.

But her last one is the shortest by far, sent just before she straightens her back and knocks on the door to Father’s study.

Dear Gendry,

Just to make it clear; don’t ever expect me to bow down to you.

But aye. I will marry you.  

Yours, Arya

***

Ned Stark listens to her words with a solemn expression on his face, but when she’s finished, the corners of his lips raise up slightly.

‘’I knew this day would come someday.’’ He sighs heavily, reaching for one of the parchments laying on his table and placing it in front of her, so she could read it. “This is what Robert left me, along with Gendry.’’

The contents of the letter make her eyebrows shoot up.

It’s a godsdamned, straight-up business proposal of Robert Baratheon to her father, asking him to consider marrying her or Sansa to Gendry. There’s a lot of bullshit about joining families and old history, because Robert is still beyond obsessed with aunt Lyanna, even after all those years.

But at the root of it, it looks like any trade agreement she has seen in her life. And that just makes Arya so, so mad.

‘’I’m showing it to you now, because I feel you have a right to know.’’ her father says, before she has a chance to respond. ‘’But I don’t think it should influence your decision. As far as I know, Robert did not mention his wish to his boy either, which means you two chose each other on your own free will. That’s a good groundwork for marriage, Arya.’’

Does free will really exist?  - she wants to ask him, anger dying down into something akin to cool resignation in her gut. – Will I marry Gendry out of any feelings I might have for him, or out of loneliness or lack of a better alternative? Or maybe because it will make you and Mother happy? Does it even matter?

Ultimately, in a world she lives in, it doesn’t. So she closes her mouth and nods slowly when Father asks her if he should write to Lord Robert officially.

She just wishes it wouldn’t feel so bitter.

‘’Do you think we will work well? Together?’’ she asks quietly just before leaving the study and this time her father chuckles, taking her hand in his and squeezing it gently.

‘’Aye, in fact. I do, Arya. I like this lad.  And he always smiles around you and you only.’’

***

So now she’s where she is,  Storm’s End on the horizon and anxiousness bubbling in her stomach.

Mother forced her into a proper gown in the morning, deaf to Arya’s arguments that Gendry has already seen her in breeches and linen shirts and still asked her to marry him, so she does not need to be all dolled up. At least the dress is nice – forest green, embellished with golden embroidery and with a corset that somehow allows her to breathe.  It, unfortunately, shows off more cleavage than she’s comfortable with, but she supposes it couldn’t be allowed with those stupid Southern fashions. She braided her hair herself – it’s so long now that it reaches the small of her back, so she opted for a simple Northern style, nothing too fancy, even accounting for the yellow ribbon woven through it. Her hands are clean, nails trimmed. She supposes she looks pretty, as much as she can.

She’s no Sansa. But, as far as she knows, Gendry never wanted Sansa anyway.

Why am I so nervous?

It’s just Gendry.

Three and a half years. How much did he change during that time?

How much did she?

They open the gates for them and suddenly she is the one riding into a courtyard of a foreign castle that she’s now supposed to call her home. I should’ve asked him how it felt like for him.

Storm’s End is just one drum tower, unlike any other holdfast she has ever seen. But it’s a very tall tower, she’ll give it that. It shoots up into the sky like a giant’s fist, the tip of it seemingly tearing through grey clouds above them.

Only Hightower in Oldtown is taller, as far as the towers go. Quality over quantity. -  Bran said to her cheekily sometime before she left Winterfell. –  I heard Lord’s chambers are up on the very top; you will have a nice view of the sea. It must feel like sleeping in a nest.

This castle fits Gendry somehow, with its strong, simple build. There are no frivolities in the grey walls, only endurance. Not a single unnecessary element, just brick and mortar and magic that helped it survive centuries and centuries. Solace and safety.

Arya thinks that even if she cannot love it like she loves Winterfell, she can at least respect Storm’s End for this one reason.

The whole staff stands in the half-circle around them, lowering their heads and curtsying when they dismount. Mother has insisted on coming, despite her aches – maybe because she still doesn’t seem to be very convinced Arya has actually agreed to marry someone – so she slowly and stiffly emerges from the wheelhouse. And Arya stands still, reigns in her hand and her eyes glued to the ground, because if she dares to look up – if she even steals a glance –

But before she can make that decision by herself, someone kneels on the gravel in front of her, making her stupid heart beat faster in her chest.  Of course, of course, he does that, because he is one big, stupid oaf.

‘’Hello, my lady.’’

Despite her best efforts, her lips curve into a smile and she lets him take her hand.

Gendry Baratheon’s voice is still warm and deep, and his eyes are still bluest she has ever seen.

But when he kisses her knuckles… oh, they are truly grown now. And betrothed to each other.  And it all comes crashing down on her suddenly, this realization.

He’s going to marry me. I’m going to marry him. Oh, gods.

Her panicked train of thoughts is interrupted by the collective gasp of gathered people when something big and grey moves from her side and pounces on Gendry, making him lose his balance and land on his ass on the ground.

Arya’s honestly a little bit annoyed with Nymeria, because the way she behaves is just ridiculous. She’s supposed to be this proud, scary direwolf, reminding those damned Southerners that Arya remains a Stark no matter what, that she has North in her blood and her very bones. She is supposed to be wild and untamed.

Instead, her horse-sized wolf hops in circles around Gendry, wagging her tail like an overly-excited puppy, not letting him stand up, before and resting her front paws on his chest, tongue lolling out and begging for scratches behind her ears.

And Gendry complies, laughing when Nymeria licks his face and patting her head.

‘’Hello, girl! Missed me much? You’ve gotten so big.’’ He coos at her as if she was a babe and, in the corner of her eye, Arya sees shocked expression of a petite blonde woman who surely must be Gendry’s mother, given the finery of her gown and how she immediately schools her features, and  curtsies gracefully in front of Father, along with three dark-haired girls surrounding her.

Aelin. Lara. Elinor. My soon-to-be-goodsisters.

‘’Lord Eddard, Lady Catelyn. Lady Arya. Welcome to Storm’s End.’’ Lady Isabelle Baratheon greets them politely, pointedly ignoring the fact that her son has just been tackled to the ground by a direwolf.  Lacing her gloved hands in front of her, she fixes her bluebell eyes on Arya, surveying her head to toe, until Arya starts to sweat under her stare. ‘’I am afraid my Lord husband is unwell right now and he is not able to attend to you properly. However, I hope that he’ll be able to join us at supper. Please, take your bread and salt.’’

Gendry, back on his feet after finally managing to untangle himself from an overenthusiastic Nymeria, stands by his mother’s side and bows deeply in front of her parents, giving her opportunity to see him better.

Those few years only did him good.

He’s so tall now; he has always been taller than all of Starks, even when they were kids, but now he positively towers above her and Mother, standing even higher than Father. When in Winterfell, other boys called him The Bull and the reasons for that also did not change. His chest, his shoulders, his thighs – all broad and muscled; Gendry could’ve been as well chiseled from solid stone. He’s still got those disheveled black hair, only now paired with a neatly trimmed beard. But his eyes are still as lovely and blue as in her memory, shining, when he steals a glance at her.

He looks more or less the same, truly. Only, either he got even more handsome or she just views him all differently now, because seeing him kissing her mother’s hand and hugging her father makes her feel all funny inside.

‘’Well then, shall we go inside? There is a lot of things to discuss.’’ Lady Isabelle says and something heavy like a stone lands in Arya’s stomach.

***

It seems like her wedding will be the event of the year, which should not surprise her but still somehow does.

Due to the fairly convenient location of Storm’s End and early announcements, nearly all Lord Paramounts of Seven Kingdoms confirmed their presence and Martells are sending Prince Trystane and Prince Oberyn which honestly is probably even bigger honor. Nearly all Tyrells apparently decided to show up, just for the kick of it. The King takes both of his queens with him and of course, Prince Aegon and Sansa will travel from Dragonstone to be earlier than the rest of the guest so that her sister could help with preparations.

Even Gendry’s gruff uncle Stannis will be there and he hates parties.

The pomp and extravagance are simply beyond everything Arya has experienced so far and she’s suddenly hit hard with realization how truly alien the South really is, compared with the stern, simple North. Nobody even thought of suggesting serving a baked swan at Robb and Margaery’s wedding. Arya’s need half a dozen apparently, paired with trays full of bloody oranges, lemons, and pomegranates, with stags made from sugar, towers of cookies and a truly monstrous meat pie.  There is to be a troupe of entertaining fire-eaters for gods' sake, and gods only know who will pay for it all.

All this talk about guests, their seating and stomachs does nothing, but makes Arya feel vaguely sick. She’s stuck at Lady Isabelle’s solar with her mother and soon-to-be goodmother for hours, completely mute after requesting for Jon and his wife to be seated not far from her. All she has left to do is half-seriously contemplate if vomiting on Lady Isabelle’s yellow silk slippers could potentially win her at least a day of solitude.

She would be happy to see Jon and to meet Daenerys and aunt Lyanna. And to finally reunite with Rickon, who’s coming with the Riverrun delegation. But that’s about it.

Oh, and she would also be very happy to see her fucking betrothed since she’s not seeing him now at all. So far, they barely had time to exchange a few words during meals, not even coming closer to the topics they actually should talk about.

Which is the fact that they’re getting married.

It’s not any more real now. Her mother asks her to choose between identical shades of white Myrish lace and Lady Isabelle regularly has a breakdown about the potential of rain on the wedding day, and the whole ordeal still seems like something out of the dream.

So she feels she should really just sit down and talk with Gendry as long as it takes until she feels grounded again.

Besides… she misses him still. And now she doesn’t even have letters to fill that void.

So, when one morning Gendry gently grips her wrist under the table when they break their fast and slips a note in-between her fingers (my lady, if you can sneak away from our mothers, I’ll be waiting in the stables), Arya almost shrieks with relief.

She quickly makes up some lousy excuse about her moon blood coming soon and feeling rather weak today, which works smoothly without any questioning from Lady Isabelle and makes Mother narrow her eyes in suspicion, but ultimately grants her freedom to hide her face under the hood and make her way through the Storm’s End crowded courtyard relatively undisturbed. Every step makes her stomach twist in anticipation; half-nervous, half-excited, she finds Gendry alone, standing next to a saddled black horse and speaking to it softly while feeding it a carrot.

He used to give treats to horses in Winterfell too,  she recalls fondly, pleasantly surprised with how relaxed she suddenly feels.

‘’Hey, Gendry.’’ she calls him softly, grinning as he stumbles on his feet while turning to her.

‘’Hi, Arry.’’ he responds with the old moniker he once gave her, and it makes both of them smile wider. ‘’You escaped my mother alright?’’

‘’Yours was not a problem. Mine might suspect something tho. By dinner I should be in my chambers, abed.’’ Arya steps a bit closer, her eyes wondering in awe as she takes the sight of the horse standing next to Gendry. ‘’Gods, who’s that beauty? Hello, sweetling.’’

She presents her open palm for the horse to sniff, while Gendry snickers:

‘’Knew you’d like him. That’s Thunder and he’s mine. So you might want to make acquaintance. ’’

‘’Lame name, if you’re asking me.’’ She gently runs her hand along the horse’s neck, enamored by his silky black mane and fine posture. ‘’But I guess it fits your whole Baratheon image.’’

‘’Wait till you see him run. This stupid name is not completely baseless. ’’ he shots back, with no bite in his words whatsoever. If anything, he just sounds fond.

‘’I assume you’re taking me for a ride then?’’ she asks, tearing her eyes away from the animal to look at Gendry.

In the half-shadow of the stables, she cannot see his eyes clearly, but, when he slowly laces his fingers with her, it tells her everything she needs to know.

‘’Would you like to get away from this madness for a while and see a little bit of Stormlands?’’

And to that, she cannot do anything but squeeze his hand and say aye.

***

Gendry was right, all those years ago; leaving all the fancies and properties aside, Stormlands are alike to North in a way indeed.

They ride through thick forests, soft-green and quiet except for the sound of the hooves of their horses. Instead of talking, they sink into a familiar silence, not feeling the need to fill it with words when they can just -

Be next to each other.

And then Gendry leads Thunders through the clearing, moving in-between trees until they find themselves on the open field at the edge of the cliff overlooking Shipbreaker’s Bay; the waves angrily hissing, as they break over rocks down below and clouds gathering on the strangely yellowish sky above.

It’s raw and wild and so beautiful it almost takes her breath away.

‘’Hey, Arry! Better catch up!’’ Gendry shouts suddenly and then Thunder shoots forward, passing Arya on her brown mare and soon leaving them far behind as he gallops along the ridge.

For a heartbeat or two, she sits completely still, breathing in the salty air and watching Gendry’s broad back getting smaller and smaller; she can feel the corners of her mouth rising up until she has a full-blown smile on her face. She lets the moment last.

And then she presses her heels to mare’s sides and follows.

The wind is whizzing in her ears as she rises up from the saddle, leaning along the horse’s neck and forcing her into a gallop, gallop as fast as she can. This is her favorite part, the one she can never get enough of; the sky, the grass, the sea – everything disappears. There is only cold biting her face and mare’s muscles dancing underneath her skin and Gendry’s breathless, booming laughter as she appears by his side. He pulls on the reigns of Thunder to regain the advantage, but even though his horse is swift and strong, Arya is way lighter and, between two of them, she has always been a better rider.

So they gallop together, so close to one another that it’s reckless as seven hells, the hooves hitting the ground in unison and their eyes locked. Arya thinks they could’ve run like that for a thousand years or more, but then, out of the blue, lightning splits the sky and rain starts pouring down mercilessly, immediately plastering clothes to their skins and making horses neigh and stumble at the loud boom of the thunder.

‘’We’ve got to wait it out, follow me!’’ Gendry’s voice is almost drowned by the noise of the storm, but fortunately, she remains close enough to hear them. Her mare dances in place nervously until Arya manages to calm her down and steer her behind Gendry, deeper into the land and back to the forest.

They find shelter in a cave; with its entrance half-covered by the vines and damp stone walls spotted with moss, it’s surprisingly comfortable. At least it’s dry, for what Arya’s more than grateful. She can already feel the cold rainwater freezing her to the bone and her teeth are clattering as she jumps from the panicked horse and pats her neck with stiff fingers.

‘’Hush girl, it is all fine. We are fine.’’

Thunder is pacing back and forth along the wall, only calming down when Gendry roughly grabs the reigns and whispers something into the horse’s ear. Soon, Arya’s mare neighs quietly and joins him to munch on some of the grasses growing in-between rocks.

Arya lets her go, herself still remaining near the opening of the cave, shifting on her feet to get warmer and rubbing her arms.

The rain falls so hard now that it sounds like a waterfall and, as she raises her eyes to Gendry and meets his stare, she realizes that she got her wish.

They are alone now. Completely, absolutely alone.

Both of them take the step forward at the same time.

‘’Fuck, you’re soaked. Now, take my coat.’’ Gendry’s tugging on the laces of his fur-lined cloak and throwing it on her shoulders before she can even protest. His hair is plastered to his head just like in pools in Godswood and, for a second she finds herself enchanted by the way raindrops drip down his face, along the line of his jaw.

‘’No, you’re cold too.’’ She shots back, grabbing his hands in hers, meaning to rub them together as she used to with Rickon’s and Bran’s in the North. But somehow, miraculously, Gendry’s skin is wet but still warm and she yelps in surprise, his heat making her fingers tingle.

He grins at her smugly.

‘’No, I’m not. What did you say about South being too warm for you, my lady?’’

‘’It is too warm.’’ She huffs in annoyance, trying to gather the will to drop his hands down and not finding it. ‘’But it’s hard not to get cold in a godsdamned thunderstorm. Should’ve known you’d be abnormal.’’

‘’I got caught in the storm too many times to be much affected by it.’’ He shrugs. ‘’Got used to. To be honest, they may be more sudden and vicious than the ones in the North, but you will see that they last far shorter.’’

‘’I didn’t know they sky can turn such a color.’’ She observes, stealing a glance outside behind her shoulder. ‘’It looked almost yellow before it turned dark.’’

‘’How do you think, where did Baratheon colors came from? We took them from Durrandons, who took them from the Stormlands’ sky before. Gods, you really should’ve dressed warmer.’’ Arya bites on her lip just in time to keep the gasp from escaping, as Gendry raises her hands to his lips and blows on them.  Hot air of his breath warms her palms and then travels through her veins; to the tips of her fingers, to her wrists and the crook of her elbows, to her neck and face, making her tremble slightly.

‘’You still have the smallest hands I’ve ever seen.’’ he grumbles, his thumb tracing circles on her skin.

‘’My hands are not small. Yours are just too big.’’

‘’Blacksmith’s hands. Mikken has always used to say so.’’ he recalls sadly, gleam disappearing from his eyes as he leans on the wall of the cave.

‘’You’re not working anymore?’’ she unlaces their fingers in favor of wrapping his coat tighter around her and moving closer to his side. ‘’In the forge, I mean.’’

He just shakes his head.

‘’Don’t have time to. Storm’s End… there’s a lot of things to fix, if I’m being honest. ‘’ his Adam’s apple bobs and Arya really wishes he wasn’t so tall, because then she could see his face better. ‘’And I really hope I can be honest with you, Arya.’’

‘’Of course you can.’’ she’s almost offended he can even think otherwise. ‘’We’ re-‘’

Friends, she wanted to say we’re friends, but we aren’t anymore, are we?  We are betrothed.

‘’Friends.’’ Gendry finishes instead of her, turning his head to lock his eyes with hers. ‘’No matter what, we’re friends first. And.. uhm… everything else…  next.’’

It’s quite dark in the cave, but even in the shadows, she can see blush blooming on his cheekbones. And maybe this sight of vulnerability gives her the final push to ask the question that has been burning in her gut far longer than she cares to admit.

‘’Why do you want me to be your lady, Gendry? You could’ve tried for Sansa’s hand. Or any of the Stormlands’ ladies. Hells, even Princess Daenerys or Jon’s younger sisters, if you were quick about it. Why me?’’

Rain’s still pouring down outside, but it does not matter, cause Gendry’s voice is nowhere as quiet and tentative as hers.

‘’You still have no idea, don’t you?’’ he chuckles, leaning his head back against the rocks and raising his eyes to the stone ceiling. ‘’Gods, Arya, I don’t know even where I should start. You’re - you’re so smart. No one has your head for numbers. And you are an excellent horsewoman. Not to mention a great archer. And undefeatable with your Needle. And you care so much for people! I mean, do you even notice that? You have such a big heart for everyone. You want to take care of those around you, even those lowest. You-‘’

‘’Stop it!’’ she raises on her toes and presses her hands to his mouth, silencing his words. She has never heard Gendry saying so much at once and she has definitely never heard him praising anyone the way he just praised her. She can feel her whole face burning.

Gendry’s blue eyes gleam like twin gemstones. He slowly raises his own hands and grips her wrists, pulling them down from his face.

‘’Will you let me continue?’’ he asks softly, but it does not sound like a question at all. One of his arms sneaks around her waist and he lowers his head so now they’re standing pressed to each other, nose-to-nose. She can see drops of rain sticking his eyelashes together. ‘’You are the strongest, bravest woman I know. The most willful. Most – most beautiful.’’

Air escapes from her lungs. Beautiful. Beautiful. He called me beautiful.

With his other hand, he cups her face and she can see his eyes hesitantly searching for any sight of discomfort from her part, but he will not find any.

There is no discomfort in Arya.

She is no scared.

All she feels is warmth, warmth engulfing her head-to-toe. Warmth like the forge in Winterfell, cause Gendry’s embrace doesn’t feel like anything else but home.

You chose each other. That’s a good groundwork for marriage.

She crooks her head slightly, letting her cheek fully lean against his palm. Still, in silence, her lips part as he rests his forehead against hers.

‘’I was not lying Arya, when I told you I don’t want to be a lord.’’ His voice drops to the lowest of  whispers. ‘’And after seeing how it looks like here, I definitely didn’t change my mind. The only way I will manage to do it, is with you. Nobody else, but you. Will you be the lady of those lands with me?’’

‘’I’ve already told you, stupid.’’ She huffs, placing her own hand on his cheek and smiling. ‘’I’ve already said yes. To you and to everything. But I hope you know, I’ll be the real pain in your arse.’’

‘’Ha, I know that.’’ He chuckles. ‘’That’s the only thing I’m sure of.’’

‘’What would you promise me in return?’’ she asks playfully, biting on his lips and watching as his eyes darken.

‘’Well, what would you want me to?’’

‘’Humor me. I’m giving you my hand, it better be something nice.’’

She’s thinking they surely must look like idiots, holding each other’s faces and smiling at each other, close enough that they share air and their noses bump.

But she just can’t seem to mind that.

‘’I promise to always be true to you.’’ His voice is like laughter and sun and weirwood leaves; his voice is like gravel on the Winterfell courtyard and the smell of the forest, the sound of waves crashing on the cliff. He is both the most familiar and the most unknown and there is nothing that Arya doesn’t feel when he whispers; ‘’To love you and to keep you wild. ’’

***

Sansa and her husband arrive two weeks before the wedding and her sister takes maybe two steps out of the wheelhouse before Mother runs to her and wraps her arms around her, Father soon following.

Arya watches the whole meeting from the sidelines, standing next to Gendry and trying not to bite on her lip too much. Sansa’s even more beautiful in her memory; she seems to be glowing from inside out the way expecting women are supposed to.

But well. She was always an expert in doing things she’s supposed to do. Why would pregnancy be any different for her?

Prince Aegon also remains in distance to the general merry-making, instead politely greeting Lady Isabelle and Lord Robert, who was wheeled outside on a chair, and whose head sags against his chest as if he was far older than he really is. Arya honestly admires Prince a little bit for coming so close to him, even going as far as kneeling on the ground to make talking to him easier. Robert Baratheon makes her feel a lot of things, pretty much none positive; and her general opinion of him is not improving due to the way his bloodshot eyes follow her every movement whenever she’s around him, a weird mix of nostalgia and desire written on his face.

Robert may hate all Targaryens with burning intensity, but apparently even he is not stupid enough to be rude to the Heir to the Iron Throne. Or maybe he doesn’t have the strength to be, gods only know. Anyway, he seems to be talking with Prince Aegon quite politely, every second word interrupted by the fit of coughing.

Arya thinks she’s probably staring at him a little too intensely, but she cannot help her curiosity; because she did not attend Sansa’s wedding, this is the first time she’s meeting her good brother. And what a sight he is – tall and lean like a willow tree, fair-haired; slim where Jon is broad, lithe where Jon is bulky. One would never guess they are half-brothers.

Where Prince nods his head in front of her, she notices his beautiful blue eyes, darker even than Gendry’s; like the evening sky long after sunset.  

“Arya.’’ Sansa calls for her from Father’s embrace, a small smile on her blushed face and her hands cupping the slight bulge of her belly. ‘’It’s so nice to see you, sister! Please, come closer.’’

Is it really? Arya almost scowls, but Gendry lightly pinches her side before she has a chance to and offers her his arm and, when they’re crossing the courtyard together, she’s feeling strangely giddy. Gendry’s wearing this doublet she likes, the one with claw marks along his shoulders (being subtle has never been his strongest suit) and it’s so good to be by his side, his longer strides matched with her quicker ones.  Marveling at that, Arya manages easily to kiss Sansa’s cheek and politely congratulate her on her pregnancy. She thinks she could even, maybe, possibly, do a little wedding-related small talk on her own free will… just as long as Gendry would be holding her hand the whole time.

***

When Sansa asks her to take a walk around the castle’s gardens, she does not think much of it. Maybe Mother asked her to, maybe she wants to gloat a little, or maybe she lacks female companionship. There could be a number of reasons, all ultimately unimportant.

At first, it goes as expected; they stroll agonizingly slow, Sansa babbles excitedly about the wedding and her babe and how beautiful Dragonstone is and everything else, and Arya listens to her quietly, trying not to look as bored as she is.

But then Sansa sits down on of the benches, taking yet another break. She quiets down for a moment, before lacing her hands on her lap.

‘’Are you in love with him?’’ she asks suddenly, her voice low and serious; a far cry for her previous cheerful tweeting. She keeps her eyes glued to the ground and refuses to meet Arya’s confused stare.

And Arya is simply dumbfounded. Not only to hear this question from Sansa, of all people, but to hear it at all. No one ever wonders about being in love. It’s a silly fancy for women of their kind and even Sansa, so enamored by the tales of knights and fair ladies must already know that. Love is something that one can wish for, but it’s not an end goal. Even Mother and Father have never mentioned it. Gendry and Arya like each other a lot, enjoy each other’s company, are of an equal station and actively asked to be matched, so it was far more than enough for them to be married.

But Sansa is asking about something else entirely. And so Arya finds herself quite at loss to what to say.

‘’I’m not.’’ – she says at last, deciding on the most honest answer she can think of. – ‘’But I think maybe I will be. One day.’’

‘’But you love him, don’t you? And even if you don’t, you know him. You know…’’ Sansa pauses and takes a deep breath before continuing. – ‘’ I am so very jealous of that. Have been, since the moment I realized you will be married to him one day. I met Aegon a week before we were wed and did not know a single important thing about him.’’

The sea breeze plays with stray pieces of Sansa’s beautiful auburn hair and the fringes of her scarlet dress. With her swollen belly and porcelain skin, she’s stunning beyond belief, just like she has always been. And yet, she’s sitting here and telling her, little Arya Horseface, that she’s jealous of her.

When Arya looks at her, really, truly looks at her beyond the perfect exterior Sansa pulls off so well, she notices a few things she has never bothered to see.

There is an unhealthy paleness of her sister’s cheeks and the sheen of sweat on her brow even though they were moving at the snail’s pace during a relatively chilly morning. The Targaryen red shade of the velvet of her gown crashes terribly with her hair. She looks-

Honestly, she looks unhappy.

‘’I still feel like I don’t know him at all.’’ Sansa adds quietly, putting her hands on her belly delicately. ‘’But you two grew up together and he was always so obviously fond of you. Didn’t even spare me a glance, same as Jon. I don’t know if Father intended one of them for you from the beginning, but even if he didn’t, it was soon decided.’’

And of course, Robert Baratheon wanted a Ned Stark’s daughter to marry Gendry right from the start.

Arya thinks about Bran’s absolute conviction, aligning now with Sansa’s words. Was it truly so transparent for everyone, that only she couldn’t see it?

But then again, Arya never wondered much about betrothals and marriages when she was a kid, definitely not even half as much as Sansa. So maybe she just never bothered to notice the clues right in front of her.

How Mother never forbade her running around with Gendry and Jon, long after it stopped being proper. Why would it matter if she got ruined, if it was by her future husband?

How Father turned his eyes away from Arya’s sneaking out to ride with Gendry through wolfswood and how he never said anything against him giving her piggyback rides to her chamber after the supper.

Arya opens her mouth and closes it back, finding no good answer to Sansa’s words.

‘’I think he hoped for either of us to marry him.’’ she says slowly, carefully. ‘’Because Gendry’s Robert’s son. But I’m sure at the beginning he was thinking about you more than me.’’

‘’He won’t be a bad husband to you. He wouldn’t be bad for me also, I’m sure.’’ Sansa chimes and Arya suddenly feels quite faint. Gendry marrying Sansa. How would that feel like? Would she feel anything at all, watching the two of them in front of Septon? Maybe not, if she didn’t know how it feels to stand in his arms, his body so warm and strong against hers. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

‘’But Aegon’s obviously a better catch.’’ somehow, Arya’s statement sounds more like a question.

‘’Oh, he is.’’ Sansa’s giggle is as delicate and lady-like as possible. But the scowl on her face isn’t. ‘’True prince from my dreams. I’ll be his Queen someday, just like I always wanted. What an honor.’’

Her words sound empty. Her eyes are empty; two blue glass marbles set in a lacquered mask.

It’s a particularly pretty spring morning. Soon, they will both go back to the castle and Sansa will surely throw herself into choosing right flowers for the ceremony or pleasantly chat with Lady Isabelle and Gendry’s sisters about the weather for hours with no end. During supper, she’ll sit by Prince Aegon’s side and smile politely, eat like a bird and retire to her chambers early.

But for now, Arya’s standing in Storm’s End gardens in front of her beautiful older sister and, for the first time, pities her.

And maybe it’s just enough for her to bury all the resentment she feels for Sansa deep enough to sit on the bench next to her and lace his fingers with her.

Just enough, that when Sansa’s eyes widen in surprise and her hand twitches in her grip, Arya doesn’t let go.

***

Three days before wedding, they sneak out again; this time, to the beach below the castle.

There’s Gendry, his eyes laughing, his cheeks pink from harsh sea breeze; his pants cuffed so the material won’t get wet in the shallow water, standing next to her and showing her ships sailing somewhere in the distance.

And there’s also this insistent, dangerous thought that keeps on blaring in her mind on repeat ever since they left that cave.

Kiss me.

Kiss me, kissmekissme

She bites on her lip just to keep this plea inside, but he notices, of course he does, cause he is infuriating like that; how can one man be so absolutely dense one second and then suddenly turn perceptive like a hawk?

‘’What?’’

She lowers her gaze to her feet. Pale and submerged, they look like weird fishes.

‘’What, what?’’

‘’What’s going on?’’

The seagulls are shrieking, but it’s nowhere loud enough for her not to hear the sounds coming from the castle. Horses and people and everything. All this fucking noise.

Water splashes around Gendry’s ankles as he moves closer to her. She takes a step back, but he sneaks an arm around her waist, keeping her in place.

He’s so warm. Against sea and wind and sky, he is the warmest thing that exists, warmer even than Nymeria’s fur and Winterfell hot springs.

‘’Arya.’’

Even his voice is warm. Yet, his fingers still make her shiver when he raises her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his.

‘’I just- It’s stupid.’’

‘’I doubt it.’’ He says, so confidently that she almost laughs.

‘’How do you know that?’’

‘’Well.’’ He puts his other hand on her lower back. She is now locked in his embrace, her feet in-between his, his arms around her. ‘’You are not a stupid lass, Arya. So I don’t thank whatever you want to say is stupid either.’’

‘’That’s a stupid line of thinking, tho. Even stupid people sometimes say wise things.’’ Before she can stop herself, she puts her hands on his shoulders, lacing her fingers behind his neck. With the sway of the tides that makes them sway also, it feels a bit as if they were dancing.

‘’Gimmie an example of that.’’ He demands. He’s smiling; he’s always smiling when he’s looking at her, just like her father said. How could she not notice that before?

‘’You. Sometimes you manage to say a thing or two that makes sense.’’

He barks with a booming laughter, loud enough that he startles a few little terns that were resting on the rocks next to them.

‘’Oh, my lady, no one sweet talks me like you do.’’

He’s really, awfully handsome. If Sansa saw him like that, Arya thinks, she would die of jealousy. But I’m the one he wants, I’m the one he asked for.

He saw me, dancing with a practice sword on the courtyard, running around with my hair messy and dress muddied. He saw me and he saw Sansa. And between us two, he chose me. He’s the only one who ever chose me.

Gendry, still chuckling lightly, tucks stray streak of hair behind her ear and stills.

And he is the only one whom I could ever choose.

Courage fills her lungs as she admits sheepishly, in haste, before she can think it over;

‘’I don’t want my first kiss to be in front of all those people.  The king, the queens. My parents. All those lords and ladies. It’s just- I know you don’t – I mean-‘’ she starts to mumble and it suddenly feels too hot in his arms, too scary when he looks at her like that. She’s getting nervous again. Oh, gods. What did she even want to say? It was all a bad idea, the worst. ‘’I’m not asking you to- oh, fuck that, it was stupid, just forge-‘’

Suddenly, underneath blue, blue sky, ankle-deep in cold, cold sea, Gendry’s kissing her.

Her feet on the sharp, slippery pebbles, seagulls shrieking and thunder rumbling somewhere in the far distance, Gendry’s kissing her.

Smiling against her mouth, his lips chapped and warm, Gendry’s kissing her.

And she supposes she’s glad she brought it up at the end, cause it would be embarrassing as hell to gasp like she just did in front of all the guests; to freeze first and then close her eyes and melt, raising on her tiptoes and burying her fingers in soft, dark hair at the back of his head to press him closer to her. Their teeth clash and she winces, but he coaxes her lips to part with his tongue and – oh.

Oh.

***

The Royal House Targaryen streams through the open gate with all the pomp and extravagance possible.  And even Arya has to admit, they are truly a sight to behold. It’s hard not to gawk.

King Rheagar rides first, on a stunning white horse and clad in silver, which, paired with his skin and hair,  makes him look a little bit like a fallen star, as if he was out of this world. He’s far older now than when he took the throne from his father, but still as handsome; and those melancholic eyes are only part of the appeal… at least that’s what Arya’s handmaidens at Storm’s End claim. Then, there are his two Queens, who simply couldn’t be more different from each other; Elia Martell, dark and subtle, her eyes lined with kohl and swaddled in sandy yellow gauze and purple velvets versus Lyanna Stark, pale as the moon, her long brown hair cascading down her back and wide grin on her lovely face when she spots Arya’s father.

But as much as Arya wants to finally meet this woman, her eyes keep on searching, impatience burning in her veins until she spots Jon.

Prince Jaehaerys hops off his horse the moment the procession stops and, ignoring all protocol and curtesies, crosses the courtyard to gather Arya in his arms, spinning her around until she wheezes with laughter.

‘’Jon, let me go!’’ she kicks her legs underneath her skirts, suddenly feeling like a little girl again.

‘’I will, but only so I can take a look at you.’’ he chuckles, finally setting her on her feet and surveying her head-to-toe, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘’Well, you did not grow much, didn’t you.’’

She thinks her mother would positively whip her if she hit a crown prince of Seven Kingdoms in the presence of the rest of the Royal Family and that’s the only thing that stops her from doing just so.

‘’You, on contrary, should really stop growing. Nice to see you, friend.’’ Jon turns to Gendry, who grins in return and soon they’re patting each other’s backs, playfully wrestling like they used to back in Winterfell.

‘’My love, maybe you could introduce me?’’ soft, melodic voice breaks their reunion bubble and soon Arya’s looking at someone who surely must be the most beautiful girl she has ever seen.

Jon’s face splits into the most lovesick and sappy smile in the history of lovesick smiles as he sheepishly scratches the back of his head.

‘’You’re right, of course. Gendry, Arya- my wife, Princess Daenerys.’’

‘’Dany. Just Dany is enough, we are amongst friends, right? I heard so much about you two, you have no idea.’’ Daenerys winks at them playfully. She’s wearing a simple lilac dress and her silver hair is down, already messed-up by the wind, but Arya supposes it doesn’t matter at all if her face is so strikingly perfect and her body seems to be carved from marble by someone’s loving hands. Daenerys Targaryen would probably still be heart-stopping if she was barefoot and in rags.

‘’Oh, I think we may have some idea about the things he could tell you,  Your Highness.’’ Gendry lowers his head respectfully and Arya takes it as a clue to curtsy also. ‘’Welcome to Storm’s End.’’

‘’Please, no ‘Your Highness’ me. I told you, my name is Dany.’’ Daenerys clasps Arya’s hands in hers. ‘’I heard you have a similar problem with titles. Please, support me here.’’

‘’Of course – Dany.’’ Arya finds it easy to return the smile, squeezing Princess’ fingers. ‘’Besides, we don’t title Jon. It’s only fair not to do that with you.’’

‘’You’re only not titling me, because you have seen me sprawled half-naked on the snow after that prank that Theon pulled.’’ Jon murmurs grimly, but Arya can see how content he looks like with their introduction to his wife. ‘’After all, it would be impossible to remain dignified after that.’’

Daenerys’ eyebrows shoot up and she narrows her eyes.

‘’I don’t believe I heard this particular story.’’

‘’You don’t have to know everything, Dany.’’

‘’Oh, but I definitely do.’’ Princess turns back to Arya. ‘’Can’t wait to learn what else he hid from me. We must get to know each other better. Please?’’

And because Jon looks so unquestionably happy when he stares at his wife and because Dany’s plea sounds so incredibly honest-  it’s enough for Arya to exchange a glance with Gendry before they both nod in unison.

It’s different now, when there is an additional person in their old good triumvirate. But somehow, she thinks this might be a change for good.

***

On the morning of her wedding, she wakes up too early - it’s barely grey outside, silent in the whole castle.  Even Nymeria is still deep in her slumber and apparently dreaming of running, judging by the erratic movements of her paws.

Arya jumps from under the covers, walking barefoot on the stone-cold floor to the window to check if Gendry was right yesterday, when he told his mother stop fretting about the weather -  it turns out he was indeed, because the sea is still and flat like a table and the wind has died down, leaving only chill breeze that makes her shiver and wrap her arms around her.

Tomorrow, she will wake up in different chambers, with a better view. And just like the water outside, she is strangely calm with this perspective on the horizon. It’s all right. It’s all good.

It will be fine.

One big, fancy ceremony and she will forever be allowed to kiss Gendry whenever she wants and they will never ever have to sneak out again to go for a horse ride. It doesn’t seem like a too big price to pay.

Alright then. Let the madness begin.

She bathes in rosewater, her cherry maids scrubbing every inch of her body with sea sponges until her skin is pink and itchy.

Then, her mother and sister dress her up in fine white silk adorned with ermine fur and pearls on the hem and around cuffs. The gown is lighter than a traditional Northern one would be, but still heavy and uncomfortable, and Sansa laces it tight enough that Arya has to stop herself from wincing every time she takes a deeper breath. They braid her hair in a soft coronet, adorning it with silver thread and small blue flowers, and they powder her face and paint her lips and cheeks with the rogue.

Sansa gifted her a long string of pearls from the Summer Islands for the occasion and now she takes it out of the box and loops it around Arya’s neck a few times, so that it would complement her dress. After doing that, she steps aside, with a satisfied smile on her face.

When they put her in front of the mirror, she has to blink a couple times to recognize herself.

‘’Look at you.’’ Her mother says, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes as she clasps her hands together and covers her mouth with them. ‘’You look so beautiful, Arya.’’

Arya’s heart clenches painfully and she looks down, avoiding Mother’s soft gaze. She has waited her whole life to hear those words.  To fit in. To feel like she belongs.

Right now, standing still in her beautiful gown, dripping with jewels and all dolled-up, she finally looks like a proper noblewoman. Proper lady. Even next to the glowing Sansa, queen-to-be in royal scarlet, she does not look out of place.

Beautiful, that’s how her mother called her.

It doesn’t feel good at all. It feels empty. It is empty, because the woman looking back at her from the mirror is not Arya, just some stranger in her skin.

Gendry, thou. – crosses her mind suddenly, filling her with warmth. – Gendry called me beautiful in the forest, when I had my hair loose and I was soaked to the bone with rain. Why would it matter, what anyone else thinks of me today?

Holding onto that thought, she wills her mouth to curve into a smile. If they want her to play the blushing bride, she will be one for today, easily. Because this marriage won’t be her shackles.

‘’Thank you, Mother.’’

***

First, they marry in Sept.

Storm’s End has a beautiful little chapter, ornamented inside with amber and colored glass, making it look like a jewelry box. When light pours through the windows, it basks people in an orange-golden glow and suddenly everyone and everything becomes simply ethereal. Women are porcelain figures. Men – carved marble. The smell of burning spices is making Arya’s nose twitch, harsh light is making her eyes water. At the back of her head, she registers all of it; Nymeria’s silent presence by her one side, Father’s by the other;  the sound of her maiden cloak sweeping the stone floor; Sansa’s red hair looking like a flame around her face.

But it all feels very much unreal, even when she stands in front of Gendry and watches how light dances on his face, turning his eyes green.  The Septon keeps on talking and talking, gods know what about. She doesn’t hear any of his words, only white noise pulsating in her ears. She is not really here, not really registering what’s going on - not until their linked hands are wrapped with silk ribbon and it’s time for them to say their vows.

For a second, her throat goes dry.

There is no turning back now.

She cannot breathe, cannot think, not will all those people watching her and with those godsdamned spices burning, not with her laces so tight and her heart so heavy-

Gendry’s fingers gently squeeze her own and it’s like a fresh breeze on a hot day, like a bucket of blissfully cold water poured on her head.

This marriage won’t be my shackles.

‘’Father.’’ He starts, his voice confident and loud, echoing through the chapel.

And she breathes in.

‘’Smith.’’ The corners of Gendry’s lips twitch slightly.

And she breathes out.

‘’Warrior.’’ She raises her chin up, looking him straight into the eyes and letting smile bloom on her face.

‘’Mother, Maiden, Crone.’’ They say in perfect unison, and Arya feels how her chest rises and falls, how her heart beats steadily, how everything is a song and she just wants to sing it as long as she’s alive.

‘’I am his and he is mine from this day, until the end of my days.’’ They stand so close to each other, their linked hands being the only thing that keeps their bodies apart; Gendry leans his head down and she does not care for guests or for the feast or for being the lady of Storm’s End when he’s right here and promises to be hers.

The Septon untangles the ribbon and Gendry’s fingers immediately fly to the laces of her cloak; but then, just as suddenly, he drops them.

He sends her a blinding grin and, instead of taking it off, he simply reaches for the Baratheon black-and-yellow cloak and pulls it on top of her Stark one and she’s quite sure no one ever smiled as widely as her at that moment, when gathered guests gasp and Gendry fulfills her promise to her in the most beautiful way he possibly could.

And then.

‘’With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband.’’ She almost sing-songs, feeling like a giddy girl about to dip into Godswood pools.

‘’With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.’’ Gendry’s voice drops an octave lower, sending shivers down her spine, before she raises on her toes and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss.

‘’I now pronounce you man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.’’  The Septon announces, and it’s a perfectly lovely line, truly;  but all Arya ever wants to hear is Gendry’s breathy laughter as he embraces her tightly, sweeping her off her feet.

***

They truly do get married when the night falls, at least from Arya’s perspective.

The Godswood here is, of course,  not even close to what she left behind in Winterfell, but it’s easy to fool herself when it’s dark and lit with torches and bigger part of her family is there. Most of the guests decided to remain at the feast inside, so the ceremony is far quieter and simple – only aunt Lyanna, Jon and Daenerys stand next to Lady Isabelle and Gendry’s sisters on the one side of the path, watching as Arya is once again lead towards her husband by her father. From the other side, Sansa sends her a soft smile, locked in Prince Aegon’s arms and Rickon whistles sharply until Mother whacks him on the head.

This time, Father pulls her close before giving her away, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead and quietly telling her he loves her and this is when it really, truly hits her- this is goodbye. A farewell. Even of Gendry didn’t take her cloak off… since now, she’ll forever be Lady Arya Baratheon in the eyes of the world.

This makes her cry, just a little and it’s good that Gendry’s close enough to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

When they kneel on the sweet-smelling grass in front of the bloody-teared heart tree, she closes her eyes and silently asks the old Northern gods of her ancestors to replace Winterfell in her heart with Storm’s End. And for Gendry to never leave her again. And to finally feel that what she has is enough.

***

Aunt Lyanna dances through the whole evening with anyone and everyone who gathers enough courage to ask her; she twirls in her husband’s arms, spins around nearly all Kingsguards, claps along with the rhythm with her son and Prince Aegon, drags Arya’s father to the dancefloor despite his loud complaints.

She even steals Gendry for a song or two, promising Arya to give him back in one piece and just as handsome and bursting into laughter when Gendry turns red.

Elia Martell also dances her with husband, son, nephew and brother, but she is nowhere as blinding as Lyanna, nowhere as attention-catching. She spends most of the feast quietly talking with Sansa and Dayne siblings, only making an exception to sweetly congratulate Arya and Gendry on their union and to wish them to enjoy each other’s company until they’re old and grey.

Funny thing thou; while Elia seems perfectly calm and content to sit at the sidelines, Arya catches Aunt Lyanna longingly stare a little too long at the Stark sigil hanging from the ceiling along the Baratheon one; and, while she’s still a relatively young woman, there are crone’s lines deeply carved in the skin around her eyes. If observed long enough, her laughter sounds quite hollow and there’s some unhealthy nervousness about her quick, erratic movements.

She truly does resemble a caged songbird.

Beautiful and sad, that’s what Gendry said about her years ago. And although probably no one else would call her the latter, Arya supposes he was not wrong at all, just more perceptive than others.

King Rheagar’s sadness is out in the open. For Lyanna’s, one has to dig a little deeper.

But Arya’s  pondering about the subject is rudely, if deliciously, interrupted as Gendry’s lips suddenly brush her earlobe when he whispers:

“Would you do me an honor of dancing with me, my lovely wife?’’

She turns towards him, cheeks blushed, breath catching. Wife, wife, wife.

He’s straight-up fucking beaming at her. She hasn’t been even aware that he can make an expression like that. And when she immediately puts her hand in his, no hesitation, his smile stretches even wider, making his eyes crinkle and highlighting this tiny dimple he has on his chin.

It is unmistakable, how unabashedly happy Gendry looks like.  Oh gods, how could she even think about anything else than him this night?

‘’Lead the way, husband of mine. And try not to step on my toes.’’ She teases and bursts into laughter as he pulls her in-between dancing pairs and spins her around.

***

‘’Maybe we could just ran away.’’ Arya whispers, gently tracing the slope of Gendry’s nose with the tip of her finger. The guests behind their doors whistle and shout obscenities, but they could as well be far away in the North for how little attention Arya pays them. Her and her new husband are laying on top of Gendry’s magnificent featherbed, stripped to their small clothes and in no hurry whatsoever, all hushed voices and feather-like caresses. He’s playing with her hair. She’s exploring his features. Time feels sticky; thick and sweet like honey.

She wants to savor it, every single drop.

‘’Drop the titles, the castles. Just be us.’’ She sounds dreamy and, ultimately, it is exactly what she plans on doing. She’s gonna daydream. She’s gonna talk and talk with him, the way they have always did. And just hope that whatever follows won’t be the first thing that won’t come easy to them.

‘’What would we do?’’ he plays along, gently grabbing her hand and kissing the delicate underside of her wrist, his eyes shining in the moonlight, his lips parted. There’s something written on his face tonight and she does not know how to decipher this message; she only knows it makes her toes curl, her fingers tremble.

‘’You’d be my blacksmith.’’ Arya braces herself for a moment before she swiftly rolls on top of him, settling her hips against his and chuckling when he groans.

‘’And you’d be my Arya.’’

Mine, mine, mine – her blood sings, her breath catches as she watches how he lays spread underneath her, both rough and soft, vulnerable and strong and hers, hers to keep.

His hands rest on her waist and then move upwards, finding her breasts and she moans involuntarily under his touch,  evoking a wave of loud cheering from the corridor. Gendry’s pupils are blown wide, his eyes are so dark that they don’t even look blue anymore.

‘’Aye, I would be.’’ she agrees before lowering her head to capture his lips with hers. ‘’I would always be yours.’’

Never believe things men will tell you to bed you. They won’t mean it, not truly. - Septa Mordane used to warn her and Arya briefly wonders if the opposite is maybe also true. Right now, she would say everything and anything to get Gendry to move, to touch her, really touch her.  This dance they’re doing is marvelous, is delicious, is unlike anything else she has ever felt before. With the anticipation making her dizzy, with want making her silly, there are not many lines she wouldn’t cross.

‘’Say it again.’’ He demands in between kisses, twisting her nipple in-between his fingers and using her moment of weakness to flip them over, swallowing her breathy gasps with his mouth. ‘’Please.’’

‘’Yours. I’m yours, I’m yours.’’ She pants, giddy and happy, and letting excitement bubble inside her as he replaces his fingers with his mouth.

‘’And I’m yours.’’ He vows sweetly, pressing short, burning kisses down her body, stripping her of any shame until everything else disappears without a trace, wiped from the face of Earth, leaving only place for the two of them, together.

***

The next morning, Gendry takes her to the stables with her eyes blindfolded with a silk shawl.

‘’I know where we are going.’’ She whines, feeling more than a little ridiculous as he leads her like a child. ‘’I know you’re gonna give me a horse. Why do we have to do it this way?’’

‘’I’m a fan of all things proper.’’ Comes his answer and Arya’s absolutely sure she must be red to the roots of her hair cause there was abso-fucking-lutely nothing proper about how Gendry spread her thighs and licked her into oblivion just a few hours ago.

‘’Oh, surely you are.’’ She snickers, making him chuckle in response.

‘’Are you suggesting I did not – took care of you properly last night?’’

When did he become such a tease?

She’s just about to shoot something back, but Gendry takes her hand and places it on top of something incredibly delicate and warm.

‘’Say hello, my love.’’ He tells her softly, undoing the knot at the back of Arya’s head. ‘’I hope you’ll be satisfied.’’

In front of Arya stands the most magnificent pale sand steed she has ever seen. It is elegantly built, with the long neck, thin legs and small hooves; even while standing still, it looks like an epitome of grace. From underneath its grey fringe, dark eyes stare intelligently right into hers. The beast is calm like the untouched surface of the lake and Arya can do nothing else but stand and gawk, her hand still resting above horse’s nostrils; she’s just too enchanted to say anything.

‘’Trystane and Oberyn brought her with Dorne on my request.’’ Gendry continues, patting the horse’s side. ‘’How do you like her?’’

How do I like her?

Suddenly, Arya feels a strange urge to cry.

She has dreamt of a sand steed all her life. To just jump onto one and  - ran away, as swiftly as possible, faster than the wind. To disappear somewhere of the horizon, in the lands unknown. To become a tale incarnate. And Gendry knew it all well, for how many times she talked his ears off with her ice dragons, leviathans, Old Valyrias, Elisa Farmans, Princess Aereas and Sea Snakes.

And yet – he gave her this beautiful, beautiful horse and trusted her not to use it to leave him and shame him.

He’s looking so proud of himself. – she thinks, her heart fluttering in her chest like a moth around the flame. Gendry’s eyes are twinkling and he has his arms laced on his chest, standing tall and strong. He’s smiling at her, as always. – And he has a right to be.

‘’If you- if you expect me to call her Lightening to match your Thunder, you will be sorely disappointed.’’ She manages to utter at last, trying to keep her tone playful. – ‘’This would be ridiculous and we won’t be doing that.’’

Gendry barks a laughter, leaning back on one of the wooden pillars and glancing at Arya fondly as she lets the horse sniff her palm before gently pressing a kiss to its nose.

‘’How will you call her then?’’

Arya combs through mare’s fine, silvery mane with her fingers and recalls the feeling of steel grey waves crashing around her calves as Gendry was kissing her on the shore. The feeling of galloping with him on the cliffs, cold rain soaking their clothes. The Old Nan’s stories of the Northern Sea, filled to the brim with monsters from the wildest imagination. The image of the clear sky after the storm, pure and light.

The night they have just spent together.

‘’Shiver.’’ She finds herself stating, with one side of her face pressed to the horse’s warm, strong neck. Her mare smells like sand and sun and salt. Like the only freedom her husband can give her; the freedom to be who she is. ‘’Her name is Shiver.’’

***

As they’re seeing the royal guests away, Aunt Lyanna surveys them both for a moment silently, before exhaling deeply.

‘’Look children, I know you received a lot of well wishes already, but please let me add to the pool.’’ She reaches out and take their hands in her small, glowed ones – Gendry’s in her right, Arya’s in her left. ‘’I hope that your wedding was not the best day of your lives. I hope you will get many, many better in the future, each one more wonderful than the previous. I hope your years together will be as joyous as they can be.’’

Arya’s eyes involuntarily escape from Lyanna across the courtyard, finding Father’s still figure. Her parents are going to accompany royal family to the Capital before going back North and simply the thought of it makes her want to throw up. After they’re gone, only Nymeria will remind her of home.

After they’re gone, there will be no more ceremonies and pleasantries, or formal dinners to suffer through. Only day by day, years passing by.  

‘’My dear.’’ Aunt Lyanna pats her cheek delicately to regain her attention and looks her straight into the eyes, grey meeting grey. ‘’I know it’s hard for us, she-wolves of Winterfell, to live in the South. But you are strong. You will survive this separation – and soon, your childhood will become just a sweet memory to cherish, not something that makes you ache. Believe me.’’ She finishes quietly, quickly bidding them goodbye and hurrying to her horse with skirts fluttering around her ankles as if she was afraid she said too much.

Her voice rings true and Arya suspects she believes in her words. But Lyanna still looks so small and bittersweet in her blue gown, surrounded by the sea of crimson and black. She stands out, a single winter rose in the garden of glasshouse-grown ones. From one side, King Rheagar glances at her, brow furrowed. From another, Jon shoots her a concerned look, wrinkle on his forehead deep like a gash.

Mother hugs her tightly, caressing her hair and saying something about being proud of her, but Arya’s more or less fine until Father appears in front of her and stares down at her so lovingly that she’s sure her heart will break clean in half from the pain.

She can feel her lower lip trembling and before she can even notice, she’s locked in Ned Stark’s warm embrace, surrounded by the familiar scent.

‘’My girl.’’ He whispers softly, letting her tear up against his shoulder and holding her tightly. ‘’My girl, I love you so much. You are going to do so good, you’ll see.’’

‘’I’m going to miss you.’’ She cries, not even carrying if anyone hears. Let them know Starks love their pack. Let them know whose example she is going to follow. ‘’So much. But I’ll do my best.’’

‘’I know you will.’’ Father says warmly, his voice laced with such a certainty that she smiles through tears. ‘’You are a natural; you were born to order people around. And I’m sure you will be happy in Stormlands. Right, Gendry?’’

Arya still has her face pressed to Father’s fur collar, but she’s fully aware that he fixes  a particularly icy stare on her husband, because Gendry’s ‘’I’ll see to that, Lord Stark.’’ sounds a little nervous.

‘’You don’t need to scare him, Father.’’ She says quietly. ‘’You said it yourself; he will be good to me.’’

‘’Oh, I don’t worry about it. But it’s better to be extra safe than sorry, right?’’

So this is how she says goodbye to her family; her face wet and the corners of her mouth up, her husband squeezing her hand tightly as the horses disappear, swallowed by the woods.

***

A week later, just when she thinks all the hard talks and surprises are behind her, Lady Isabelle invites her for a tea in her solar.

Dressed in a teal gown and with her blonde locks half-up, her goodmother looks as delicate and bird-like as always and Arya wonders for the thousandth time how a woman like that put up with years and years of Robert Baratheon, how did she survive giving him a son and three daughters. If Isabelle is akin to a dove, Robert is nothing but a boar; big and loud and vulgar.

And still in love with another woman, even after all those years.

‘’Oh, Arya. Sit please.’’  The woman sets down her embroidery hoop on the table and reaches for a teapot. ‘’I hope you like tea? I heard Xingise don’t drink anything else.’’

‘’I do enjoy tea a lot, goodmother.’’ Arya dutifully takes a seat and watches as Lady Isabelle is pouring dark, sweet-smelling liquid into her cup. There are fresh cut roses in the vase between them and one of the petals falls off just as Arya’s trying to remember if the two of them were ever alone before. To be honest, she cannot recall such situation.

With a cling of porcelain, Gendry’s mother puts teapot back on the tray and announces simply:

‘’Robert and I will soon leave Storm’s End.’’

Arya’s eyes widen. She has expected – fuck, she doesn’t know what she expected, but definitely not this.

‘’Where to, my lady? I thought Lord Robert’s condition doesn’t allow him to travel.’’ She asks carefully, trying not to sound too brash, or, gods forbid, too happy. Even if she is a little bit happy. Which probably makes her the worst person ever.

‘’You are not mistaken.’’ Isabelle purses her lips into a tight line. ‘’But my husband is barely holding onto life the way he is now. Him and I will only trouble Gendry, and he does not need extra problems on his head. Especially… now that he already has you.’’

She could’ve as well slap Arya, for how painful this subtle jab was.

‘’Let me make something clear, Lady Arya.’’ Isabelle continues, any trace of sweetness gone from her voice. ‘’I was against this match, same as I was against Gendry being fostered in Winterfell, especially since we could’ve send him to Eyrie, to my family. Bringing you here is an insult to me, considering – well, considering.’’

Lyanna, Lyanna, Lyanna. Why won’t you just say her name? We both know you’re thinking about her.

‘’My son is a good man, I made sure of that. I thought there is not a trace of Robert in him, except his looks. But it seems I was wrong.’’

‘’Gendry is different than his father. Completely different.’’ Arya protests, but her words seem distant and distorted as if she was under the water. This whole conversation threw her completely off balance. Where did this woman hide this venom for all those weeks?

‘’Not when it comes to taste in women, apparently. ‘’ Isabelle scoffs and Arya curses in her head, this goddamn shadow of Aunt Lyanna always stuck to me. ‘’Still, I respected his choice. But you should know, you would never deserve him. Never.’’

Looks like an innocent flower, but there’s a true furious stag underneath          

Arya cannot hate Lady Isabelle; she cannot even dislike her now, not when it turned out she is not so bland after all. Years stuck with Robert, seeing his whores and wine would make even a saint bitter.

Besides…  she does understand where her good mother’s fears come from.

Arya laces her fingers on her lap, more lady-like than ever, and takes a sip of her tea.

‘’So let me be honest also; I love your son. And I intend to be a good wife for him. But I will never take your road. I won't ever let him harass me into becoming who I’m not. However, I believe I should thank you for raising him... Because I know he would never do that.’’

Lady Isabelle stares at her for a moment, before nodding slowly.

‘’He wouldn’t. He won’t. Hope you know how lucky you are.’’

In fact, Arya feels like she’s been slowly realizing that from the moment she stepped onto the Storm’s End courtyard and it’s only becoming clearer with time.

‘’Anyway.’’ Isabelle reaches for her own teacup, only the slight tremble of her wrist indicating she has just straight-up insulted Arya. ‘’I wish to visit my older brother and his wife in Runestones. I hope clear mountain air would do Robert well, not like the clammy heat here.’’

Oh, it will certainly do him good. – Arya narrows her eyes, trying to stop herself from chuckling. – So will being tossed in the wheelhouse for weeks, on the hard terrain, when he’s already so weak. You minx. I underestimated you.

Her goodparents do leave eventually, against Gendry’s loud and explicit wishes, and taking his youngest sister with them.  It takes five men to load Lord Robert onto the wheelhouse as he coughs and wheezes and Maester of Storm’s End refuses to see his lord and lady away, whispering to anyone who would listen that this whole idea is pure lunacy.

But it is easier to breathe in the castle without them and Gendry smiles more when he doesn’t have to visit his father every day and see him fading away. Even his two remaining sisters, Aelin and Lara, seem to be a little bit more carefree and talkative, and Lara goes as far as starting to practice water dancing along with Arya.

For all this bliss, Arya doesn’t kid herself into believing that is the last she sees of lady Isabelle. After all, she is of House Royce and Maester Luwin taught Arya her houses well.

And Royces of Runestones have a very memorable motto indeed.

We remember.

***

Little Lady, that’s how smallfolk has taken to calling her. Little Lady and Lady Wolf and Winter Rose even, sometimes, after someone starts to marvel at her likeness to Queen Lyanna. It stung at the beginning, made her stomach turn with irritation and her eyes roll. She could stomach Lady Wolf – it sounded kind of bloody fantastic, to be honest – but all the rest she was honestly despising.

Soon enough tho, a new addition come in front of each of her many names, the one that completely turned everything around.

‘’Our Little Lady’’ - servants address her tenderly, when they think she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Our Lady Wolf!” –  village children would laugh, crowding around her on the streets, tugging on her clothes and begging for sweets and stories.

“Yes, our lady is simply amazing, isn’t she?” – guards would whisper in between each other, after not-so-discretely watching her practice archery in the courtyard on a sunny afternoon.

She does not like being The Lady any more than she thought she would. But she supposes could be their lady, the lady of those people, when ‘’our’’ sounded like a bigger honorific that whatever followed it.

Stormlands grow on her, slowly and surely, like a vine covering stone. This beautiful, violent lands; deep, dark woods, blindingly white cliffs of Durrandon’s Point and Shipwrecker’s Bay’s angry, stone-blue sea.  The sky that seems to always be in motion, just like in the North. Storms, so constant and yet so breathtaking, leaving a peculiar aftertaste in the air. She spends every free moment on the horseback, riding from village to village and along the coast, exploring every inch and nook and letting Nymeria roam loose, until her wolf collapses by Gendry’s feet in the evening, panting and satisfied.

To be honest tho, there is not much time for Arya to waste it like that.

She’s keeping  herself busy, filling her days with bookkeeping and trade negotiations and construction of guilds, with breeding hounds and tending to horses. There is a lot to mend; Robert was a reckless spender and his wife loved unnecessary frivolities, but Arya’s sure they can pay off their debts just fine  if they will manage without peacocks for suppers for a while and cut the amount of lavish feasts in half.

Gendry shows her the maps of trade routes in the region and they spend hours upon hours of reviewing the stream of goods, arguing about the possible new harbors on the coastline and the construction of roads. She’s losing her sleep in favor of counting taxes, monitoring the state of their coffers and wondering what else they could possibly produce. Arya would’ve never guessed all of it would be so engaging, but it is. And all the work feels so very rewarding, so useful.

It’s easy to have a clear objective, when it has a name and a face, be it freckled Mel from the kitchens, her favorite guard Willen or Old Tom that sits in the docks all day long and gifts her with fresh clams every time she’s passing him on Shiver. It’s easy to work for them, to make their lives better. Especially because Arya’s and Gendry’s lives are already so good.

Soon, she introduces her favorite Winterfell tradition of dining with a different resident of the households, be it the Captain of the Guard or the Head Stablemaster. But instead of moving to sidelines like her mother used to, Arya sits on one side of their guest and Gendry on another one, asking questions together. Maybe, just maybe, she even talks more.

Maybe she generally does just as much governing as him, definitely more than is expected of her. Maybe people talk behind her back about how improper it all is.

Maybe, but Gendry himself certainly doesn’t seem to mind all that.

At night, he hoists her legs up, rests her calves on his broad shoulders and fucks her, long and hard and slow, nipping on her neck and collarbone now and then, or suckling on her nipples until she’s trembling like a flame in the fireplace, desperately beginning him with a broken voice that she doesn’t even recognize as hers to please, please, just go faster and finish her off.

She told him she would not bow to any man and she keeps her promise; she does not bow to him. She surrenders thou, gladly and sweetly, if only because it makes her all hot and wet every time he puts his hands on her and pins her down forcefully to cover her body with his. His grip is strong and bruising and maybe she should feel violated by that, but how does it even matter, if his kisses are so gentle and his eyes so loving? This is safety; this is her Gendry. She could close her eyes and moan all she fucking desires and he would never, ever hurt her.

She leaves scratches down his back and he leaves her skin peppered with love bites and they ruin and devour each other in the most delicious, delirious way there is.

How her mother and her sister warned her of a marriage bed. She wants to laugh every time she thinks about it.

***

A raven comes with news of Sansa bearing a healthy girl named Alyssa, said to be red of hair and purple of eyes.  And, as on cue, Arya’s moon blood comes once, twice and then stops.

Soon, her breasts fill up painfully and she stops sleeping well, fruitlessly tossing and turning in bed until Gendry sleepily gathers her in his arms and caresses her hair, calming her down.

And then she barges into the kitchens one day and demands, very loudly, for the cook to stop preparing fish, seven hells, can he just not, is it really that hard to understand that fish makes her sick?

And she knows what it means. She’s not blind or ignorant. But this knowledge feels heavy, so heavy that she’d rather leave it untouched than try to carry it on her shoulders. They have just settled into some kind of routine. This… this will turn everything around yet again.

Unfortunately, she did not marry a stupid man either. A little silly sometimes, but not stupid.

So, when he buries his face in-between her breasts one evening and her gasp clearly a pained, not an aroused one, he carefully rests his chin on her clavicle and breathes out deeply.

“Arya.’’

‘’Gendry.’’

He huffs in annoyance, raising himself up on his elbows and taking his weight off her.

‘'Arya, please.’’

‘’Yes?’’

If he plays dumb, she will also.

‘’Are you with a child?’’ he asks her, straight-up, and his voice – gods, his voice. Everything rings in it, every possible emotion; fear and excitement and anxiousness and hope and love. So much love and he doesn’t even try to conceal it.

And maybe it’s the babe – she seriously hopes so, because otherwise she’s just getting soft which is simply ridiculous – but Arya can feel her heart painfully clenching in her chest as her husband’s blue eyes flicker in the candlelight.

She gently cards her fingers through his thick curls, pushing them away from her face.

‘’Would you like me to be?’’ – she already knows the answer, but she still wants to hear it. Just.. just to be sure. Just to lean against his unwavering strength and drew from it when her doubts eat her alive.

He swiftly rises to a kneeling position and pulls her along, settling her on his lap with her arms looped around his neck and her bare thighs straddling him. A fresh wave of arousal crushes over her and she hums in delight as he places his hand on her hip, his fingers digging into her skin.

‘’Arya. I would be by far the happiest man in the world if you were.’’ He says solemnly, his other hand cradling the back of her head. ‘’But being honest, I am already happier than I ever thought I will be, having you with me. So tell me. Please.’’

He lets go of her hip to tentatively cup her still-flat belly and she just cannot drag it any longer, not when he seems to tremble in anticipation underneath her.

‘’Aye.’’

He breathes in and out deeply, his eyes still locked with hers. There is a dazed expression of his face and Arya’s sure no one has ever looked at her that way; the way Septas look at figures of Mother in Sept, the way Jon was looking at dancing Dany at the wedding, the way sunsets are supposed to be looked at.

He looks at her as if she was a gift sent from gods.

“Aye?’’

‘’Aye. I am.’’ She’s nodding and oh fuck, when did she start crying? When did she start grinning, when did he pull her head closer to his? When did he start kissing her, laughing against her mouth and tasting salt on her lips?

Aye, aye.

Aye.

It seems all the sweetest moments in her life start with just this one word.

***

Dany and Jon come to visit, just as they promised during the wedding; they arrive with a surprisingly small escort and the whole trip seems as informal as possible, for what Arya’s eternally grateful.

She has started to throw up so often and so much that she has grown frail, which drives her insane and irritable. It doesn’t help that the more she vomits, the more Gendry frets, so with the guests at Storm’s End at least he has something else to occupy himself with besides asking her if she’s fine the thousandth time a day.

Which she is. She is perfectly fine and perfectly capable of riding a horse or managing her duties. Thanks gods he has enough reason not to question it out loud, or else she would positively stick him full of holes with a Needle.

Which she is also capable of, just to be clear.

Dany, of course, looks like a daydream. She brings Arya a ton of books and even starts teaching her Old Valyrian, laughing at her butchered pronunciation. The Princess is also far more vocal about the situation at King’s Landing than Jon has ever been and all that she’s talking about gives Arya lots to ponder over in her head at night.

Especially Queen Elia revelation.

‘’I’m honestly surprised it’s not public knowledge already.’’ Dany simply states, ignoring Arya’s wide-opened eyes. ‘’They’re not even trying very hard to be discreet anymore.’’

‘’But – Arthur Dayne? And your brother, he allows it?’’

‘’Arya, please. In this whole situation they have, my brother is the one with the least power whatsoever. After all – ‘’ Dany takes a sip of wine from her goblet, smirking a little, ‘’- he is the one who caused this mess. First, he married Elia even though he didn’t want to. Then he married Lyanna because he wanted to. And one could argue whether or not he was right in any of those cases.’’

“And the children? I mean, doesn’t anyone question if they are really his?’’

Daenerys gracefully rests her chin on her hand and humms.

‘’Well, Aegon is Rheagar’s, there is no wondering about that at all.’’ Arya supposed it was true, given her good brother’s true Targaryen coloring. ‘’Rhaenys, well, maybe one could dig deeper when it comes to her, but why should one bother? It’s not like she is the heir of anything. She’s married now, shipped to Highgarden and, as far as I know, greatly enjoys wreaking havoc there.’’

Arya bites on her lips, looking out of the window and the busy courtyard.  She can hear the sound of hammered steel and that involuntarily makes her smile. They did a few changes in the staff of the castle and now they have such a good steward that Gendry manages to steal a few hours a week to work in the forge. He looks happier now; calmer. Even when he frets over her, it’s less frantic.

‘’You two are adorable.’’ Dany giggles, which makes Arya wheeze.

‘’Please, stop it.’’

‘’No, I’m serious. It really shows how much you care for him. And him for you.’’ Dany’s looking at her with eyes sparkling with mischief and Arya has only a second to brace herself before her almost-goodsister asks: ‘’Is it good in bed? I’m sure it’s good in bed.’’

‘’Dany!’’

‘’What? You’re with a child, do you think I’d believe a stork brought it to you one afternoon?’’

***

‘’Did you know that my father wanted to marry Ashara Dayne before the whole situation with uncle Brandon?’’ she asks Gendry one afternoon, making him tear his eyes away from the scroll he’s currently studying.

‘’What?’’

‘’Oh, yes. Apparently, they were very much in love.’’ She rubs the gentle curve of her belly absent-mindedly, looking at the gathering storm outside. The babe has just started quickening, and she’s starting to get used to the strange sensation. ‘’It’s not like it was not possible. Although that would surely be unexpected, to have a Dornish woman so far North.’’

Gendry murmurs something under his breath which sounds suspiciously like bloody Daynes.

‘’Oh please, stop it already. Ned’s a perfect noble knight.’’

‘’There’s nothing noble in the way he devours you with his damn eyes every time he visits.’’

Arya giggles, trying to imagine honorable, bland Ned ogling anyone.

‘’I think you are irrational. But rest easy; soon I’ll be too fat for anyone to devour me, with their eyes or otherwise.’’

This time Gendry’s groan is even louder and perfectly clear.

‘’Damn you woman, stop whining.’’ He raises from the chair and collapses on the bed next to her, making the mattress bounce. ‘’You know you’re beautiful, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Even more beautiful now. How many times will you make me say it?’’

‘’Take off your boots.’’ She grumbles, but softly. It’s hard to be irritated at him when he gets like that; when the candles are so short and she just wants to curl by her husband’s side and talk with him about just anything and everything until they fall asleep.  Gendry sneaks an arm around her waist, pressing her closer to him and resting his forehead on her back, between her shoulder blades.

For a moment they’re just laying like that; under the yellow canopy and buried in the soft furs, with a distant sound of thunder outside, as the room gets darker and darker.

‘’Sometimes I’m wondering if any marriages are happy at all.’’ She lets out with a sigh, making Gendry stir awake from his half-nap. He props himself on the elbow to take a look at her face.

‘’Your parents are happy, I think. Even if they wanted to marry different people at the beginning.’’

‘’Yeah, but- I don’t know. Can you really forget your first love completely?’’

Arya saw Ashara Dayne at the wedding, peering at her father from underneath a fan of dark lashes, her violet eyes so striking and her still pitch-black hair so lovely that even Catelyn Stark’s pale irises and greying red locks didn’t stand a chance in comparison.

And surely Mother must’ve looked at Father many, many times through the years and wonder about uncle Brandon and what could’ve been-s. How weird it must have been for her to live with him and aunt Barbrey those first few years?

‘’I cannot possibly know that.’’ Gendry says gently, raising his hand up to caress the side of her face and then placing it on top of her swollen belly. ‘’You were my first love anyway.’’

‘’You have never told me that before.’’ She breaths out. The babe flutters inside her anxiously and she reassures it inside her head everything’s perfect, everything’s fine. She has never asked him, truth to be told, but she did not kid herself into believing Gendry did not have any flings before he asked her to marry him. ‘’Did you – back in Winterfell?’’

‘’Of course I loved you in Winterfell.’’ He grins, spreading his fingers wider on her middle and trying to feel tiny kicks better. ‘’You were small and always dirty and absolutely unafraid. And underfoot at all times. And you loved to talk, but you would listen so patiently. I was gone before I even knew what’s going on.’’

Cold mud in-between her fingers , crusting her hair. Gendry making faces at her from across the table. How they made wildflower crowns for each other and the one she made for him fell apart in seconds, but the one he gave her stayed intact for the whole weeks.

She loved him then, that was never a question.

‘’But it was different.’’ Her voice is small, laced with too many emotions to untangle them all.

‘’Damn well it was different. ‘’ his arm sneaks underneath her back, pulling her closer until they’re face-to-face. ‘’Until I saw you in that green dress. It was like a lightning strike.. You have frighteningly nice tits Arya, really.’’

‘’Oh gods.’’ She starts to giggle, resting her forehead in the crook of his neck. His skin smells like iron and steel and fresh breeze and she inhales it as deeply as possible. ‘’One can always trust you to ruin the mood, Gendry. Here I thought it’s the time for grand confessions, but you just wanted to admit you married me for my tits.’’

‘’Not only for them.’’ He pinches the side of one of her breast lightly, making her yelp. ‘’But they were definitely a factor in my decision.’’

‘’I love you, you big, stupid idiot.’’ She admits in-between fits of laughter, her lips moving against his skin and shivering violently when he hitches up her nightgown to touch her naked waist that has just began to widen considerably.

‘’I love you too, you wild woman.’’ He chuckles, pressing a tender kiss to the crown of her head. His hand travels down and she can feel her eyelids already fluttering. ‘’More than I ever thought I would love anyone. And I really hope I can prove you wrong – with this no happy marriages thing.’’

‘’You’ve already did.’’ He slips his fingers in-between her folds and curls them, so her voice comes out like a sigh rather than a statement. The hell with how he disarms her, with how he makes her feel. ‘’Because I am happy, I really am.’’

She would never lie to Gendry, she’s sure of that. However, she also does not think she has ever been  as honest as she’s now, saying those words.

***

But the sky falls down upon them anyway.

Arya wakes up in the middle of the night, in the pitch-black chambers; Gendry’s still snoring beside her, the two of them cocooned by the soft furs. She keeps her eyes closed and tries to fall asleep again, to come back to the ever-pleasant dream of running through the Stormlands’ woods on all fours, searching for the prey. But some deep, unsettling sensation inside her keeps her awake; it raises in intensity until it transforms into  pain in her lower belly sharp enough to make her gasp. She shuffles a little, her hand immediately shoots to cradle her bump; and instead of easing, it gets worse with the change of the position, forcing her to kneel on the mattress with her thighs spread.

What’s going on? What’s going on, what’s going on – is running through her mind on a loop and she’s still too sleepy to really get scared until something within her tightens like a bow, making her spine arch and she’s sure she must let out a moan or whine, because Gendry stirs a little. And then whatever was tightened lets lose suddenly, only it does not feel like letting loose; it feels as if someone tore her insides in half, the way maids tears old shirts into rags.

Hunched-over, her lids shut close, and more awake than she has ever been, she begins to pray.

Millions of women  has surely prayed like that before and will pray like that until the end of times. There is only one prayer for a moment like that, the one no one had to teach them; no pretty hymn, but a broken litany.

Don’t, dear gods, don’t, don’t kill my child, please, please don’t let it happen, please, I’m begging you

But it’s for naught, of course.

When she opens her eyes, all she sees is blinding crimson spilling out of her, sticking to her skin, staining the sheets, staining everything.

There is wind blowing outside and wolves howling in the woods and Gendry sleepily asking her what’s wrong, but she does not hear any of that; all she’s hearing is white noise ringing in her ears endlessly, drowning her desperate no-s and please-s in it.

**

Arya's handmaiden Irene is everything Arya isn’t and more; tall and rounded, and fair-headed. Graceful. She curtsies beautifully and wears her hair up often, exposing the beautiful line of her neck.

But most of all, she has two small boys with identical gaps between their front teeth. They herd around Gendry’s legs in the courtyard like the rest of the children at Storm’s End, begging him to play hide-and-seek with them and shrieking with joy when he starts to chase them.

And the very sight of that grips Arya’s throat with an icy fist, stealing her breath away.

She used to play with those children too, teach them letters during sunny afternoons, telling them stories about North and defending them from the cook when they were caught in the kitchens with sweets in their hands. She used to love their presence, their high-pitched laughter and little hands. They were the only ones who listened when she asked them to call her by her name, not ‘’Lady Baratheon’’.

But ever since she lost her babe, she hasn’t been able to muster the courage to tend to other women’s children, Irene’s least of all.

Her boys are dark-haired and blue-eyed, and that inevitably makes Arya wonder, suspicion festering in her heart like maggots on the open wound. How old are they? Three and four? How many years has passed since Gendry came from Winterfell back to Storm’s End?

Numbers are swimming in her mind, stealing her sleep as she lays at night by her husband’s side, having once again escaped from his arms. She curls with her back to him, knowing full well she’s being stupid and inconsiderate and ridiculous. Gendry promised her he’d be true and gave her no reasons to believe he would ever break this promise.

And yet.

She wouldn’t be surprised if he had Irene on a side, or any other woman. Why wouldn’t he?

It’s been a long time since he was a boy with fine leather breeches stained by the Winterfell’s mud and she was a little girl, laughing together after they ate summer peaches, juice dripping down their chins.

Now they’re older and she is nothing but broken.

***

‘’My lady, would you like to go for a horse ride after dinner?’’

‘’I’m sorry, I don’t feel so well today. I think I’ll go and lay down for the afternoon.’’

‘’Lady Arya, would you like me to accompany you on your walk?’’

‘’There is no need Lancel, I’ll be fine on my own.’’

‘’Please, eat some more soup. Or maybe you’d like something else? Some ham or bread with cheese?’’

‘’No, it was enough. Thank you.’’

She burns letter after letter after letter; the fire in their chamber never dies down, fed constantly with Ned and Catelyn’s words, with Jon and Dany’s words, with Sansa’s words, with Bran’s words. Her words are the same and constant, on every parchment she sends back.

I’m fine, don’t worry about me.

It feels easier to lie when they are so far away.

It’s not so easy to lie to those who surround her, and so, for the first time in her life, Arya turns into a lone wolf. Her days are long now; nights even longer - stars obscured by the clouds and corridors of the castle empty and dark when she strolls through them hours before dawn, Nymeria following her soundlessly on her soft paws like a shadow, baring her teeth at anyone who dares to come closer.

It’s weird how washed-down everything has suddenly became, all those things that used to be vibrant and thrilling. The sound of Shiver’s hooves hitting the ground, the icy waters of Shipbreaker’s Bay washing her feet, the stone walls warmed by the sun. Her husband’s eyes. Food in her mouth, air in her lungs.

She naps plenty during the day and in her dreams, she’s back in Winterfell, she is still one and ten and the sky is still the right color. She’s running through the Godswood laughing; she doesn’t see her pack but she knows they’re there, she can hear their voices, she can almost see them in-between trees. And every time, just as she’s about to reach them, the dream turns into air and mist. No matter how fast she’s running, no matter how loudly she calls for them.

Time after time, she wakes up; one second she’s full and another - empty again.

***

One afternoon, as she’s sitting in her solar and reading a book still in her nightgown with Nymeria curled by her feet, Gendry all but barges in without knocking.

She almost jumps, startled, and her direwolf lets out a warning growl but Gendry crosses the room in three long strides and drops to his knees by her chair before burying his face in her lap. All without uttering a single word.

His fist clutch the material of her skirts and when she tentatively puts a hand on his shoulder, he starts to tremble.

‘’Gendry..’’ she sighs, as Nymeria licks his exposed forearms and flops back on the floor, apparently deciding he’s not a danger of any kind.

He’s still not saying anything, so she cards her fingers through his hair – how soft it is, she almost forgot it –  and dragging her hands along the sides of his face before gently pulling his chin up.

He’s crying.

He’s kneeling on the floor in front of her and crying, his blue eyes all wet an eyelashes tangled and she has never seen him like that before. And if she thought she was heartbroken before, she was damn wrong, cause this is what heartbreak feels like. She cannot even breathe.

‘’Gendry. What’s-‘’

‘’I should be asking you that. What’s going on, Arya? Where did you go?’’ he lets those word out of himself like arrows, fast and true. - ‘’Where are you?’’ he asks desperately, staring at her with such intensity that her first instinct is to hide.

‘’I don’t know what you’re talking about.’’ She says weakly and almost winces herself at the falsehood of this sentence.

Gendry’s face breaks.

‘’Arry.’’ He scrambles to his feet, instantly towering above her as he leans down to cup her face in his hands. ‘’Arry, please, don’t do this. Please, come back to me. Please.’’

His tears roll down his cheek and drop on her skin and it’s like the dam inside her was broken, because suddenly a sob escapes from her chest, once, twice, before turning into a wail and she doesn’t even notice  when or how, but she’s in Gendry’s arms, crying her heart out like never before in her life.

‘’Arya, Arry, my love, please.’’ He’s whispering sweet nonsense in her ear, letting her stain his shirt and holding her tight enough that her ribs hurt. He caresses her hair: ‘’It’s alright.’’

‘’No, it’s not.’’ She manages to let out in-between sobs. Her body feels hot; she’s shaking like a leaf on the wind and her crying only intensifies with every passing second. ‘’You don’t – you don’t understand.’’

‘’Arya, it was my babe too-‘’

‘’It died inside me!’’ she’s positively hysteric now, but it doesn’t matter cause he still doesn’t get it. She tears herself away from him to look at his face, her eyes stinging from salt so much that she’s barely seeing anything at all. ‘’I felt it die inside me, spilling out of me! You don’t understand – you don’t understand.’’

‘’You’re right.’’ He leans his forehead against her. ‘’I don’t, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Arya, I’m sorry.’’

She thinks he must be crying almost as hard as she is, for how many times he apologizes to her, their noses bumping and breaths shaking, until she buries her face in the crook of his neck and he embraces her again; they’re rock back-and-forth together like that for what seems like hours until her sobs turn into hiccups and he starts to speak again.

‘’But you didn’t give me a chance, Arya. You took it all and locked inside and – how do you expect me to compete with your stubbornness, huh? You cannot.’’

And it’s a testament of how much she loves him and how well he knows her, that, against everything, she quietly chuckles at those words.

‘’I’m sorry too.’’ Her voice sounds small and teary, but also like hers and it’s something that she hasn’t experienced for far longer than she realized.

There’s liberation in how they’re sitting, wrapped up in each other on the floor, faces wet and clothes disheveled. He breathes in; she breathes out. She can even feel his heart beating so steady and strong next to hers. She cannot remember ever feeling closer to him than in this moment, pouring all this pain and suffering she’s been feeling onto him and only getting love back.

‘’I- I should’ve talked to you.’’

‘’You should’ve. Or I should’ve never let you get so far. I will never make this mistake again.’’ He rubs her back in circles, his lips pressing to her exposed shoulder blade the sweetest of kisses. ‘’Please, don’t leave me alone. You promised you’ll be with me, you remember?’’

‘’Of course. We are family, right? Even if-even if I-‘’ she cannot force herself to finish this sentence, no matter that the words already hang in-between them heavily. Even if we won’t have children.

‘’Don’t think like that.’’ His arms tighten around her. ‘’We’ll get another shot. And yes, even if we won’t .. you’re all the family I need. Now and always. You are enough. More than enough.’’

She loops her arm around his neck, pressing his face closer to her body until he rests it on her shoulder. Her fingers tangle in the shorter hair at the back of his head and there are fresh tears rolling down her cheeks, but she’ll let them flow. It’s about time for them.

‘’You are enough for me too.’’  

***

This evening, the lady of the castle walks down the stairs in black-and-golden dress, hand in hand with her husband, and sits down by his side in the Round Hall of Storm’s End without any big ceremonies. Her eyes are a little red and she’s still too pale… but it’s nothing that good stew and a little bit of sunshine won’t fix, the cook reasons, peaking at the table from the kitchens and barking at the servers to bring some of those lemon cakes she likes so much to Lady Arya, gods, cannot they think about such things for themselves, must she tell them everything?

Arya’s not laughing, but she smiles and eats, and, when they pour wine into her goblet, she accepts. There is a traveling bard dining with them tonight; when asked, he sings some song about Nymeria of Rhyone and the corners of Arya’s lips rise up slowly, almost shyly, as she rests her head on Gendry’s shoulder and listens.

Some keener-eyed servants notice that Lord Gendry is holding her hand under the table through the whole meal and of course, every maid in the castle starts swooning, because how romantic is that? How lovely?

Stable boys, stewards or guards don’t care much about all this nonsense, or at least they claim so – even if they are quietly wondering how much time will pass since a certain short figure will appear on the courtyard again to order them around. Regardless of them, one thing remains true; all of the residents of Storm’s End, the oldest and the youngest alike, stare at Arya and Gendry this night and let out a collective breath of relief.

Arya would have to be blind not to notice that.  And she won’t be lying; it makes her feel a little bit soft inside.

***

Gendry turned out to be right in the end, as he as an infuriating tendency to be – they do get another shot.

At the height of the blooming spring, little Ned is born, piercing the ears of everyone at Storm End’s with his cries ever since his first breath.

Arya’s heart sings when they lay him down on her bare chest and he looks up at her – her boy, her sweet little boy who blinks his gray eyes at her and seems to know exactly who she is – and she caresses his chubby cheeks with her finger.

‘’Oh, hello, darling.’’ She must sound ridiculous, but it does not feel ridiculous at all. Not when Gendry first holds their son in his arms and stares at him with this pure adoration written in every line on his face and then doesn’t change the expression at all when he raises his eyes to her.

Not when she breaths in Ned’s perfect baby scent and then breathes out and realizes it’s the end of walking on eggshells and acting as if she was made of glass like they did throughout her whole pregnancy. Their babe is with them and he’s just – he’s just theirs to keep and to have and to love.

Not when Ned falls asleep on her breast while nursing and a drip of milk escapes from in-between his tiny lips and Arya notices he clutches a strand of her hair in his fist.

And definitely not when she wakes up in the middle of the night because it’s so hot and finds Gendry walking around the room shirtless, rocking Ned gently and singing to him lullabies quietly, his eyes shining in the darkness and the sound of summer storm outside.

It does not feel ridiculous.

It feels like she can finally stop searching for some unknown things; it feels like a cue to stop where she’s standing and let her roots grow deep.

Gendry snoring, his face so soft and smooth when he’s dreaming. Ned napping, his tiny head pillowed on her clavicle. Storm’s End; strong and ancient and hers and home, the sea always humming outside its walls.

All my summers and winters are yours. She makes her vow silently and lets her lids drop.

[a-very-fond-farewell]

The forbidden crack! Untamed prompts: 25/?

Gaming Chat AU [xuexiao + songxiao = ?]: “Lie to Me”

[tw cyber bullying; tw use of slurs; tw fake suicide mention; there’s a redemption arc, but it starts with 15yo Xue Yang being... well, himself I guess. so be warned.]

[attn!: I don’t know shit about playing games and going to quests with strangers on the internet so bear with me. if you feel inspired by this please, by all means, feel free to use this prompt and write something and then tag me so I can read it and reblog it!]

[enjoy!]

*

It’s been 15 years since that idiotic intern at the school counseling center suggested him to... what did he say? “Channel his anger in something productive”. And then tried to talk Meng Shi into purchasing a fucking computer to let him “get off some steam” by killing fictional people instead of smashing actual valuable objects like, say, the principal’s Mercedes with a stolen golf club, or, the nurse’s desk with a fire extinguisher back in middle school.

Good thing Su She had disappeared under mysterious circumstances after Xue Yang had surreptitiously let the intern’s uni professor know in a detailed email how the aspiring counselor had suggested him (a sweet innocent 15 year old) to use his new computer to watch porn instead of focusing on his studies. Song Lan was much better than him, and bitchier too, which was fine by Xue Yang anyway. Not that he cared.

What good had that stupid glorified television brought him in the end? Most of the computers at school had become intimately familiar with many a malware and virus already with how frequently he used to browse through the deep web. The ones at the local library had let him in on the secrets of 4ch*n since the tender age of 8. Hell, even his pediatrician had made the glorious mistake to leave him alone in her office one merry day of winter when he discovered the wonders of x-rated videos.

But Meng Shi had tried to cheer him up anyway, buying him that stupid thing. Working her ass off at the bar trying to make social services forget she used to be a stripper back in the days. All to provide a place for children in foster care to feel safe, the stupid hag. Xue Yang wasn’t fucking stupid, he knew she was collecting money for every kid ever stepping inside her ratty flat. He knew that she would have never adopted anyone for real because she already had a son and she was working to send him to university anyway.

Yet, she had come home one day with a big smile on her youngish and bland face, hoisting up the heavy computer in a box, and told Xue Yang to share it with his siblings. Yeah, fuck that. That little bitch A-Qing was even worse than him, and she probably used to sell feet-pictures recycled from the internet to disgusting men online. To this day Xue Yang is none the wiser and he doesn’t need to know what that fucking witch had been up to at 14. XuanYu would have used the computer to stream and torrent shit nonstop to sell at school even if he was only, like, 12. Qin Su was 15 like him and she would have been tempted to set up a fucking YT channel and subject him and XuanYu to whatever scientific experiment she would have come up with. And Meng Yao had too much embarrassing blackmail material on Xue Yang already, he didn’t need to have access on his erased search history after digging gods-knows for how long.

Ahah no. No thanks.

But detention got him occupied for so long by cutting library books pages down to papermen without getting bored out of his mind. And he did have his fun that one time when he caught a pervert with a hand down his pants when they chatted on Om*gle after Xue Yang had catfished him good by pretending to be a girl. Got everything on tape and published the whole interaction on the school website for everyone to see. Which had been appropriate at the time, given that the man had been part of the board of directors. Fittingly hilarious too.

Still, boredom loomed over him like a quilt of sadness on summer break and he had been tempted to log in and play games in the end. Nobody wanted him in their stupid ass teams anyway, with him having higher kill counts than them and all, not following tactics and so on. Whatever.

Until one day user shuan_ghua naively trusted Xue Yang when the other assured him that “teabagging“ was just a fancy slang for ordering a cup of jasmine tea. The 17 year old boy named Xiao XingChen had thanked him for teaching something new to him and then proceeded to ask him to join his one-man-party out of fucking nowhere.

Everything changed after that.

[more under the cut. it’s long long tho]

XXC family!:

XXC is 17 at the beginning of the story and he used to live with his mother Baoshan [i know that “Sanren” and “Daoren” are titles, but in absence of a real surname I will use them as such for this prompt. feel free to change that if you take inspiration from this post to write your take on the story] and the rest of their family on a mountain before they moved back to the city in Gusu.

XXC’s mother was barely 20 when she got married the first time and her first son Daoren YanLing was born. two years later her husband died and she travelled a lot afterwards, adopting 4yo CanSe when she was 25. then she married again at 41, had XXC at 44, and then divorced at 48.

CanSe eloped with ChangZe when she was 18 and got WWX at 20, the same year her own mother got married again (at 41).

BaoShan got XXC three years later (at 44).

hence, WWX is 3 whole ass years older than XXC despite being his nephew. both boys find the thing absolutely hilarious.

YanLing and CanSe are only 1 year apart and they still bicker nonstop. both of them went to school with Lan QiRen and his older brother and frequently got in fights back in the days at Gusu.

(if YanLing had a thing for Lan QiRen, well, nobody has to know)

XXC, being the baby of his family, is doted on by YanLing and brought to mischief by CanSe until XXC’s father divorces their mother and they move on the mountain along with ChangZe and 7yo WWX.

up on the mountain BaoShan works as a tour guide and she takes baby XXC and WWX on hikes along with tourists to admire the beauty of the scenery.

XXC’s sight starts deteriorating when he is 12 and WWX is 15. they have been homeschooled until then, so when it gets clear XXC will not improve much so far away from proper healthcare, the whole family moves back to the city in Gusu.

XXC is not comfortable leaving his new home, not with all those new noises and flashing lights. WWX is drawn to them instead, more than happy to enroll in school, where he meets JC and he realizes the boy is the son of CanSe’s middle school boyfriend. WWX declares them to be almost-brothers and is perfectly fine with adopting even JC’s older sister in the family and CanSe can only laugh at that. JC and YanLi visit XXC often as a result and they help him make sense of the new environment without stressing him too much.

YanLing finds a job as a cook in WWX’s school and he is back to making Lan QiRen’s life impossible after learning the man is a teacher there.

LWJ and LXC’s mother is a music teacher there as well and YanLing bonds with her to make Lan QiRen life’s an absolute nightmare.

LWJ and LXC make friends with the mountain gremlins and they are initially horrified by their manners: XXC would pick food from the ground and eat it, it doesn’t have to be his for that to happen to begin with; WWX doesn’t realize he should cut his nails (both for his feet and hands) until he is forced to wear shoes outside and not climb up trees, for he assumed nails simply never grew bc he used them constantly, wearing them down; etc.

LWJ hates himself for falling for WWX but he cannot care less.

LXC notices how lonely XXC feels when wangxian becomes a thing, so he buys him a computer to better gather more information about the world and adjust the settings to maximum accessibility whenever XXC wants to read something.

by the age of 17 XXC is mostly left alone in the house: WWX goes to uni; his mother BaoShan works at a local museum; his brother YanLing is trying to not get fired at his job; and his sister CanSe has started to travel with her husband selling the delicate dizi flutes ChangZe makes as an artisan.

XXC is also on the waiting list for an important eye surgery and he figures he has a couple of years to go before he will either lose his sight or be granted a second chance at life altogether.

XY’s family!:

Meng Shi had Meng Yao at 19 and started stripping the following year in Yunmeng. 

her friend SiSi helped her both financially and emotionally, spending time with A-Yao while she worked at night. after four years she can move out of her flat and finds a job as a bartender downtown. she would have kept her old job, if SiSi hadn’t convinced her to think of A-Yao first, who was painfully shy and didn’t know how to socialize with other kids his age.

at 24 she starts the paperwork to become a foster parent and has to child-proof her entire apartment before the first kid arrives. at 25 she welcomes Qin Su, who is only 5, and initially A-Yao doesn’t want to share his mother with anyone. the situation gets bad to the point social services have to take Qin Su away one year later, because she tried to set A-Yao’s hair on fire in retaliation once, but two years later Meng Shi gets her back.

A-Yao, now 9 years old, has thought about it and reasoned that having a sister wasn’t so bad after all. Qin Su is only one year younger than him and she will not take up much space, right? wrong. but they bond over their shared nerdiness and while A-Su likes to blow things up, A-Yao helps his mother with taxes every year.

at 29 Meng Shi takes in XuanYu, who is not an orphan like A-Su, and still misses his birth mother fiercely. she had to give him up for adoption when he was 3, because she had been only 15 when XuanYu was born and her family threatened to disown her. 

being profoundly deaf on top of that, no foster home wanted to have him and he was kept in the system for three years after his mother had to let him go. the woman had tried to be present for him while he waited for a family to pick him, teaching him sign language and reading lips, but she had been forced to eventually let go.

XuanYu arrives at Meng Shi’s when he’s 6. A-Yao (10yo) and A-Su (9yo) try their best to involve their new brother, but they don’t know how to communicate with him. SiSi takes the children to sign language classes at the community center after school and XuanYu warms up to them. he teaches Meng Shi what they learned the previous day every morning, before going to school. teachers don’t really pay attention to him, but he manages by reading lips when people face him properly, which is a rare occurrence, but he tries his best.

when A-Yao and A-Su realizes A-Yu is being bullied, they start to get nasty, setting backpacks on fire and terrorizing the other children at school. even when they move to middle school one after the other nobody picks on A-Yu, fearing what his siblings could do.

XY arrives at Meng Shi’s when she is 32 (A-Yu is 9, A-Su is 12, A-Yao is 13) and XY is 12. A-Su initially gets jealous bc they are the same age, but XY doesn’t talk to anyone for a year and ignores her attempts to rile him up. Meng Shi had been warned about him: his father had killed his mother and then failed to kill himself afterwards... and XY still believed the man was out there, looking for him to finish the job. XY had lived on the street for years before social services could find him, but he had felt trapped like a dog, not wanting to be touched, frequently running away.

XY doesn’t remember much of his life before entering foster care. he only knows everything is a bother, that his nightmares give him constant migraines, and that he doesn’t care how he lost one of his fingers. but anyone who makes fun of him for that gets kicked, that’s for sure.

it’s only when A-Qing (12) comes one year after XY’s arrival that things get a bit better... so to speak. 

she is even less well behaved than him, thrashing around at night, screaming at the top of her lungs, saying that she doesn’t want to be there. that she’s better than the rest of them combined. 

her anger issues trigger something in XY and the two of them get into fights with each other constantly.

A-Yao (14) and A-Su (13), reminiscing of the 2 years they spent apart because they couldn’t stop hitting each other up, take the issue seriously and convince Meng Shi to ask for help. SiSi is the one taking A-Qing and XY to therapy two times a week and they are followed through by professionals who know how to tackle their issues, an elderly woman who goes by the name of Lan Yi (LWJ and LXC’s paternal grandma) and her assistant Wen Qing, an intern working there for uni credits.

one year later XY is 14 and A-Qing is 13 and they... don’t really love each other, but at least they can talk to one another without trying to kill anyone in the process. they spend a lot of time with A-Yu (11) and learn sign language to keep him entertained.

by the age of 35, Meng Shi has 5 kids and can barely afford food for herself but she is happy like never before. A-Yao (16) is already considered smart enough to attend advanced math classes in high school. A-Su (15) has won a science competition sponsored by city hall. A-Yang (15) is trying to work on his anger issues with video games, making friends online. A-Qing (14) doesn’t let anyone make fun of her for her dyslexia, asking adults and classmates to take her issue seriously for once. And A-Yu (12) wants to learn how to sign in different languages to maybe travel the world one day.

Meng Shi is very happy indeed.

now, the plot: (tw fake suicide mention; tw use of homophobic slurs)

XY (15) and XXC (17) meet online every night before bed, playing video games together. XY made a mistake first time they chatted, saying he was 17 instead of 15 bc he didn’t want the other to look down on him.

XXC trusts him a little too much and doesn’t question if his new friend is lying to him or not. he’s the funnies person he has ever met, after all.

WWX (20) notices something is wrong by the way XXC starts speaking around others, using inappropriate language when he has never been anything but polite and gentle. even if, technically, XXC is WWX’s uncle, the latter sees the other more like a cousin than anything else given that he’s older. so he takes the matter in his own hands and one day asks him to let him play games with him.

XY doesn’t like his only friend not telling him someone else would have joined their party, and initially he covers XXC in insults and threatens to leave. but then WWX is really good at killing fictional people and XY reconsiders. he makes fun of WWX for being the older one AND the other’s nephew at the same time, but aside from that he doesn’t try to run away like a caged animal anymore.

WWX trust XXC when the younger says XY is 17 like him, but he still supervisions most of their sessions just to be sure XY cannot teach too many horrible things to XXC. WWX wants XXC to make more friends and maybe one day leave the house to attend university if the other will feel inclined to do so, but he doesn’t pressure him.

in the meantime, XY changes counselor at school and it is Song Lan (23) who tries to make a better human out of him. SL is deaf and occasionally uses cochlear implants to hear, but only because his family made the choice for him to have surgery when he was only a child. he can speak if he feels like it at times (not frequently, he’s very adamant about reminding others he doesn’t owe them anything. he’s also trying to make a change at the school where he works by organizing classes on Deaf culture and sign language for the students to take as an elective)

XY already knew of SL thanks to XuanYu, bc A-Yu had seen the counselor at the community center where SiSi usually takes the kids to for sign language classes. counseling at school doesn’t really happen one-on-one, detention kids being too many to follow one at a time and all, but when SL comes by to chat with them he’s always funny as fuck and XY (who will never admit it) feels good about being the only one in class able to understand SL only through sign language.

SL forces himself to talk to the kids and read their lips only bc... well, they’re young and did nothing wrong to him. he occasionally asks XY to help him translate, but aside from that there are really too many kids to look after and he doesn’t treat XY differently from the others, nor he notices him much.

two years pass and XXC (19) announces to XY (17) that wangxian (22) is having their wedding. since XY has learned all about their family, he asks XXC if it’s a common thing to get married super young in their household and XXC laughs... but it’s a sad and brittle thing and XY gets a bit worried.

XXC reveals then that soon after the wedding he will have a surgery to (hopefully) fix his sight and he’s very anxious. he timidly asks XY if he wants to go to the wedding with him, because he would like to see his face at least once before the surgery.

XY panics: he knew XXC’s eyesight was bad, but he never knew to what extent exactly; he’s not really of age yet, so he cannot move on the other side of the country just to attend a wedding; he has never talked specifically about XXC with his family and Meng Shi is working a lot and A-Yu should get his hearing aids soon and A-Qing needs help for her finals and... and...

...and he’s not ready to meet XXC.

XY lied to him and told him they’re the same age. he had never told XXC his name, even if the other had revealed his own, always going by his username jiang_zai. he called him and chatted with him and made fun of his own family and the other had been nothing but kind and amazing and... and... and XY realizes he’s been in love for a while and he abhors the idea to the point where he openly laughs at XXC and calls him a sap.

XXC notices the change in his tone immediately and wonders if he’s overstepped, if he’s asked too much by inviting the other over to celebrate with the rest of the family. XXC apologizes to XY and begs him to not step away like he usually does when he feels cornered.

XY feels absolutely cornered and attacks XXC by asking him why he’s so keen on asking him out (“are you a f*g or something?” etc.). the other doesn’t even know what that means but hearing XY so scared hurts, bc he doesn’t want to make the other uncomfortable in any way.

XXC does like XY romantically, but would never dream to say anything and hinder their friendship. yet, it hurts more to hear his only friend so afraid and angry. he apologizes profusely and promises him not to bring the subject back.

after that, XY doesn’t log in much, avoiding XXC. A-Yao (18) notices he’s sullen and tries to spend more time with him, but the younger doesn’t budge and talks less and less. even SL (25) sees XY less and less, but he doesn’t thinks the younger one is actually skipping classes or anything.

but XY is, in fact, skipping school and Meng Shi covers for him saying he doesn’t feel well enough to go to class. she knows something’s up and she also understands the need to have days off in order to take care of yourself when everything goes to shit.

wangxian wedding happens and XXC is both happy and sad. they made him the official photographer of the day, which is both sweet and incredibly hurtful, because he’s the one taking all those beautiful pictures... and maybe he will never be able to look at them ever again after the surgery. WWX and LWJ already had to organize the wedding earlier than what they originally planned to accommodate XXC and the date of the surgery. XXC feels bad but he’s very happy for them.

YanLing and CanSe worry about him and they ask their mother to help them figure out what’s going on. BaoShan agrees with WWX that XXC had a fight with a friend, alright, but that cannot be all, surely...

it’s the week before XXC’s hospitalization and WWX takes the issue in his hands. logs in pretending to be XXC and plays until he takes XY’s place in the rankings of his and XXC’s favorite game.

XY receives notifications about it and initially fumes at the idea of being outranked, but then he understands what XXC is trying to do and doesn’t know how to react.

he does something horrible instead.

WWX waits to be contacted by this jiang_zai boy who broke XXC’s heart, but when it finally happens... it’s not the familiar, high-pitched voice he expects to hear in the chat. it’s a girl (A-Qing), who tells him her brother had died and that he won’t be playing games anymore. she sounds too serious to be joking and WWX tries to ask more about it... but she just tells him her brother killed himself before ending the call.

WWX doesn’t have the heart to tell this to XXC, not before the surgery and not until he has properly recovered (one year later).

XXC had wondered about XY in silence, not trusting himself to reveal all about his crush to his family, worrying about making the other boy uncomfortable. 

XXC misses XY, but he is patient. he can wait.

A-Qing had agreed to lie for XY only because he lied to her first: he told her a creep on the internet had tried to meet with him and he needed a way out; outraged, A-Qing had helped him without a second thought and answered the chat in his place. 

this spurs her to take more seriously what she and her siblings had been doing on the Internet and reconsiders some of the things she herself posted in the past. she will take this topic so much at heart that she will pursue an academic career to become a social worker.

XXC’s surgery goes well, but he still loses his sight after a while. WWX ends up telling him what happened to his online friend and XXC is so heartbroken he doesn’t even blame WWX for keeping the secret from him for so long. 

after some time BaoShan makes sure he goes to therapy and takes better care of him, helping him figure out what to do. she fears people will look down on XXC and, as a blind person, he will probably be hindered by the system to pursue a career, so she retires from her job at the museum and focuses all of her attention on him.

XXC feels guilty for XY’s passing, but he doesn’t think the other had been triggered to commit suicide bc of him: XXC simply fears XY had hid a different type of sorrow from him; a pain so deep that XXC had failed to see while they were playing silly games. so, three years after the surgery, when he’s 21, he enrolls in uni to study psychology to help kids who are struggling to ask for help.

15 years after XXC and XY had met online:

XY is 30 and a professional carer. he studied to become a nurse, of all things, after what happened. he got a lot of time to think about the horrible thing he had done to XXC and considered helpings others to atone for that.

he is the first to say such a choice was very out of character for him, and even if he has to bite his tongues at times he doesn’t mind his job: it keeps him occupied and exhausts him well enough... but after working in the hospital for 5 or so years he decides to become a carer and trains to help disabled people in particular in his late twenties.

A-Su (30) has become a chemical engineer and married a man working as a lawyer (who happens to be LXC), while A-Yao (31) ends up moving in with his best friend (NMJ). A-Qin (29) doesn’t find romance interesting enough to give up on her career as a social worker, so she doesn’t really move out of Meng Shi’s old flat and everyone is fine with that. A-Yu (27) has graduated from uni and travels the world as an interpreter. Meng Shi and SiSi have lived together since the first has adopted all the kids and they opened a B&B near the seaside. they are wives and very in love.

XY lives with A-Qing in Yunmeng until his late 20s and they fight a lot for stupid things (like when A-Qing makes fun of the boring people her brother hooks up with on the regular, or when XY tries to coerce her to do the fucking laundry by tickling her into a pulp of pain and tears), but otherwise they work well together.

A-Qing is working at the community center as a social worker to help the kids find purpose in life and use the internet safely. she still believes a creep had tried to mess with her brother and doesn’t want anything to happen to the kids under her care. XY knows this, but never got around to tell her the truth, believing it would have been pointless to reveal her how everything she knew had been a lie. even her own purpose on top of that.

A-Su’s husband (LXC) rarely got to speak with XY in person, the latter busy with his job as a nurse most of the time, but during a dinner party LXC has to suddenly leave because of an emergency: his brother-in-law had been brought to the hospital after a car crash and lost the use for both of his legs.

one year later, XY (29) coincidentally becomes WWX’s personal carer and decides to move closer to the man’s house in Yiling since it would be troublesome to help him as efficiently otherwise. XY does not recognize WWX (34) from his voice or name (he did play games with him in the past, sure, but he knew him as XXC’s nephew by the name of Wei WuXian, not Wei Ying, which is the name LWJ uses around him) and helps him around the house and out of it.

WWX’s husband (LWJ) is frequently out of the house to work as a lawyer like his older brother and entrusts WWX to XY, even if begrudgingly so. 

WWX pretends to be fine, but he has a tendency to try to sneak out and walk on crutches without anyone noticing, so LWJ has asked for a carer to come to their house every day. XY doesn’t have to bite his tongue as much around WWX, their interactions easy enough for the both of them to work together despite bickering about the stupidest things.

XY discovers WWX is friends with Wen Qing (37) (the same intern who helped the psychologist take care of XY and A-Qing while they sorted their shit out in the past). 

he meets her and learns from her how WWX’s family had moved in Yiling to help him recover after the crash. her brother Wen Ning is the physiotherapist helping WWX regain control of his legs, but there are basically no chances for him to go back to be a professional athlete even if he were to walk once more.

this new information spurs XY to force WWX to rest more and take his situation more seriously. they work together to find possible solutions and WWX decides that he would much rather have his legs cut off from the knee down that suffer through the pain of having multiple fractures splitting him apart day after day. the surgeons had done their best to save his legs, but the fractures had compromised his nerves maybe forever and the pain is now unbearable.

LWJ trusts his husband but he’s weary at the idea of having him evaluated for amputation. XY refuses to feel responsible for the tension in the house, since this is clearly what WWX wants. XY knows WWX is secretly considering running again on prosthetic legs in the future, but he doesn’t want to anger LWJ more by mentioning it. it’s too soon to know anyway, and who is he to tamper down what little hope WWX has managed to harbor for himself after an entire year drowning in grief?

one year later WWX (35) gets permission from his physician to get prosthetic legs fitted for his needs and he couldn’t be happier. his family visit him more frequently now to congratulate him, even his grandmother who has descended from the mountain where she retired to in order to celebrate him.

XY (30) has already met WWX’s parents and his oldest uncle, but he never suspected them to be related to XXC, because he had never knew them by name. 

yet, one day Song Lan (38) comes in with a huge backpack on his shoulders and recognizes XY immediately. XY doesn’t know why his old counselor is there: he knew WWX’s other uncle was coming over, but he never imagined it was SL they were talking about. 

SL is beaming at him, signing he met XY’s bother A-Yu during one of his travels as a tour guide and that they kept in touch. SL has come to know XY is the reason behind WWX’s recovery and he tells the younger man that everyone in their family is happy XY has appeared in their life.

XY doesn’t have time to answer, overwhelmed with this sense of belonging, this sense of being finally, finally accepted somewhere outside of his own family... that someone else enters the house with a backpack on his shoulders.

XY doesn’t know the man and SL enthusiastically guides him over to meet the newcomer. XY is surprised to hear SL speak out instead of using sign language as the older man asks “A-Chen” to come meet “his nephew’s savior”. based on the pronouns SL has just used, XY recognizes the newcomer to be WWX’s actual uncle and he smiles at the beautiful man in front of him...

...only to be filled with horror the minute the other speaks.

XXC (32) greets XY without knowing who he really is, smiling at him without even recognizing the younger man’s voice. the two of them had never seen each other, playing games only through chats and calls... but XY recognizes XXC immediately, aware that his own voice has changed drastically over the years.

XY is still transfixed and petrified when XXC asks him if it would be okay for him to touch his face to have a better idea of who he’s interacting with. XY doesn’t even register himself voicing his consent when he feels XXC’s hands on his face. only then he understands the infamous surgery had failed and that XXC did not regain his sight after his nephew’s wedding.

overwhelmed with grief, guilt and longing for what never was and never could be, XY is unaware of the tears rolling down his cheeks as XXC gently trails his features. XXC apologizes when he feels his palms dampening and he asks XY if he overstepped. next to them SL is distressed, not understanding what’s happening in front of him.

XY shakes his head and simply says... that he lost someone and that XXC reminded him of that person. then he excuses himself looking for WWX, to ask him to give him something... anything to do. he gets himself a task to accomplish and leaves the house brimming with relatives that he will never be able to call his own.

1 year later:

XXC and SL do not leave the city as they originally planned. they have travelled long enough for the time being and they decide to get a house close to WWX and his husband. they spend the following year after their return looking for stability and peace.

XY (31) didn’t stop working for WWX (36) and doesn’t plan to. not now that he got his new legs finally fitted. the recovery takes long, but it’s already been two years since the amputation now and WWX tries his best every day. he believes to be a handful and doesn’t dare ask for things he needs after receiving the prosthetics. XY is there to loudly remind him to stop being an idiot and that he is paying XY to boss him around however the fuck he wants. LWJ is very grateful to hear WWX laugh more and more these days thanks to XY.

XXC (33), however, is frequently around his nephew’s house, keeping him company. before his three-or-so years of traveling with his boyfriend SL, XXC has briefly worked as a psychologist with Wen Qing, of all people and the two of them have applied for a position at the community center in Yunmeng at the same time. there isn’t one available in Yiling and the commute shouldn’t be too bad. during that first year after his return, XXC has met A-Qing multiple times to inquire for a place at the center in Yunmeng and they are quickly becoming more involved with each other because of their shared passion for the job.

XY feels the end nearing, time ticking away. it had been an agonizing, brilliant, terrible year the one he had spent so close to XXC... and it is now coming to an end. knowing that A-Qing will eventually tell XXC how and why she became a social worker, spilling everything about how “her pitiful bastard of a brother had been molested by a pervert online” and so on. he only hopes A-Qing will never get to meet WWX... she would absolutely recognize the other man’s voice and accuse him of being the pervert in question and XY... XY will die.

XY feels trapped and he will most certainly have a stroke the moment XXC will realize that he lied to him, that he is still alive, that his reason to become a psychologist to help troubled kids was not a real thing... XY will die and Meng Shi will cry.

only because he lied about being 17 when he was 15 one day of 16 years ago.

XY disappears the same night XXC tells him he invited A-Qing over. SL (39) is overjoyed at the idea of meeting the girl once more after the time she and her step-siblings used to go to sign language classes at the community center in Yunmeng. WWX is interested as well, having heard all about A-Qing from XY along the years.

but XY disappears anyway.

2 years later:

it’s XuanYu (30) who finds him, but doesn’t ask him to go back home. A-Yu takes XY (33) with him in his travels for some months to hide him. he doesn’t ask him what he did in those two years, but he does force him to call Meng Shi and SiSi at least.

XY complies but still feels empty inside. the single year he had spent with XXC while the other visited WWX will be permanently engraved in his memories and he cannot stop thinking about it. about how gentle XXC had always been with him, how sad he had looked and sounded reminiscing an “old online friend who had died many years back”, how generous he had always been towards him and everyone and... and XY cannot do this anymore.

A-Yu may be younger than him, but he protects him well for those months... waiting for XY to tell him the truth. so one winters night finally XY does, starting from the beginning.

the following week, close to New Years, XY realizes A-Yu had betrayed him.

someone rings the bell of their shared apartment and A-Yu asks him to go open the door. XY does and it’s A-Qing (32) and WWX (38) who greet him with tears in their eyes. A-Qing tackles him on the ground and tries to hit him they way they used to do as kids, fists getting the point across faster than any word ever could, but WWX pries them apart and hugs them instead.

somehow, XY had not been notified of having acquired a new sibling, but WWX clearly considers him a brother of sorts and he had missed him greatly. A-Qing explains that A-Yu had sent her an email with XY’s version of the truth, sure... but she also tells him that she and WWX had solved the mystery soon after XY’s disappearance already, after talking extensively on the matter.

A-Qing had recognized WWX as the person she had talked to in chat all those years ago, that is true, but she also realized WWX was not, in fact, a bad person and that something didn’t add. when she understood who XY’s online friend actually was... she had felt sick to her stomach for having let someone as kind as XXC presume XY had killed himself bc of him.

hurt and confused, XXC’s family and even A-Qing’s one had initially blamed XY for the pain he had caused, the lot of them filled with anger and grief. especially BaoShan, who had felt guilty for not supervising and protecting her younger son better when he was still too naive to understand the ways of the world.

but then, seeing XY was not coming back, Meng Shi and SiSi insisted for XXC’s family to help them with the search instead. after two years the lot of them missed him. yes, even those who still berated him for his poor choices in life.

XXC now knows the truth and only wants XY to come back home.

some days later:

XXC opens the door after hearing the bell and he knows, he knows who the person in front of him is. he already had his suspicions back when he used to visit WWX every day two years back. WWX’s carer reminded him so much of his friend that... that he may have hoped.

but now XY is back and he has a name and a face and is alive and XXC greets him with a smile as the other hugs him and never lets go.

XY has never been happier in his entire, miserable life.

and XXC will never lose sight of him ever again.

the end.

[now imma go weep for fucking ages. also fuck typos.]