#that one frame where he's cradling his leg after hitting a hound with it

[quantifiableme]

Grateful for This...

Lil’ Gendry after the battle Drabble. Might do a couple of these because I’m DYING.  

“Jon grabbed his baby sister and lowered her to the ground, and from where he was, Gendry could see Arya’s small hands wrapped tightly around her brother’s arm as a sing of comfort. On the other side of her, Sansa’s face was streaked with tears as she laughed weakly. Gendry could feel his laugh before he could hear it- the breath he had been holding finally escaping as his hope came back. She’s alive!”

He pushed through the crowds of people flooding through the gates at varying paces. Some were walking tiredly with their satisfied victory, others with destroyed spirits at the cost of it all. And others, like Gendry, were rushing back into Winterfell with their last silver of hope that maybe they didn’t loose everything.

With the advantage of being much larger than most, Gendry strained his eyes over the mass of people and was able to force a path through. Only a second ago, he had been staring down five Whitewalkers all with intent to kill him, all of which crumbled before he could even swing his hammer. A smaller voice in Gendry’s head thought They must have killed the Nightking, but it was easily drowned out by the voice screaming the same thing over and over. Arya, Arya, Arya.

Lady Sansa was tending to the injured, ushering people towards food or medical help, and Jon weakly walked behind her. As soon as she took notice, she grabbed her brother tightly and cried against his bloodied armor. Jon hugged back with the same level of emotion, and he kept hold of Sansa even as their attention was drawn elsewhere. Together, the two ran to the other end of the yard where Arya’s body was cradled delicately in the Hound’s arms. 

Gendry's heart stopped, but his legs kept moving. Although he had been pushing through the crowd before, now he was simply walking through other people- eyes trained on one spot. 

Jon grabbed his baby sister and lowered her to the ground, and from where he was, Gendry could see Arya’s small hands wrapped tightly around her brother’s arm as a sing of comfort. On the other side of her, Sansa’s face was streaked with tears as she laughed weakly. Gendry could feel his laugh before he could hear it- the breath he had been holding finally escaping as his hope came back. She’s alive!  

Jon stood as Gendry approached, and Gendry took over the space the Warden of the North had created. 

“Arya,” Gendry framed her smooth face with his hands, unknowingly wedging himself between Arya and her sister. Both Jon and Sansa stared at the couple in confusion, since neither had known of Gendry and Arya’s relationship before this moment. 

“Hi, stupid,” whispered a very weak, but still very snarky Arya Stark. She held his wrists in her small hands, just as grateful for the contact. Gendry noticed a large burn leading into the girl’s shirt, and took the moment to roll up her sleeve to get a better look at it. 

“You’re injured,” he said sternly, as if it were her fault. 

“So are you,” Arya touched his head as she said it, a small gash on his hairline, but it was hardly important to him now. Her arm wasn’t seriously burned, not a direct hit, but one of the dragons had probably attacked somewhere too close to where she was and now she was injured. Without thinking, Gendry sat Arya against the wall of the castle and turned to Sansa and Jon. 

“I need cold water and something to wrap this in,” he said to them. Sansa moved immediately, but Jon still looked at the two strangely. Gendry hardly had the time to care, and turned back to Arya.

“You’re still bleeding,” she reminded him, moving to touch his wound again. 

He flicked her hand out of the way to refocus on her arm. “That doesn’t matter right now.”

However, his stubborn lady persisted and kept trying to point out the gash, leaving Gendry swat her hand away. 

“Arya!” he shouted at the girl, which had only made the girl laugh.

Although the laugh was touched with the girl’s exhaustion, there was no doubt it was genuine. Sansa finally returned with the supplied and stood silently next to Jon. Neither had seen their sister so carefree in a very long time. 

“Gods, you can be so annoying,” Gendry grabbed the supplied from Sansa and began to address the wounds.

“You didn’t say that last night,” she whispered loudly.

“Arya!” His exclamation only making the girl giggle more. Overcome with emotion at the familiarity of their interaction, the blacksmith took a break from tending to her wound to grab the back of the girl’s neck and hold their foreheads together. Laughing, crying, breathing in each other’s air- so completely grateful that they were even able to do that. 

...

“What just happened?” asked Jon, who knew nothing. 

[let-me-love-you-loki]

Hounds of Justice--Ch. 56

Chapter 56

           Roughened fingertips along the inside of my wrists. A grip that bordered on painful. The heat of breath against my neck. The perfect feeling of weight settled atop my body.

           Seth’s lips worked lazily down the side of my throat, teeth nipping gently, tongue flicking against the sting. I closed my eyes, allowing myself to get lost in the sensations of just being with him.

           My hips writhed, bucking upward as he hit a delicious spot at the juncture of throat and shoulder. He chuckled and ground his hips forward as his mouth attacked the spot. I struggled a little, halfheartedly trying to get my wrists free of his grasp.

           He stopped, his gaze meeting mine. “Changed your mind?” The words tumbled out in a gravel tone.

           I whimpered, shook my head. “Definitely not,” I panted out.

           A wicked grin spread across his face. He switched the hold on my wrists, keeping them pinned above my head with one large hand. The other disappeared, tugging something from his back pocket. When I saw what he held, I grinned. Black fabric, red embroidered words. He made quick work of tying my wrists together with one of his Burn it Down wrist straps. He secured it to one of the wrought iron slats of the headboard.

           “Good,” he purred in my ear. The tip of his nose brushed along my jaw, making me shiver in delight. His fingers worked their way beneath the hem of my tattered t-shirt. Goosebumps followed the ghost of his touch, the moan in my throat getting more desperate as they drifted lower.

           The fabric bunched up beneath my chin just as his lips settled against my breast. He took his time, teasing with his featherlight kisses everywhere but where I wanted. I writhed as he squeezed and kissed and licked my flesh. My heels dug into the mattress, desperate to get him where I most needed. Yanking on the bonds did no good. Nor did my quiet, whimpered pleading.

           At last, he brushed the tip of his tongue against my nipple. I let out a squeal that made him chuckle darkly. The sound broke some dam within him. His touch became less gentle, more insistent. With his mouth thoroughly occupied, one hand slipped over my stomach and beneath the band of my panties. I nearly screamed at the light brush of his fingertip against my clit.

           He was a magician, a master, expertly playing my body to elicit every sensation and sound that he desired. It was a wicked kind of magic… teetering on the edge of fear and pleasure. This kind of letting go, of choosing to trust him… it was a heady drug.

           Seth groaned as his fingers slipped inside me. First one then two, pumping slowly as he teased me inch by inch toward an orgasm. He kept an agonizingly slow pace as his mouth drifted downward, dropping open-mouthed kisses along my abdomen. Even as he slipped my panties down my legs, his fingers never stopped their ministrations.

           I opened my eyes, caught sight of him kneeling at the end of the bed. His dark eyes were fixed on my core, pupils blown wide with barely controlled lust. I let my gaze trace the dips and planes of his bare chest, the way his hips narrowed and disappeared beneath his belted jeans. Completely exposed, I was surprised to find how safe I felt.

           He leaned forward, set his lips against my clit and sucked gently. His tongue flicked out, circled my sensitive spot in a fury of sensation. My hips bucked as my body clamped tightly on his invading fingers—fingers that never stopped their agonizing pace, drawing out the orgasm that ripped the breath from my lungs.

           For a moment, I thought he would never stop. Part of me wished he wouldn’t. But when he did, I let out a faint sigh of relief. Warmth poured through my entire body, worked its way into my limbs and sinew and bone.

           A split second like infinity spread out around me. Time lost meaning. For one, breathless, wonderful instant, I felt settled in the present in a way that I’d never been before. I felt the smile that ghosted across my lips.

           The bonds around my wrists came loose. Gentle fingers brushed firmly along my hands, wrists, arms. Working feeling in and soreness out. Tender kisses settled on my wrists, the tip of each finger.

           A moment later, Seth gathered me into his arms. The combination of feverish skin and worn denim made me let out an involuntary moan.

           “How do you feel?” he asked, lips pressed against my forehead.

           Quiet. A chance for my thoughts to fill in the space that had taken up by instinct and pleasure.

           “Specify,” I mumbled, settling my palm against his pectoral. Fingertips brushed along his skin, through the fine hair along his chest.

           I felt his smile. “I’m assuming your body feels good, hmm?”

           I nodded against his chest, sighing as his palms stroked down my back. His hold was protective yet tender. The touch of his hands was no longer sexual. It was simply a connection.

           Seth grunted in satisfaction. “How do you feel here?” His large hand cradled the back of my skull.

           Thought. A deep rooting through of the million ideas and sensations and moments that whizzed through my brain at light speed. Breath after breath. The anchoring reminder of the heat of his skin beneath my cheek, my palm.

           “Safe,” I whispered finally. The word was at once perfect and yet not enough.

           Seth’s hold tightened just a little. “Good.”

             “What’s that grin for, dollface?” Dean asked from the doorway.

           It was my first night back on Raw after being “sick” and I was trying desperately to keep myself together. I kept forcing myself to focus on that feeling I’d had with Seth the night before, that complete feeling of center and safe.

           Of course, it helped that as soon as I started putting on my wrist straps, I thought about the more… adventurous moments of the night.

           “I…” Don’t look him in the eye, I thought vehemently. He’ll know exactly what happened. “I’m just glad to be back.”

           He sat on the bench inside my dressing room—door propped wide open of course—and watched me with hawk-like eyes. “Did you… uh… you ever get to talk to somebody?” Worry flitted across his face when I finally chanced a glance. “Renee wanted to know.”

           Dean shrugged in his characteristic way. He was like me, sometimes feelings were a little too much to deal with. And worrying about someone else made you feel a little out of control.

           I sat next to him, bumped into him with my shoulder. “Yeah,” I said softly. “It was fucking weird.”

           For a moment, I could have sworn that his shoulders slumped. I looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in a while. There were lines around his eyes and a strain in his posture. My heart cracked just a little.

           I tucked an arm around him and kissed the side of his head. “But it helped. Helps. Standing appointment every two weeks.”

           It seemed like a weight dropped from his shoulders. “Good,” he said, as if that one syllable was enough to settle the whole discussion.

           “Hey, c’mon, it’s time to beat the shit outta somebody,” Roman said, poking his head around the door frame. There was a grin on his face and a glint in his eyes. “And we’ve locked Rollins in a broom closet, so no funny stuff.”

           I couldn’t help but double over laughing. My brothers in The Shield always knew just what I needed.

           “Let him out,” I wheezed, picking up the championship and settling it around my waist. “He fancies himself my good luck charm.”

           Both rolled their eyes. Roman disappeared and Dean gave me a light punch to the shoulder.

           “Lunatic Llane, baby,” Dean growled, starting to bounce up and down.

           “Always.”

Tag List

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[mkpthedas]

Excerpt from Elissa!Age Chapter 2: Attack on Castle Cousland (aka Howe Dare You)

Elissa wakes up without knowing why. There’s a low growling in the room, slowly growing. Blearily, she sits up to look at Malachai.

Her mabari is facing the door to her chamber in guard position - hackles raised, body low, ready to attack.

“What is it?” Elissa asks, more loudly than she means to. There’s adrenaline humming through her now, an animal vibration in her bones that matches Malachai’s continuing growl.

Something is very wrong.

The door slams open. Malachai snarls. There’s a sudden thwap, a sound Elissa has heard a hundred, a thousand, a million times and would recognize in her sleep, the sound of a taut string’s sudden release, and reflex takes over, her body moving before her brain can even process the threat, diving off the bed and rolling up into a defensive crouch, reaching for daggers that aren’t there.

An arrow slices through the air where she had been moments before, burying itself several inches deep in the wood of the headboard. It is quickly followed by a second, although this one wobbles and goes wide to skitter off of stone.

Malachai has taken one of the would-be assassins to the ground, which might account for the truly terrible nature of that last shot, but the man was not alone and Elissa is unarmed.

Cursing silently to save her breath, Elissa casts around desperately for a weapon. Her bow and quiver hang uselessly on the far wall, and she’s nowhere near the chest that stores her daggers. If she lives through this, she’ll happily sleep with a dagger under her pillow for the rest of her days and never mind the lumps.

The lamp is on the other side of her bed, out of reach, as is the water basin. She doesn’t think a pillow would do much harm, but perhaps it would distract them for a moment or two. Perhaps.

There has to be something, she thinks, fiercely. There’s always something.

Her eyes catch on the chamberpot stowed neatly beneath her bed— a heavy solid thing, made of brass. Not a great weapon, to be sure, but certainly better than none at all.

Elissa drags it out from under the bed one-handed, keeping her eyes on the attackers crowded at her door, tracking their movements through the smoke that has begun to drift into the room, thick and choking and making her eyes water.

She does not let them shut.

She has the feel for the men’s location now, knows just how hard to throw and where to hit. Fluidly, she rises to her feet and takes aim, just as the second attacker lands an armored kick to Malachai’s ribs that sends the huge wardog flying. The man lumbers in after, sword drawn like a snarl, and Elissa lets the chamberpot fly with a cry of fury, viciously wishing the thing had been full.

How dare he hurt her dog.

The brass vessel hits the man square in his helmeted face, forcefully enough to cause him to stumble backward, knocking into the archer behind him and causing their shot to go wide.

The men recover quickly, but Elissa is quicker.

Across the room in a flash, she kicks the weapon chest open even as she pulls her quiver from the wall and slings it across her back. No time to string her bow, but that was alright. This close in, it wouldn’t be of much help anyway, would just hamper her movements without any real compensation in terms of lethality.

The reach for the arrow is automatic, the pull and release of the shaft sharp and clean despite the unconventionality of its use.

Her thrown arrow sprouts from the closest attacker’s throat, as precise a hit as any tavern bullseye.

The man staggers, and Elissa hears a wet gurgling sound. Reddish foam bubbles at the corners of his mouth, dribbles over his lips like drool.

Elissa doesn’t wait for him to fall, doesn’t give in to the small hysterical part of her that thinks that somehow as long as she is still watching the man die she hasn’t killed him.

There is still a third attacker to contend with.

This man is the archer whose arrows Elissa had so narrowly escaped. He already has another arrow nocked. She cannot possibly beat him to the draw, and so she doesn’t even try. Instead, she throws herself forward in a low dive over the bodies of the other two, knifing her petite frame between the man’s legs and into a roll, grabbing madly for the hilt of the man’s boot knife as she goes.

Somehow, she manages it. She finishes the roll, momentum bouncing her back up to her feet even as she makes her newly purloined blade swap hands. It fits well in her left hand, although not as well as her own dagger would. It has a shorter reach, less versatility. A knife, not a dagger, meaning only one of the edges was even sharp. Slashes would be of little use even without all of the man’s armor. Elissa will have to get creative.

Elissa remembers a story her brother told once, of an Antivan bar and a brawl.

Elissa smiles, a sharply crooked baring of her teeth. Her brother had been gleefully graphic in his retelling.

The archer is quick on his feet.

Elissa is quicker.

She ducks under the bludgeoning arm that comes at her as the archer turns to follow, uses the force of her momentum as leverage as she grabs the top part of the bow and twists, turning the man’s wrist in a swift and painful direction.

He lets go with a high-pitched keening sound and the sharp crack of bone breaking, stumbles back against the doorframe with his arm cradled close, a wounded animal shocked by this new and unfamiliar experience of pain.

Is he still a threat? Elissa doesn’t know, and her body doesn’t care, following after the man without pause. She slams into him at chest level, pinning him against the wall. She jabs upward with the hardest part of her right hand, the heel of her palm, forcing his chin up and out of the way as she drives the knife home with her left.

It is nauseatingly difficult, like piercing an ear.

It is sickeningly easy, like sheathing a sword.

Hilt hits bone. Elissa lets go.

The man’s dead weight slumps against her, nearly taking her to the ground. She twists out from underneath him just in time to watch him collapse next to the other two things that were once people.

She stands there, mindlessly staring at the gory pile, gulping in breath after breath. There’s more blood than she would have expected. Or maybe there’s less.

Elissa doesn’t think she’d ever really given much thought to the matter before, how much blood there is in a human body. How much less blood there might be in a corpse.

There is quite a lot of blood. Her hands are sticky with it, her nightgown a ruined mess. The blood itches as it dries.

The air is sickly sweet with the scent of death, so thick with it that Elissa can taste it, metallic tang bright and sharp as the clash of sword on sword.

There is something heavy and sticky in her mouth, like regret. She spits the substance out, wine-dark and glistening, and swallows hard to keep back the acidic sweetness creeping up her throat.

There was blood in her mouth.

It wasn’t hers.

“Elissa!”

Her mother’s voice is sharp with fear, cutting through Elissa’s daze. She turns to see her mother running toward her, faster than she would have thought possible.

Then her mother is there, cupping Elissa’s face with hands that shake. Like Elissa, she wears a nightgown. Unlike Elissa, her skirts have been violently ripped to end just above the knee. She’s wearing boots and a tough leather jerkin, a sword belted at her waist and a dagger high on her hip.

Her hands move from face to shoulders to arms and back again, a nervous fluttering, as though her mother is trying to reassure herself that Elissa is real.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Elissa shakes her head, though it feels like a lie. “I’m fine,” she promises. “Malachai warned— Malachai!”

Elissa jerks away from her mother, turning wildly to look for the hound. He’d been hurt, hadn’t he?

There is a soft whoof from the corner, which morphs to a soft whine of pain.

Elissa drops to her knees next to the dog, hands hovering helplessly about his frighteningly limp body, not sure where was safe to touch. He is alive, she can tell that much— his chest heaves in fast shallow pants that whistle on the way out.

Elissa’s mother kneels down beside her. Gently, she reaches out and palpitates the mabari’s side. Malachai makes a sharp keening sound and struggles to escape the touch. Elissa cries out in protest, grabbing at her mother’s hands.

“You’re hurting him!” Her voice is high-pitched and childish in accusation.

“He was already hurt,” her mother says calmly. “Cracked rib. More than one, I suspect.” Her mother rises swiftly, the movement startlingly brisk in its efficiency and strides quickly across to Elissa’s dresser, yanking open the top drawer.  “Not a surprise, if one of these swine managed to land a kick. Mabari are hardy animals, but there’s no one, man or beast, that walks away from the kick of an armored boot without something to show for it. He’s lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“Lucky!”

Her mother doesn’t look up from her rummaging. “Yes, lucky. Don’t just sit there, girl, get dressed.  A hair more direct of a hit and the rib might have fractured entirely and punctured a lung, and we’d have had to leave him behind.”

“Leave him behind—”

“Where do you keep the herbs for those poisons I’m not supposed to know you talked Oriana into teaching you?”

Elissa blinks, caught off guard. “I—”

“Elissa, I am not a particularly patient woman at the best of times, which this most certainly is not. Herbs. Where. Now.”

“The dresser,” Elissa confesses. “Next-to-last drawer, under the embroidery.”

Her mother gives an unladylike snort at Elissa’s choice of hiding place, but yanks open the indicated drawer without delay, carelessly tossing the embroidery materials off to the side and out of her way.

“What’s happening?”

Elissa is ashamed of how her voice wobbles on the edge of hysteria. She should be stronger than this.

“The castle’s under attack,” her mother says, voice flat. “There’s soldiers everywhere.” She’s mixing ingredients now with a grim sort of determination and tight, economical movements. “They tried to break into your father’s and mine’s chambers too, but I was still awake, thank the Maker, and I heard them coming. They at least won’t be at our backs, although that’s a small mercy, with nearly all our troops already a full day gone. Our people are fighting back, bless them, even the servants, but we’re just too outnumbered.”

“But who are they? What do they want?” Nothing is making sense. Her mother is saying perfectly intelligible sentences, each of which Elissa can understand, but try as she might she can’t seem to make them all fit together. “Wait, how do you know the men attacking your chambers won’t be coming after us too?”

“Because I made sure of it.”

Her mother’s words are bit-off in a tightly controlled manner that Elissa instinctively shies away from. Her other questions are more important, anyway.

“What about—”

“I don’t know where your father is,” Elissa’s mother interrupts her. “Or what state he’s in.  He was still in his study with Howe when I retired and never came to bed.” She laughs once, a sharp derisive sound. “They were drinking Antivan brandy together and laughing, Maker blast it all. A thousand curses on that  two-faced miserable cur, may his spittle curdle in his lying throat, his blood boil in his treacherous veins, his poisonous seed sour to pestilent pus, traitorous bitch-born whoreson—”

“Mother!”

Elissa is shocked and horrified. She didn’t know her mother even knew such words. Was this really the woman who’d threatened to wash her brother’s mouth out with soap only hours ago, and he a grown man with a child of his own?

“Don’t you mother me,” her mother snaps back. “This is all that wretched Howe’s fault. Base-born jackal, carrion-eater, cowardly dog; may his wells all run dry, his horses go lame, his ships be lost to storms. Greedy swine, conniving snake, thrice-cursed whorespawn; let him but come within my reach and I will carve from his flesh recompense for every soldier killed, every servant slain, every innocent murdered where they stood. I will drag his scheming corpse to Amaranthine fair, drop his rotting faithless flesh at his children’s feet, and piss on his traitorous bones. I will eat his treacherous heart in the market square and spit upon his festering remains. ”

Her mother’s eyes are flashing with fury, lightning crackling with dark promise.

It’s frightening.

Elissa’s mother had fought in the war with Orlais. This Elissa knew. She’d been born the daughter of a pirate and had assumed command of his ship and men at only sixteen, when her father was cut down in front of her by an Orlesian soldier.

She’d won that battle, in the end. And the next one. And the one after that. Again and again until she and her ship were the terror of the Orlesian fleet, harrying them up and down the coast with such ferocity that she became known as the Sea Wolf.

Elissa knew this. Had known this, from a very early age. Her father had believed his children should have a strong understanding of their own history.

Elissa just hadn’t really believed it until now. It had seemed too ridiculous, too fantastical - her mother, a pirate? The woman who fussed about Elissa’s table manners and scolded Fergus for swearing; the woman who was always after Elissa to practice her dancing and embroidery, who said that combat was no place for a lady?

It had always seemed like some elaborate jest her father hadn’t yet let them in on.

“I don’t understand,” Elissa says, although the cold feeling spreading all through her veins makes her think she might. “What do you mean this is all Howe’s fault?”

“These are Howe’s men; they wear his colors, his coat of arms. I’d recognize those shields anywhere. They knew exactly what they were doing, too. They didn’t launch the full attack until they already had men in position right outside our rooms. Howe wasn’t taking any chances on either of us escaping his treachery. Thank the Maker that your brother already left for Ostagar. If he’d been here, they’d have gone after him as well, and like as not killed Oriana and Oren too, base swine that they are.”

“But what does he want?”

“The better question might be what the greedy snake doesn’t want,” her mother says bitterly. “He’s always slithered his way from one side to the other, changing his tune with each ebb of the tide, faithless as the sea. I told your father a man like Howe couldn’t be trusted, but no, your father always has to see the good in people. The person they could be. He forgets that in the end what really matters is the person they actually are, and Rendon Howe is a small, slimy, vile, conniving snake of a man who poisons everything he touches and will smiling stab you in the back for the sake of a two-copper piece, and mark my words, he will pay for what he’s done this night.”

“I don’t understand,” Elissa says again, helplessly. “Why would Howe do this? He’s been friends with father for years! He - when we were little, he always brought us sweets. Just yesterday he was trying to marry me off to his youngest son!”

“There’s no understanding the baseness of some men’s hearts, my darling.” Her mother’s movements have stilled and her voice is soft and sad, filled with bitter resignation. “I wish you had not had to learn that so young.” She returns to her work, sharp staccato movements as bitten off and controlled as her words, when she speaks again.

“Get dressed,” she says again. “Now.”