#woolen gloves

[warmcupoflemontea]

[international-repeater-station]

also um. achoo x54

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[darkficlord69]

Fire & Ice

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Jacaerys Velaryon

Warning: tastefully depicted smut (18+)

Word Count: 2k

Summary: When fire meets ice, the very walls of Winterfell seem to tremble. But is the wolf a worthy match for the dragon?

Jacaerys Velaryon sat beneath the sprawling canopy of the godswood, a single white flower caught between his slender fingers. He plucked its petals one by one, watching them drift down to the withered grass like fallen snow. A sigh escaped his lips, soft as the summer breeze, and his fingers, adorned with silver rings fashioned in the shape of dragons' scaly tails, stilled when a bee landed upon his pink nipple. He dared not move, resembling a statue of marble, all sharp curves and delicate lines, carved by a true master’s hand. He held his breath until the bee took flight, then allowed a small smile to break across his face as he prepared to rise.

But then, a shadow fell over him, long and imposing, blotting out the sun. Jacaerys looked up, squinting against the sudden darkness.

"Good day, my prince," came a husky voice, roughened by the chill of the North.

"You too, Cregan," Jacaerys replied mildly, his voice barely more than a whisper, as though he feared to break the stillness of the godswood.

"The lords of the war council request your presence in the solar," Cregan Stark said. "I had hoped you would care to join us."

Jacaerys let his gaze wander over Stark’s solid frame, taking in the man’s sturdy build. Those legs, long and strong beneath plain woolen breeches; that broad heavy chest hidden beneath layers of soft furs and leather; his hair, brown as autumn leaves, and his hard eyes, grey as winter’s ice—eyes that could thaw even the heart of a dragonlord.

He was lost in girlish thoughts, caught up in the rugged beauty of the Stark, when a soft throaty cough brought him back to himself. Cregan extended a gloved hand.

"Of course, my lord," Jacaerys said, taking the offered hand and letting Cregan pull him to his feet. "Anything you need."

***

The great hall of Winterfell rang with voices of discontent. Lord Umber’s booming shout rose above the rest, his face as red as his hair. “Straining our armies will only increase the risk of wildling attacks!” The room responded with a chorus of grunts and murmurs of approval. “Southron skirmishes are no concern of ours, I say!”

Lord Manderly, heavyset and lounging in his chair, responded in a bored drawl. “The South is as much a part of the Seven Kingdoms as the North. Sooner or later, one king or queen will force us to choose a side.”

“The Iron Throne will not look kindly upon our allegiance to Rhaenyra Targaryen,” Lord Hornwood intoned. Cregan Stark, seated at the head of the long oak table, had listened to enough prattle to make his head throb in annoyance. With a resounding thud, he slammed his large hands on the oak table, sending goblets rattling and silencing his bannermen. A sombre heaviness fell over the room, thick as the northern snows. The Warden of the North took a breath, his grey eyes hard and unyielding.

“We pledged our support to King Viserys’s heir long ago,” he said, his voice stern. “Never has a Stark broken his word, and I do not intend to be the first. Remember where your loyalties lie, my lords.”

With those words, dark and final as the grave, Cregan rose from the table, his wolfskin cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. Jacaerys Velaryon followed, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Once they were alone in the dim corridor of the Great Keep, Jacaerys’s mask of composure slipped, revealing the warmth beneath. “Cregan,” he said softly, his voice filled with genuine gratitude, “thank you.” The support of the North meant that his mother would be one step closer to claiming her birthright.

Cregan gave a curt nod, intent on heading to his chambers. But before he could take another step, he felt a firm yet gentle push, his back pressing against the cold stone of a column.

“Now let me show you how a dragon expresses his gratitude,” the prince murmured, a teasing grin curling his full, pouty lips. The words hung in the cold, still air, filled with a heat that made Cregan's blood pulse faster. Jacaerys moved with a lithe grace, every step a promise, every movement a dance of seduction.

Slowly, Jacaerys knelt before the Stark lord, his hands gliding up Cregan’s strong thighs. His touch was featherlight, just a whisper of fingers trailing over thick wool and leather, but it was enough to make Cregan’s breath catch in his throat. The prince’s eyes were dark, glimmering with mischief and desire, his expression one of pure intent as he let his fingers dance along the inside of Cregan's legs, feeling the muscles tense under his touch.

Cregan’s heart pounded in his chest, a heavy, insistent rhythm that matched the stirring in his loins. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers curling into fists as he fought the urge to pull Jacaerys up, to crush their mouths together in a desperate kiss. But he held back, held still, mesmerized by the sight of the prince at his knees, those nimble hands tracing patterns on his skin.

Jacaerys’s fingers found the edge of Cregan’s tunic, slipping beneath it, brushing against warm hair-covered flesh. The touch sent a shiver up Cregan’s spine, his breath hissing out between his teeth. Jacaerys looked up at him, his eyes half-lidded, his lips parted slightly, his breath warm against Cregan’s thigh.

The prince leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of Cregan’s leg, just above the knee. Cregan’s muscles tensed beneath the tender touch, his fingers twitching with the need to reach out, to bury them in the dark waves of Jacaerys’s hair. He watched, entranced, as Jacaerys continued his slow, torturous journey, his lips brushing lightly up the inside of Cregan’s thigh, each kiss a spark, each touch a flame.

The wolf stirred within Cregan, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he felt the heat of Jacaerys’s mouth moving higher. His desire, coiled tight like a spring, grew with every brush of those lips, every teasing touch. He felt himself harden, the ache of want becoming almost unbearable.

Jacaerys’s smirk widened as he felt the evidence of Cregan’s arousal beneath his hands. He looked up again, his eyes meeting Cregan’s, holding his gaze as he pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin just below Cregan’s hip. Cregan’s breath came out in a harsh exhale, his control slipping, his need overtaking him.

With a growl, Cregan reached down, his hands tangling in Jacaerys’s hair, pulling the prince up with a rough urgency. Their lips crashed together, the kiss fierce and desperate, teeth clashing, tongues tangling in a frantic dance. It was a kiss that spoke of hunger, of a desire that had been simmering beneath the surface for too long, finally unleashed.

Jacaerys responded with equal fervor, his hands gripping Cregan’s shoulders, pulling him closer, their bodies pressing together, fitting like pieces of a puzzle. The prince’s lips were soft but insistent, demanding and giving all at once. Cregan could taste the heat of him, could feel the fire that burned beneath his skin, and he met it with his own cold fury, his own wild, untamed desire.

Their mouths moved together, each kiss deeper, more intense than the last, as if they were trying to consume each other, to fuse together through sheer will. Cregan’s hands moved down, grasping Jacaerys’s waist, pulling him closer still, until there was no space between them, until they were one, bound together by the force of their need.

His lips left Cregan’s mouth, trailing down his jaw, his neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the column of his throat. Cregan tipped his head back, a groan rumbling in his chest as Jacaerys found a sensitive spot, sucking gently, teeth grazing over skin.

The prince’s hands moved lower, finding hard planes of muscle, scars that marked his furry skin. He traced them with his fingertips, memorizing the shape of them, the feel of them, each one a testament to the man before him, to the strength and the honor that he embodied.

Cregan’s hands moved to Jacaerys’s waist, fingers digging into the prince’s hips as he pulled him impossibly closer, grinding against him, feeling the heat of his arousal through the layers of fabric. Jacaerys gasped, his head falling back, his eyes fluttering closed as pleasure coursed through him, his body arching into Cregan’s touch.

They moved together, lips meeting again in a fierce kiss, hands exploring, claiming, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. The wolf and the dragon, fire and ice, together in the dark, bound by a passion that neither could deny. And in that moment, they were lost to the world, to the weight of their titles and the burdens of their duties, lost to everything but each other.Jacaerys gasped, his fingers tangling in Cregan’s thick, dark hair as he pressed ever closer, his body melting against the northerner’s like ice before a flame. Cregan’s lips moved to Jacaerys’s neck, finding the pulse there and biting down just hard enough to make the prince hiss in pleasure.

“More,” Jacaerys demanded, his voice breathless, his eyes half-lidded with desire. “Show me how fierce the wolf can be.”

Cregan needed no further invitation. He lifted Jacaerys effortlessly, the prince’s legs wrapping around his waist as it was Cregan’s turn to press him against the wall. The cold stone was a stark contrast to the heat of their bodies, but neither of them noticed. Their world had narrowed to this moment, to the taste of each other’s mouths and the feel of their skin.

They were fire and ice, light and shadow, opposites drawn together by a force neither of them could fully understand but neither wanted to fight. Here, in the shadows of the keep, they were free of the burdens of their titles and the weight of their responsibilities. Here, they were just two dandy men, lost in the madness of each other.

Cregan’s hands found the laces of Jacaerys’s lacy smallclothes and pulled, the fabric sliding down the prince’s hips and pooling at his feet. Jacaerys shivered at the sensation, his hands gripping Cregan’s shoulders as the northern lord knelt before him.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Cregan looked up, his eyes meeting Jacaerys’s, asking a question without words. Jacaerys nodded, a silent answer, a trust given and accepted.

“Stay still now, woman,” Stark commanded and Jace whimpered at the order.

Then, Cregan’s lips were on him, hot and wet and hungry, and Jacaerys gasped, his head falling back against the stone. The world narrowed to that single point of contact, to the heat of Cregan’s mouth and the rough scrape of his beard against sensitive skin.

Jacaerys’s breath came in ragged gasps, his hands fisting in Cregan’s hair as pleasure coursed through him, building and building until he thought he might shatter from it. And then, with a cry that echoed off the walls of Winterfell, he did, his body tensing, his back arching, and then collapsing against the stone, boneless and sated.

Cregan rose, his lips curved in a small, satisfied smile as he pulled Jace into his arms, holding him close as the prince caught his breath. They stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other, the only sound their breathing, the only warmth the heat of their bodies.

Finally, Jacaerys pulled back, his eyes bright, a lazy smile playing at his lips. “Well, Lord Stark,” he murmured, “I must say, your loyalty has its rewards.”

Cregan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a thrill through Jacaerys’s already sated body. “And you, Prince Jacaerys, are a demanding wench.”

Jacaerys leaned in, his lips brushing against Cregan’s ear as he whispered, “Only because I know you can handle me, oh Wolf of Winterfell.”

Cregan’s grin widened, his eyes darkening with promise. “Then you’ll have to show me again, you feisty dragonling,” he said, his voice a low growl.

Jacaerys laughed, a bright, clear sound that filled the corridor. “Oh, I intend to, Cregan Stark. Many times over.”

And with that, they slipped away into the shadows, leaving only the faint echo of their laughter and the lingering warmth of their passion behind them.

End.

Hi! Hope you liked it 🥰 Any form of feedback is greatly appreciated! 🫶

[fr0stf4ll]

Forge of Starlight - Part 4

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the heart of Velaris, a skilled blacksmith's quiet life is turned upside down when unexpected bonds begin to form with the enigmatic Spymaster of the Night Court. As she navigates the challenges of her craft and the complexities of newfound relationships, she discovers that love and loyalty may be the strongest forces of all in a world where darkness often lingers just beyond the light.

word count ; 5k

warning; /

notes; heyy, I hope that all of you are doing fine ! Here is part 4, pretty calm chapter but I think that you will like it ;))) To be honest I'm already done writing the story, I might change some details because I'm still not really happy about some parts but the overall storyline is finished. Otherwise don't hesitate to comment or ask to be on the tag list ;)) I'm always super happy to see your feedbacks and comments on the story. See you soon, bisous bisoussss

here is the link for part 3 or part 5

---

Wrapped in the warmth of a thick, fur-lined cape, you made your way through the vast and unforgiving landscape that led to the Winter Court. The journey had been long, the cold biting at your skin despite the layers of wool and leather beneath your armor. Your boots crunched through the snow with every step, the sound a constant reminder of the icy terrain you traversed. The fur trim of your cape brushed against your face, shielding you from the harsh winds that howled through the mountains.

Your outfit was designed for both warmth and practicality—leather pants tucked into sturdy boots, a long-sleeved woolen tunic layered under a thick, high-collared vest, and over it all, the heavy cape that provided not just warmth, but protection from the elements. The fur-lined hood of the cape was pulled low over your brow, keeping the icy wind from nipping at your face. Gloves made of soft, supple leather protected your hands, though your fingers itched for the familiar feel of your weapons.

The landscape around you was breathtakingly beautiful, despite its harshness. The snow-covered mountains rose like jagged teeth against the clear, cold sky, their peaks piercing the heavens. The ground beneath your feet was a blanket of pristine white, unmarked by any sign of life save for the occasional tracks of a snow hare or a fox. The air was crisp and clean, filling your lungs with a chill that was both invigorating and biting.

As you neared the Winter Court, the terrain began to change subtly. The trees, tall and ancient, were dusted with snow, their branches heavy with the weight of winter. The air grew colder, the wind sharper, as you approached the heart of Kallias’s domain. The palace, when it came into view, was a marvel of ice and stone, a structure that seemed to rise organically from the frozen earth itself. Its spires glistened in the weak sunlight, the walls shimmering as if carved from a single massive block of ice. It was both awe-inspiring and foreboding, a testament to the power of the High Lord who ruled within.

As you entered the grand hall, the cold air seemed to intensify, but you were prepared for it. Your breath misted before you as you walked, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the ice-encrusted walls. The interior of the palace was no less magnificent than its exterior—glittering chandeliers of ice hung from the ceiling, casting a cool, ethereal light across the room. The floors were a mosaic of frosted tiles, and the walls were adorned with intricate carvings that depicted the history and power of the Winter Court.

Kallias awaited you at the far end of the hall, his tall, imposing figure clad in robes of pure white, trimmed with silver. His eyes, as cold and sharp as the winter wind, met yours as you approached, and he offered a nod of acknowledgment.

"Y/N," he greeted, his voice as icy as his surroundings. "I trust your journey was without incident?"

You inclined your head in respect. "It was, High Lord. The Winter Court is as beautiful as ever."

Kallias’s lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile. "It is. And I am eager to see the weapon you have forged for me."

With a practiced motion, you unclasped the leather strap that secured the long, narrow case at your side. Carefully, you lifted the lid, revealing the weapon within—a glaive, forged from the finest steel, its blade gleaming with an icy blue sheen that seemed to capture the essence of winter itself. The hilt was intricately designed, resembling the ancient, snow-laden trees of the Winter Court, with delicate, frost-like etchings that trailed along its length. At the base of the hilt, a crystal embedded in the pommel caught the light, glittering like freshly fallen snow.

Kallias’s eyes gleamed with appreciation as he took in the sight of the weapon. He stepped forward, his gloved hand reaching out to grasp the hilt. The glaive fit perfectly in his hand, its weight balanced, its craftsmanship flawless. He swung it once, the blade cutting through the air with a sharp, crisp sound that resonated through the hall.

"It’s exquisite," Kallias said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "You’ve outdone yourself, Y/N."

You bowed your head slightly, a smile tugging at your lips. "I’m glad it meets your expectations, High Lord. It was an honor to craft something for the Winter Court."

Kallias’s gaze lingered on the weapon for a moment longer before he turned his icy eyes back to you. "It more than meets my expectations. It surpasses them. You have a gift, Y/N, and I’m fortunate to have been able to commission such a weapon from you."

There was a moment of silence as Kallias continued to study the glaive, the air between you filled with the mutual respect of two artisans—one of ice, one of steel. Finally, he nodded, his expression softening just slightly.

"You must be tired from your journey," Kallias said, his tone shifting to something more cordial. "Please, stay as my guest. You are welcome in the Winter Court as long as you wish."

You inclined your head again, appreciating the offer. "Thank you, High Lord. I may take you up on that, but I must return to the Night Court soon. There are other matters that require my attention."

Kallias nodded in understanding. "Of course. But for now, rest. My stewards will see to your needs."

With that, he handed the glaive back to you, and you secured it once more in its case. As you followed the steward who had been summoned to lead you to your quarters, you couldn’t help but marvel at the power and grace of the Winter Court—its beauty, its cold, unyielding strength. The journey had been long, but the successful delivery of such a finely crafted weapon made it all worthwhile.

As you were led to your quarters, you wondered what the days ahead would bring, knowing that whatever challenges lay before you, you were more than prepared to face them.

After a much-needed rest in the luxurious quarters provided by Kallias, you found yourself summoned to dinner with the High Lord and his wife, Viviane. The invitation was delivered with the same formality and grace that characterized the Winter Court, and you dressed accordingly, choosing an outfit that was both practical for the cold and respectful of the occasion. You opted for a tailored, high-collared tunic in deep blue, paired with fitted leather pants and sturdy boots designed for both warmth and movement. Over the tunic, you wore a vest of finely stitched leather, its dark hue matching the rich blue of your tunic, and lined with fur for added warmth. A thick, fur-lined cloak draped over your shoulders, adding the final touch of protection against the biting cold.

The dining hall itself was as magnificent as the rest of the palace, with walls of ice that seemed to glow in the soft candlelight. A grand table made of polished, dark wood stood at the center, set with fine crystal and silverware that sparkled under the light. Kallias and Viviane were already seated when you arrived, their regal presence filling the room with an aura of quiet power.

Viviane greeted you with a warm smile, her blue eyes sparkling with kindness. “Y/N, it’s a pleasure to have you join us. Please, sit. I hope the accommodations were to your liking?”

You returned her smile, inclining your head respectfully as you took the seat offered to you. “Thank you, Lady Viviane. The accommodations were perfect—your hospitality is most generous.”

Kallias nodded in agreement, his expression calm and composed. “We are glad to hear that. You’ve traveled far, and your work has been extraordinary. You deserve the best.”

As the first course was served—a delicate soup made with winter vegetables and fragrant herbs—you found yourself relaxing into the atmosphere. The warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth, combined with the rich scents of the food, created a sense of comfort that was almost surprising in the cold grandeur of the palace.

As the meal progressed, Kallias leaned back slightly, regarding you with an inquisitive gaze. “Tell me, Y/N,” he began, his voice casual but laced with curiosity, “are you finally settling down? It’s not often we hear of someone as skilled as you staying in one place for long.”

You smiled softly, nodding as you set down your spoon. “Yes, I’ve returned to my roots. I’ve settled back in the Night Court, where I grew up. It feels right to be back home, even after all the years of traveling.”

Kallias’s eyes sharpened with interest, though he remained composed. “The Night Court, you say? And how has that been? Is it… a unique place, from what I’ve heard.”

You nodded again, careful with your words. “It’s been a good experience, returning to the Night Court. It has its own charm, and I’ve found a certain peace there that I didn’t realize I was missing.”

Viviane, ever the gracious hostess, leaned forward slightly, her gaze warm. “It must be wonderful to return to your roots after so long. I can imagine it offers a sense of stability, something to hold onto.”

“It does,” you agreed. “After years of traveling and crafting for different courts, it’s good to have a place to call home again.”

Kallias seemed to consider this for a moment before his expression shifted slightly, a more contemplative look in his eyes. “Y/N, do you see yourself as a blacksmith for the rest of your life?”

The question caught you off guard, and you hesitated for a moment before responding. “I’ve dedicated most of my life to the craft. It’s something I’m deeply passionate about. But… I’ve also wondered if there’s more I could do, especially now that I’m settled in one place.”

Kallias nodded thoughtfully, as if weighing something in his mind. “With your skills and the relationships you’ve built across the courts, have you ever considered becoming an emissary? You already have a good rapport with most of the High Lords, and your experience is invaluable.”

You blinked in surprise, the idea not one you had expected to hear. “An emissary?” you repeated, trying to imagine the shift from blacksmith to diplomat. “It’s not something I’ve considered before… but I suppose it could be an interesting path.”

Kallias was about to continue when he seemed to catch himself, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Of course, that’s a matter for Rhysand to consider. While our relations with the Night Court are… decent, I’m not one to aid in growing another court’s power.”

There was a hint of amusement in his tone, and you couldn’t help but smile in return. “I understand, High Lord. And I appreciate the suggestion, though. It’s something I’ll have to think about.”

Viviane reached out, placing a gentle hand on Kallias’s arm. “Don’t mind him, Y/N. He’s always thinking three steps ahead, even during a simple dinner.”

Kallias chuckled softly, inclining his head. “Indeed, but it’s worth considering. Your talents shouldn’t be confined to one craft alone, no matter how extraordinary it may be.”

The conversation continued in a more relaxed manner as the evening wore on, the three of you discussing everything from the beauty of the Winter Court to tales of your travels. Despite the formality of the setting, there was an ease to the dinner that you hadn’t anticipated—a warmth that contrasted pleasantly with the cold elegance of the palace.

As the dinner came to an end, you felt a sense of satisfaction not just from the meal, but from the knowledge that you were appreciated here in the Winter Court. The suggestion of becoming an emissary lingered in your mind, a seed planted by Kallias that you knew would take root in the days to come.

For now, though, you allowed yourself to enjoy the moment, grateful for the hospitality of the Winter Court and the new possibilities that lay ahead.

Later that evening, after the dinner with Kallias and Viviane, you found yourself back in the comfort of your room. The luxurious quarters were warm and inviting, the fire crackling softly in the hearth as you settled into a plush chair by the window. The view outside was breathtaking—a serene expanse of snow-covered mountains under a clear, starlit sky. The quiet beauty of the Winter Court seemed almost surreal after the intense conversations of the day.

As you stared out at the snow-draped landscape, your thoughts began to drift back to the events that had transpired before your journey here—specifically, the night with Cassian. The memory of his broken wings and the dark curse that had infested his body sent a shiver down your spine. You had dealt with injuries before, but nothing quite like that. The sight of Cassian in such a vulnerable state, combined with the pressure of having to save him, had shaken you more than you cared to admit.

You couldn’t help but wonder how Cassian was doing now. Madja was a skilled healer, but the curse had been something different—something darker and more insidious. You hoped that your efforts, combined with Madja’s expertise, would be enough to see him fully recovered.

But your thoughts didn’t linger on Cassian for long. Instead, they wandered to Azriel—his overprotective reaction when you mentioned your journey to the Winter Court. You had been taken aback by the intensity in his eyes, the way his voice had tightened with worry when he insisted that you couldn’t go alone. It was unlike him, or at least unlike the composed, stoic Azriel you had come to know.

A small blush crept up your cheeks as you recalled the way he had draped his jacket over your shoulders before flying you home. The warmth of the leather, combined with his proximity, had stirred something in you—a feeling you hadn’t allowed yourself to acknowledge until now. Azriel was undeniably attractive, with his dark, brooding looks and those piercing hazel eyes that seemed to see right through you. But more than that, he was one of the most skilled warriors in Prythian, a member of the Inner Circle, and someone who carried a weight of responsibility that few could comprehend.

You let out a small sigh, feeling a mixture of admiration and frustration. Azriel was everything you weren’t—an elite warrior, trusted confidant of the High Lord, and part of a circle that wielded immense power and influence. What were you, in comparison? A blacksmith, skilled in your craft, but still just someone who worked with metal and fire. You had traveled far and gained respect across the courts, but it was hard to shake the feeling that Azriel was somehow out of your league.

You couldn’t deny the attraction, though. Every time you thought of him—his calm presence, his quiet strength—it sent your heart fluttering in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. But you reminded yourself that someone like Azriel wouldn’t be interested in you, not in that way. He was dedicated to his duties, and you… you were just a blacksmith. 

Still, the memory of his protective concern lingered, the way his eyes had softened slightly when he insisted on flying you home. It was a gesture that spoke of something deeper, something that made your heart ache with longing.

You shook your head, trying to push the thoughts away. It was foolish to dwell on such things. Azriel was a friend, and that was enough. There was no sense in imagining something that could never be.

But even as you told yourself that, you couldn’t help the small, wistful smile that tugged at your lips. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to Azriel’s concern than simple duty. Perhaps there was a connection there, one that went beyond the roles you both played.

With a sigh, you stood and walked over to the window, staring out at the endless expanse of snow and stars. The Winter Court was beautiful, but your mind was already drifting back to Velaris, to the Night Court, and to the people who had become an unexpected but welcome part of your life.

And as you stood there, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight, you couldn’t help but wonder what the future held—for you and perhaps most of all, for Azriel.

—— 

Back in Velaris, the shop was quieter than usual. Without the rhythmic clang of metal on metal or the hum of the forge, the space felt almost too still, the usual lively energy dampened by your absence. But that didn’t stop Alex from doing his best to keep things running smoothly. He was darting between customers, expertly answering questions and showcasing various weapons with the kind of enthusiasm that belied his young age. Stellan, your faithful direwolf, was sprawled out near the counter, watching the activity with an expression that could only be described as long-suffering patience.

A particularly persistent client had been lingering in the shop for the better part of an hour, his eyes darting around as if expecting to spot you at any moment. He was a tall, lanky man with a nervous energy, and he had been pestering Alex incessantly.

“Are you sure she’s not here?” the man asked for what felt like the hundredth time, his tone edging on desperation. “I need to speak with Y/N directly.”

Alex, who had been maintaining his polite demeanor with admirable restraint, forced a smile that was beginning to strain at the edges. “As I’ve already mentioned, sir, Y/N is currently away on business. She won’t be back until next week.”

The man’s eyes narrowed as if Alex were trying to trick him. “But I really need to speak with her. Can’t you just call her? Or maybe she’s in the back?”

Alex’s forced smile twitched, and he muttered under his breath, “On the name of the goddamn Mother, I’m going to hit him.” He forced his voice back to a more polite tone as he said, “I’ve already checked, sir. She’s definitely not in the back. And no, I can’t call her—she’s in the Winter Court. They don’t exactly have a postal service for emergencies.”

The client frowned, clearly dissatisfied with the answer. “But this is important! Can’t you at least take a message?”

“Sir,” Alex said, his voice straining to maintain its politeness, “I’ve taken five messages from you already. I promise I’ll give them all to Y/N when she returns. But for now, there’s really nothing more I can do.”

The man didn’t seem convinced and opened his mouth to argue again, but Alex had reached his limit. He could feel his frustration bubbling up, and he was just about ready to scream when the shop door swung open with a loud creak.

In walked Cassian and Azriel, both of them cutting imposing figures as they strode into the shop. Cassian’s broad shoulders filled the doorway, and Azriel’s intense gaze swept over the scene, quickly taking in the situation.

The persistent client froze, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of the two warriors. Cassian’s expression was one of barely concealed amusement, while Azriel’s was much cooler, a silent but clear warning to the man that he was pushing his luck.

“Is there a problem here?” Azriel asked, his voice light but with an edge that sent a shiver down the man’s spine.

The client swallowed hard, his resolve crumbling under the weight of Azriel’s presence. “N-No, no problem at all,” he stammered, his previous determination evaporating. “I was just… uh… I’ll come back later.”

With that, the man all but bolted for the door, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to leave the shop. The door slammed shut behind him, and the shop was suddenly filled with silence, save for the faint crackling of the forge in the background.

Alex let out a long, relieved sigh and leaned against the counter, wiping a hand across his brow. “Thank the Mother for that,” he muttered.

Cassian chuckled, walking over to ruffle Alex’s hair. “You handled that well, kid. He was lucky he didn’t push you any further—looked like you were about to go feral.”

Alex grinned up at him, his earlier frustration melting away. “I was close, really close. But thanks for the help! Can I interest either of you in a fine sword? Or perhaps a dagger? We’ve got some new arrivals that are really top-notch.”

Azriel, who had been leaning casually against the counter, let out a soft chuckle. “Not today, Alex. We’re not here to shop.”

Cassian, still grinning, shook his head. “Yeah, as tempting as it is, we’re actually here to see if Y/N’s back yet. We wanted to check in and see how things are going.”

Alex’s face brightened at the mention of your name. “Oh! No, she’s not back yet. She should be here by tomorrow, though. I haven’t heard anything from her, but she always keeps her word.”

Cassian nodded, his expression softening slightly. “Good to hear. We’ve been worried about her, especially after everything that happened before she left.”

Azriel’s eyes darkened slightly at the mention of recent events, but he remained quiet, his gaze drifting around the shop as if lost in thought.

Alex, ever the perceptive one, caught the shift in Azriel’s demeanor and quickly changed the subject. “But hey, if you want, I can show you some of the stuff she’s been working on! I know she’s got some special orders that are almost ready. You might even find something you like.”

Cassian laughed, clearly charmed by the boy’s enthusiasm. “Maybe another time, Alex. We’ll just wait for her to get back. But thanks for the offer.”

Alex nodded, a little disappointed that he couldn’t make a sale but still pleased that the two warriors had stopped by. “No problem! I’ll let her know you were here as soon as she gets back.”

“Thanks, Alex,” Cassian said, giving the boy another affectionate ruffle of his hair before turning to leave. Azriel followed, but not before giving Alex a small, almost imperceptible nod of appreciation.

As they walked out the door, Alex watched them go, a satisfied grin on his face. Stellan, who had been observing the entire exchange with his usual calm, gave a soft huff as if to say, “Finally, some peace and quiet.”

Alex glanced down at the wolf, chuckling softly. “Yeah, I know, boy. It’s never boring around here, is it?”

Stellan’s only response was to close his eyes and settle back down, clearly content now that the shop had returned to its usual, slightly chaotic but always interesting, routine.

As Cassian and Azriel stepped out of your shop and into the bustling streets of Velaris, the evening air was cool and refreshing, carrying with it the scents of the city—freshly baked bread, the distant aroma of spiced meats, and the crisp tang of the Sidra River. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden hue over the cobblestone streets and the elegantly curved buildings.

Cassian glanced over at Azriel, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know, you didn’t have to scare the poor guy so much back there. He practically ran out of the shop.”

Azriel shrugged, his expression unreadable as usual, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “He was being persistent. Alexander was close to losing his patience.”

Cassian laughed, the sound rich and full of life. “True, true. That kid’s got more fire in him than most people twice his age. But I have to admit, it was fun watching you in action. You’ve always had a knack for that brooding intimidation.”

Azriel rolled his eyes, though the corners of his lips twitched slightly. “It wasn’t intentional. I just wanted to make sure the shop was running smoothly while Y/N is away.”

Cassian’s grin widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Speaking of Y/N… you’ve been pretty protective of her lately, haven’t you?”

Azriel’s step faltered for just a moment, but he quickly recovered, keeping his gaze focused ahead. “She’s been through a lot. We all have. I’m just making sure she’s safe.”

Cassian chuckled, clearly enjoying this line of questioning. “Come on, Az. We’ve all noticed how you’ve been watching out for her. And don’t think Rhys didn’t told me the way you reacted when she mentioned going to the Winter Court alone.”

Azriel’s expression remained impassive, though his eyes darkened slightly. “It’s my job to protect the people in this court, Cassian. You know that.”

“Sure, sure,” Cassian replied, waving a hand dismissively. “But this feels a little more personal, don’t you think? You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

Azriel remained silent, his gaze focused straight ahead as they continued walking. The streets of Velaris were alive with activity—couples strolling hand in hand, children playing, vendors calling out their wares—but the conversation between the two warriors seemed to create a bubble of quiet tension around them. Cassian, always one to lighten the mood, decided to press a little further.

“You know, Az,” Cassian started, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, “it’s not like that little kiss she gave me means you’re out of the running.”

Azriel shot him a sharp look, his eyes narrowing. “That wasn’t a kiss, Cassian. She was removing a curse. You know that.”

Cassian laughed, the sound rich and full of amusement. “Hey, I’m just saying—if you’re worried about competition, don’t be. That ‘kiss’ doesn’t mean you’ve lost your chance.”

Azriel shook his head, resuming his walk. "It's not about that. Y/N deserves someone... better.” 

Cassian rolled his eyes dramatically, catching up to Azriel with a few quick strides. "Oh, here we go. The 'I'm not good enough' spiel. Az, you’re one of the most honorable males I know. You're brave, loyal, and let's not forget, you have that brooding mysterious thing going on that females seem to love."

Azriel shot him a skeptical look. "Being 'brooding and mysterious' isn't exactly a selling point."

"Maybe not for you," Cassian quipped, "but trust me, it's working. Besides, Y/N isn't the type to be swayed by titles or power. She values character, integrity, and someone who sees her for who she truly is."

Azriel sighed, his gaze distant. "Even so, with everything in my past, the things I've done... I don't want to burden her with that."

Cassian placed a firm hand on Azriel's shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. "Listen to me. We all have our demons, our shadows. Y/N included. But that doesn't mean we don't deserve happiness. You can't keep punishing yourself forever.”

"She is… different. She’s strong, independent. She’s been through so much, yet she doesn’t let it define her. I admire that.”

Cassian nodded, his expression softening slightly. “She is all of those things. And she’s got a good heart. But, Az, you know it’s okay to feel something more. You don’t have to keep everything locked away.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might brush off the conversation entirely. But then he sighed, a sound that was barely audible but heavy with unspoken thoughts. “It’s not that simple, Cass. She’s… well, she’s remarkable. But she’s also tied to things I don’t fully understand. And after everything… I’m not sure it’s right to complicate things further.”

Cassian looked at him, his expression serious for once. “You’re overthinking it, as usual. Sometimes, it’s okay to just… let things happen. If there’s something there, you’ll figure it out. And if there’s not, well, at least you won’t have any regrets.”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, but Cassian could see the conflict in his eyes. Finally, Azriel murmured, “I don’t want to be a distraction for her. She’s got enough to deal with, especially after what happened.”

Cassian grinned, though there was a note of understanding in his voice. “You’re not a distraction, Az. If anything, you’re probably one of the few people who can help her with whatever she’s dealing with. And, just so you know, she’s not out of your league, no matter what you think.”

Azriel remained silent, the internal battle evident in his eyes. The bustling sounds of Velaris seemed to fade as the two friends stood in the midst of the crowd, locked in a moment of understanding.

After a beat, Cassian grinned, attempting to lighten the mood. "And besides, if you don't make a move, I might just have to swoop in. You know, for the sake of not letting such a wonderful female go unappreciated."

Azriel snorted, a rare genuine laugh escaping his lips. "I'd like to see you try."

Cassian winked, clapping Azriel on the back. "That's the spirit! Now, how about we head to Rita's and grab a drink? Maybe by the time Y/N returns, you'll have mustered up the courage to tell her how you feel."

Azriel smirked, his shadows swirling playfully around him. "Only if you're buying."

"Deal," Cassian replied, leading the way with a swagger in his step. "But remember, the next round's on you, especially if it gives you the liquid courage you clearly need."

As they made their way towards the river, laughter and camaraderie enveloped them. Yet, beneath the teasing and banter, the seeds of self-reflection had been sown in Azriel's heart, leaving him to ponder the possibilities that awaited with your impending return. 

tag list: @annamariereads16 @hanatsuki-hime @elsie-bells @shizukestar @rose-girls-world @brit-broskis-cole-fanfic @faridathefairy @elsie-bells @faridathefairy @wolfbc97 @rcarbo1 @kitsunetori @hufflepuff-pa55 @proclivity-for-fantasy-97 @sometimeseverythingsucks @dream-alittlebiggerdarling

don't hesitate to comment if you want to be added to the tag list ;)))

[itsabouttimex2]

How Can We Use Y/N?

So I’ve been watching Delicious in Dungeon, and… thinking about Beastman!Y/N. Or, rather- how the party consumes them.

Maybe outright eating them is off-limits, because, you know, Y/N is still a person, and cannibalism tends to bring about some pretty nasty stuff. Marcille is hard on that stance. She’s opened up to a lot of different foods, sure, that’s true- but she’s not eating a person! The potential for diseases and sickness is too high, no matter how you prepare the food, after all.

But eating isn’t the only way for someone or something to be consumed! Time is consumed! Energy is consumed! Labor is consumed! Products are consumed!

So what can we make out of Y/N?

Maybe you’ve been fused with the soul of something like a Firefly Squid, shifting your flesh to bear a pleasing bioluminescence- and if sometimes a tentacle falls off or is chopped clean in combat? Well, Laios doesn’t really see the issue in skinning the rubbery tendril to make glow-in-the-dark hilt wraps and canteens… even if his friends think that it’s a little gross.

Or maybe you’re some form of Cervidae, bearing a soft, short pelt and a pair of antlers to boot, which means… you’ll end up shedding at the end of the year, and the team now has a fresh set to utilize! The keratin is good for carving, especially if you’re making arrowheads or figurines. If nothing creative comes to mind, they’re at least good for trading to orcs or kobolds.

But I’d like to think that you’re a cute little Valais Blacknose, who hasn’t quite learned to trim your own fur, so it’s up to the Touden Party to take up the shears and chop those woolen locks! Chilchuck is a little estranged from his family, admittedly, but he’s still a father of three, and has learned a bit about haircare in the process. Expect lots of reminders to “hold still, dammit!” and maybe a few “oh, shit”s along the way, but the Half-Foot will get you fixed up.

Once he’s trimmed you into a presentably adorable little lamb, it’s finally possible to walk around without tripping over your own fluff, and see without a collage of thick headbands pinned in place to hold back a storm of woolen locks… and the team is left with several pounds of fluffy wool.

And team Touden does not waste resources- especially if those supplies are coming from their precious little Y/N!

So the team scrambles to find a way to use all of the floof, each one taking a portion to use in some way, at least.

Laios knows that winding his cooking ware with spun wool will only make them harder to clean, especially if blood or fat soak into the threads, and he really doesn’t want to waste such a soft part of his dear Y/N by having to throw them out over something like a minor spill… which also rules out his sword’s grip, because, again, wool holds nasty fluids really well. Probably he’ll settle for something extremely practical that can be used many times over, like a pair of socks or gloves. It’s not impossible for the monster enthusiast to keep a handful of unprocessed fluff in his pocket, just so he has something to grab and squish during stressful or boring trips… or so he can “prove” to nearby parties/“friends” how soft you are. (Shuro and Kabru are on the receiving end of more than a few rants.)

Ever practical, Senshi probably makes cheesecloth from your threads, albeit over the course of several days spent knitting the yarn together. If he doesn’t have that sort of time, or maybe just not the motivation, he’ll bind himself up a washcloth or two- perfect for sopping up cooking spills, or scrubbing the inside of a pan. And, now that you can actually see without constantly peeling pounds of fluff from your eyes, expect to given more tasks during cooking. Anything to keep you close and safe. It’s also very probable that he’ll have you on a “Beastman-friendly” diet comprised heavily of leafy meals and chopped veggies. Maybe he’ll even scrounge up some hay, or cut and bind up some grass to have on hand for you as a snack. He won’t even consider this strange- to Senshi, it’s just the proper way to take care of someone that he obsesses over the safety of cares for.

Happy to have “monster” supplies that she doesn’t have to eat, Marcille binds a few of the finer threads into a set of little ribbon for her hair. I also imagine that she’d be primarily responsible for taking caring if your hair after the cut, so she’ll make a few extra in order to style yours like she styles hers. If there’s plenty extra when everyone else is done taking their share, the elf girl just might make herself a little plushy version of you to sleep with… and one of Falin, too.

Divorced father of three, deft of hand Chilchuck has learned his way around a needle… mostly. It’s not above him to maybe weave something nice up for his daughters, like matching bracelets. He’ll want six in total, one for him and his ex, three for his daughters, and one for you- just so everyone in the “family” has a common thread to bind them. A particularly young Y/N will most likely be adopted by the Tims family at the end of their journey, providing a safe and happy (if viciously protective and smothering) space for them to grow. His daughters receive letters every now and then, each one waiting anxiously to meet the individual who is; unbeknownst to them, being propositioned as a brand new family member. Even his ex is mildly excited at the thought of someone brand new to raise, given that all her daughters are grown and moving on in the world. Maybe it’s what they need to get back together… or maybe that’s just the possessiveness talking.

And for Izutsumi… she wants a new scarf. Not that she knows how to knit, or has any interest in learning, but still. The cat girl will scrounge up a hefty handful of wool and toss it into Marcille’s lap with a huff, demanding a properly knit scarf to add to her arsenal. And although she’s not exactly above whining or making threats to get her way, there’s no need- the mage is totally on board to have every member of the party decked out in the softest parts of their collective favorite member. So, Izutsumi gets her scarf, and then everyone finally has a part of Y/N to keep close and hold dear.

Not that anyone is going to start ignoring the real thing, unfortunately for you.

[otherworldseekers]

FFXIV Glamtober Day 10: Pirate or Cowboy?

"Nero, what are you wearing? "My costume. I'm the Dread Pirate Scaeva and you, er, you were supposed to be my lady love, Buttercup." "If you ever call me 'Buttercup' I will kick your ass. I am the Lone Machinist and you were supposed to be my trusty sidekick!" "I suppose the Lone Machinist could secretly be named Buttercup."

She kicks his ass and then they go to the All Saints Wake party.

Severia: Head: Foerider's Hat (dark brown, othard blue) Body: Ophiotauroskin Top of Aiming (othard blue) Hands: Moonward Armlets of Aiming (storm blue) Legs: Exarchic Bottoms of Aiming (opo-opo brown) Feet: Palaka Boots of Aiming (dark brown) Weapon: Vitoria do Povo

Nero: Head: Woolen Bandana (jet black) Body: Spring Shirt (jet black) Hands: Seigneur's Gloves Legs: Seigneur's Breeches Feet: Gemsoph's Thighboots Weapon: Ruthenium Tuck

[makeitmakesomesense]

You Can Call Me Dwayne

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Meet Cute Fluff.

@fluffyfebruary Day 1, Snow.

Words: 800

On the 3rd of December, you walked home from work. This was normal. You had earphones in. This was to be expected. The upbeat summer music juxtaposed nicely with the cold snowy day surrounding you. 

She was walking ahead of you. Waves of red hair escaping from a dark woolen hat. There was a white bobble at the end of it, bouncing with every step. It caught your attention easily. Your eyes tracked every bounce.

Her thick grey winter coat betrayed the chill that had descended mercilessly upon the city. It was evidence that she was temperature aware.

Her hands were bare. You watched them hang loosely by her sides. It was noticeable enough, personally offensive enough that you rolled your eyes at the stranger's back.

Who didn't wear gloves in sub-zero temperatures?

Worse still, you saw thick, waterproof winter gloves shoved into her left pocket. She'd deemed them useless.

One glove balanced precariously, too chunky to really fit in the pocket. It threatened to fall with every step.

In this way, all the cards played out just like they’d been dealt.

.

The glove fell elegantly into a disgusting puddle of slush. You bent over and reached in, soaking your own fabric glove to retrieve it. You found yourself half skidding on icy patches as you hurried to return the damned glove to a stranger with poor judgement.

You made brief contact with a gentle tap on her shoulder. 

In the next moment, you felt your back slam against the paved sidewalk.  All the air left your lungs. Your earphones jerked from your ears, clattering beside to you. Dimly you wondered what wrestling move you'd just experienced.

The woman peered over you. The world darkened slightly as she blocked out the sun. Her eyes widened as she saw the glove still gripped in your hand. Her mouth opened slightly as she put the pieces together.

She was beautiful.

‘Shit.’ She muttered.

You let out a pained wheeze. 

She offered you a hand. Her eyes were green.

She was really beautiful. 

You took her hand readily, figuring she could only slam you to the ground once before it lost some fun.

You climbed shakily back to your feet before handing over the wretched glove.

‘Thank you.’ The woman said, expression full of concern. ‘I’m so sorry. Are you okay?'

You were still a little bent over. Your ribs had had better days. At last, your lungs filled with enough air for an extended wheeze. 

‘Are you okay?' Who doesn't wear their gloves in winter?’ You muttered unthinkingly.

Something shifted in the woman’s face. Her lips twitched.

‘But I like living dangerously.’ She answered after a moment, her voice going deep with teasing.  

‘Yeah, well you are clearly superhuman.’ You muttered, straightening your back tentatively. 

‘I wish.’ The woman said, mirth barely hidden behind her small smile. ‘But I’m just Natasha’

You rolled your eyes, letting yourself wallow in the moment.

She’d slammed you into the ground. 

‘Uh huh. And what’s that short for? ‘Natasha ‘The Rock’ Johnson?’ You grumbled, rubbing your back pointedly.

Natasha gave a short sudden laugh.

She was so pretty. 

‘Natasha Romanoff.’ She supplied after a moment. 'But you can call me Dwayne.'

It took a moment for the penny to drop. Your eyes widened.

‘Oh, wow. Fuck.’ You marveled to yourself. The beautiful woman laughed again. A pleasant thrill ran up your spine.

‘You’re lucky to be alive.’ She teased you openly now. 

It took a moment for your brain to unscramble. At last you pulled it together.

‘Nah, ‘I’m Y/N.’

You had to pull off your damp, bedraggled glove when you shook her cold hand. 

.

A year later, Natasha met you on your way home from work. 

You spotted her immediately. The red hair peeking out from a dark woolen hat. You couldn't miss her.

She broke into a wide smile as she walked over to you.

You watched a piece of snow melt on the tip of her nose. You grinned at her. Natasha grinned back. Her cold, bare hand found your gloves ones.

‘You need to wear gloves.’ You reminded her. Natasha rolled her eyes. You smiled as her head pressed against your shoulder.

‘But I like living dangerously.’ She protested halfheartedly. You made a skeptical noise. 

You felt her thumb rub small circles against the thin fabric covering the back of your hand. The bobble from her hat brushed your cheek.

‘Wow.’ You deadpanned. ‘I can’t keep up with your reckless lifestyle.’

[comfortless]

Syl, my lovely, please. I need to see this vision come to life through your words. Would König take his darling to the Ren Faire?🌷

VANI!!! my angel!! of course he would… König is a just a hapless knight at heart & it gives him an excuse to treat you like an actual princess! 🗡💕 i can not promise you that he will not force you to sit in his lap and play skyrim or something when you get home though…! /:

“Danke for agreeing to come,” he whispers to you once you’re out in the sprawling field, an abundance of colorful tents, partitions and others in similar dress surrounding the two of you.

It’s a lot to take in, as though you’ve been whisked away to a separate world entirely; the air smells faintly of fresh food, a bard strums a lute somewhere out in the distance, and… was that supposed to be a dragon’s roar?

König dons a veil of tightly woven chainmail, only a glimpse of his jaw visible, lined with prickly stubble. The rest of his armor leaves little glimpses of him, his thick wrist between cuff and glove, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he curls his arm around you protectively. If it were possible, he seems even larger wearing the plates of armor, far more imposing like this.

Tucked at his side, stands you in your linen bliaut, a soft woolen cloak dyed a royal blue thrown over your shoulders; a stark contrast from the shimmering and hardened armor of the knight guiding each of your steps with his arm around your waist.

König has to look at everything— marveling at the handmade objects and shiny, smithed weapons in each booth.

When you give him a quizzical glance as he ghosts his gloved fingertips over the angular blade of an exceptionally smart spear, he pauses his frantic admiration for a time to explain to you that it reminds him of one he read about once— like Odin’s Gungnir, fierce and proud. Even you take a moment to admire its craftsmanship, to which the pale blue of his eyes seems to light up; he makes the purchase without a second thought.

You find yourself enjoying the atmosphere, especially with that ever-present grin on König’s face; he’s in his element surrounded by fantasies drawn from history. It’s a nice change, seeing him so filled up with whimsy as he whisks you from tent to tent, buying you anything that catches your eye, taking your picture any chance that he gets.

You humor him, lifting your skirts a little when you pass between two of the fabric structures, hidden away from the eyes of any other grinning merchants, pretty ladies, and bellowing bards.

Seated in his lap he tells you of holy grails and swordplay tactics while feeding you from a dish on a wooden countertop, a pastry stuffed full with apple.

You only think to offer a complaint once you note the three now emptied pewter goblets of mead in front of him as König proclaims he wants to act out a proper sword fight with one of the others donning armor in the small, hastily fenced in area serving as a knight’s training yard.

(It was certainly a coincidence that the one he chose to spar with happened to be the very same man who offered you a friendly wave in passing.)

He makes a display of his swordsmanship, swift knocks and parries that leave your eyes wide as you clasp your hands over your mouth; even a prise de fer as you dig your nails into the wood of the shoddy fence. You’ve never seen him so swift, so brutal, as when he finally knocks his opponent into the dust, the sharpened edge of his blade pointed downward. Had this not all been pretend, you could imagine the bloodshed that would have occurred here.

Thankfully, König backs off, dips his head in a begrudging bow to his opponent before wandering back to you.

Your hand is pried from the fence, a kiss placed upon every knuckle as you praise his talents. He smirks, proud, and whispers to you something about how he had to show off for his lady. Even has the audacity to tell you that he would kill for you, and you knew very well it was not said entirely in jest.

When the sun finally dims and lanterns are lit, bathing the green below your boots in a soft, tangerine glow, you find yourself helping to loosen the straps of König’s armor. Poor thing had not thought to wear a proper shirt beneath, or.. perhaps, that was intentional. The sweat glistens off of him when you’ve tossed his dark top and curved metal into a heap, the curls of his chest hair sticking to pale flesh.

You rove your hand over him to dull the ache of those straps digging into his shoulders. He groans, contented as he pulls you up to your feet, leaning down just enough to kiss you, to desperately grope at your hips, your rear, before the strumming of a lute and the cheers and giggles accompanied by dancing fills your ears.

Attentions turned, you find yourself curling your hand into his, tugging him towards the feathery songs and shuffling of feet.

“We should dance,” you suggest, all giggles when you tilt your head to offer a pleading glance to him over your shoulder.

“Anything for you, meine prinzessin.”

[nyoomfruits]

scrunch!!! nose kisses :)

i’m so sorry for any spelling mistakes i wrote this on my phone lmao

He’s officially gone insane, Lando thinks to himself, as he watches Oscar waddle towards him in his ski boots. He’s lost it. Off the rails, totally bananas. There’s no way he’s finding this cute.

“I don’t understand why you like this so much,” Oscar grumbles, when he’s managed to waddle himself into hearing distance. He’s wearing a pretty boring black ski suit, gloves, scarf covering half his face, fluffy woolen hat. All Lando can see is his frowny eyes and his red nose. And still. Cute.

“To be fair, it’s more fun going down,” Lando says, slapping the skis he’s propped up on his shoulder. Oscar sniffles. Lando tries not to be weird about the cute little twitch of his nose.

“Hm,” Oscar says, sceptically, eyeing the mountain and then the lift a little father away. “Why did I agree to this again?” Oscar asks.

“Because you love me,” Lando says, trying not to trip over the four letter word too much. It’s still so new. So fragile. Every time he says it out loud he feels like he’s going to jinx it.

Oscar nods thoughtfully. “Fair point,” he says, and then leans past the skis he’s propped up in the snow and gives Lando a soft, sweet little kiss. “You look cute by the way.”

“No,” Lando says, smiling softly. “You.” And then because he can, and he’s always had terrible self control, kisses the tip of Oscar’s nose.

Oscar scrunches his face, laughs. “You’re such a weirdo sometimes.”

“Your weirdo, though,” Lando says, turning around to make his way to the ski lift.

With his back turned, he misses the soft, almost awe like look on Oscar’s face. “Yeah,” he says, as he follows after Lando. “Mine.”

[nivasichakano]

Boat Christmas — Bonus Content for Driven

“I’m telling you-” Morena watches the boys through her kitchen window as she packs a couple of baskets with festive treats: thermoses of hot toddy and mulled wine, bottles of Buck’s fizz, spiced almond biscuits, cheeses, grapes, crackers, and shortbread cut into stars. “-something’s happened. Something’s wrong.”

“Don’t be daft,” Tara’s voice is dismissive but she too is watching as Gale and Astarion start to prep The Yacht, the corners of her mouth downturned. “They always bicker.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Morena sighs. “They aren’t today.”

She and Tara gather up the supplies and head to the back door. 

“Service!” Morena yells. “Ding ding ding ding!”

Astarion looks up from the boat’s ropes and he grins, jogging back up the garden path. He’s bundled up against the cold in a puffer jacket, joggers, gloves, and a beanie pulled down tight over his ears, only a few silver curls escaping its edges. The whole ensemble is black, as usual. He looks like a little bank robber.

“Do you ladies require assistance?” 

“Thank you,” Morena hands him the baskets. “It’s hard enough traversing this path when it’s icy, let alone lugging half of M&S’ Christmas department.”

“And after you’ve been taste-testing the hot toddy all morning,” Tara mutters, drawing another grin from the young driver.

“Leave her alone, Tar,” he says gallantly. “It’s Christmas Day.”

“Thank you!” Morena exclaims. “Oh, Astarion?”

“Mm?”

Morena lowers her voice. “Is Gale okay, do you know?”

She watches as Astarion’s demeanor changes entirely, his smile falling away and his eyes darting to the ground. 

“Only he seems a little quiet, don’t you think?” Morena prods, ignoring the way Tara digs her in the ribs. “I just wondered if he was feeling poorly or something.”

“Er,” Astarion shifts his grip on the handles of the baskets, shrugging. “Yeah, I dunno. I think he’s fine.”

“Hm, okay love,” Morena nods. “Could you pop those things in the galley for me and ask Gale to get the fire going?”

“Sure.”

“Stop. Meddling,” Tara whispers as Astarion carries the baskets down the path and Morena locks up the back door.

“I’m not!” Morena hisses. She is.

They head down to the boat, Morena following Astarion inside and finding him unloading cheeses into the kitchen’s tiny fridge while Gale lights the fire in silence. She’s pleased with the way The Yacht is looking, she’d spent hours decorating it both inside and out and the little living room is cozy with its tiny Christmas tree and twinkly fairy lights and tasteful boughs of holly pinned over the portholes.

“You should teach Astarion your method,” Morena remarks chirpily, before turning to the young driver. “He perfected firelighting when he was younger, he was obsessed with it.”

“I’ve benefited from it before,” Astarion nods, wandering over to watch Gale carefully lighting neat layers of kindling and coal. “That time we camped in Bahrain-”

“It’s really not that difficult,” Gale shuts the door of the stove and stands, brushing coal dust from the knees of his jeans, not looking at his teammate. “I mean, I can show you another time if you want but it’s not very interesting.”

Something’s definitely wrong. Turning down the opportunity to teach someone something? That's not her Gale at all. And the boys seem awkward around each other. They’ve either fallen out or slept together, Morena decides. 

Gale is gazing at the fire, hands in his pockets, chin tucked into the thick gray turtleneck of his woolen jumper, and Astarion lingers next to him, seemingly stuck for something to say. Morena shouldn’t point it out — she really shouldn’t — but they’re both standing right underneath the mistletoe she pinned to the low living room ceiling, the way she does every Christmas.

“Oops,” she chuckles, pointing it out. 

Gale glances up in surprise as Astarion stares at the floor, cheeks going as pink as his cold nose. 

“It’s bad luck to ignore it,” Morena teases, as her son shoots her a death glare. 

To her surprise, it’s Astarion who speaks first.

“We don’t need any more bad luck,” he says quietly, looking up at Gale.

Gale chews the inside of his lip, looking like he’s battling something deep inside as he slowly leans forward, Astarion gazing at him with wide eyes. At the last minute though, he pecks his teammate on the cheek. It’s heartbreaking, how Astarion’s eyes close and he inclines his head into the kiss anyway. 

Gale straightens up with a forced smile. “There, bad luck staved off for the year. I’ll go start up the engine.”

🎄

Morena has done her Christmas Day boat trip ever since Gale was little. Even in the years when that bitch insisted he go skiing and Morena was on her own. She has Christmas decorations all over the boat, Christmas songs playing from the speaker Gale gave her for her birthday, a basket of little wrapped gifts to throw to the children on the towpath, and her Santa hat at its usual jaunty angle. 

As he always did when he was a kid, Gale stands close to her at the stern while she steers, leaning on the roof and eating shortbread. There’s a burst of laughter from the front of the boat, where Tara and Astarion have ensconced themselves in blankets and are making their way through the Buck’s fizz, and Gale sighs.

“You okay, moromou?”

“Hm?” Gale looks up from his biscuit. “Yes. Why?”

“You just seem blue. I wondered if something happened with Astarion?”

“Oh,” Gale makes an irritated noise. “We had a bit of a row. He thinks I'm judging him.”

“Why would you be judging him?” 

He hesitates before answering. “At the afterparty for the Prize Giving Ceremony, he kissed someone.”

“Oh, Gale…”

“What? No!” He waves a hand at her. “No, no. It's not- it's fine. It's good. It's a good thing. He's spent a long time hiding who he is because of Cazador, he should- he should be able to-”

Oh Gale, Morena thinks again but she doesn't say it out loud this time.

“It's just that the guy had a girlfriend,” Gale continues, shaking his head. “Astarion didn't know. It’s an old friend of his from F2- oh, wait- you remember Rugan Najemnik? It’s his son, Olly. Apparently, he used to have a crush on Astarion when they were younger so Astarion thought- Anyway, all I said was that it might not be the wisest idea to kiss someone like that out of the blue, without knowing for certain they want to kiss you back. And he- well, first he called me boring, and then he asked how you were supposed to know for certain exactly and I said that he could try asking the next person, if he can hear them over the music, and then he walked off and that was the end of it.”

Christ on a bike. Morena reaches for her thermos of hot toddy and takes a hefty swig. “That does sound a bit judgmental, love.”

“Well…” He goes back to his biscuit, taking another morose bite. 

They boat in silence for a bit, Tara’s voice at the back of Morena’s mind, telling her not to meddle. 

“Gale, why don’t you just-” Before Morena can finish, a beanied head appears at the other end of the boat and Astarion makes his way unsteadily along the gunwale.

“We need more Fuck’s bizz,” he giggles, clinging to the side of the boat. “Tara’s words, not mine.”

“It’s in the fridge,” Morena tuts, fondly. Reprobates.

“What have you got?” Astarion is eyeing the biscuit in Gale’s hand. Sugar is fairly new for him apparently. Gale has been conscientious about Astarion’s privacy but Morena can see the signs of abuse in the poor boy for herself. They come out in little ways: a shyness about indulging in the food Morena provides, his self-criticism about his driving, the way he sometimes flinches at loud noises just like her Gale does. The after-effects of Cazador. Morena hopes the awful bastard rots in that ward. 

Gale picks up the packet and reads the back. “M&S baked-in-Edinburgh all butter Scottish shortbread star-shaped assortment.”

“Star for a star?” Astarion takes the half-eaten biscuit out of Gale’s hand and pops it in his mouth with a grin, while Gale stares at him. “I’ll go into the boat this end, I’m not climbing that precipice again.”

He squeezes past them and Morena notices how Gale’s hand instinctively goes to Astarion’s back to stop him from slipping on the icy steel. She wonders whether Gale even knows he’s doing it.

When Astarion’s gone, disappearing into the boat in search of Tara’s Fuck’s bizz, Gale leans into Morena like he used to do when he was a little boy. These days though, his head rests on top of hers instead of the other way around.

“I like him so much, mum,” he says quietly. 

“Oh Gale…” Morena keeps one hand on the tiller but wraps her other arm around him. “I know you do, love. You have to talk to him.”

She feels him shake his head, his scratchy stubble catching on her Santa hat. “He called me his best friend the other day. I can’t-”

“Your father was my best friend.”

“...and then he kissed someone else.”

Morena sighs, pulling away so she can get a look at him. “Moromou, he clearly doesn’t know how you feel. If you walked into the boat right now and kissed that man, I am sure he would melt.”

“You don’t know that for certain. So I’d be a bit of a hypocrite, wouldn’t I?” 

“Then talk to him!”

Gale shakes his head again. “I can’t- What if you’re wrong? It’d make things so awkward, I might lose him forever...”

He’s looking at her with such wide, forlorn eyes that her heart aches for him and she pulls him back into a hug. “I’m a Dekarios, love. We’re never wrong about anything.”

🎁

Later that afternoon, they gather around the fire back in Morena’s cottage, worn out from a day’s boating and full of Christmas dinner, while Gale hands out the presents that are under the tree.

“This one doesn’t have a label,” he holds up a squishy-looking parcel wrapped in garish glittery paper. 

“That one’s for you,” Astarion is curled up at the end of the settee, peering over his glass of brandy.

“Oh,” Gale’s cheeks color slightly as he sits next to his teammate, opening his present. Inside is a bright purple t-shirt with an icon of a man on it. Above the picture, large orange lettering spells out ‘POPULAR MALE’. Underneath, in smaller writing: ‘The chairman said, “The excellent Christmas Season we’ve anticipated has begun. We are selling more home fashions, electronics and major appliances."' It’s hideous. 

“You remembered,” Gale croaks, gazing at his teammate in shock while Astarion grins.

“That is hideous,” Tara remarks drily, voicing Morena's thoughts out loud. 

“We found them in a shop in Suzuka,” Astarion explains. “They made us laugh so much, do you remember?”

Gale nods. “It was months ago… how did you-?”

“I sent Karlach back to buy one later that day so you wouldn’t see,” Astarion laughs, clearly delighted with his machinations. 

Gale leans forward and retrieves another present from under the tree, tossing it to Astarion. 

“Open yours,” he says with a quiet smile. 

Astarion glances at him before unwrapping his gift. “Shut up…”

Tara looks over and rolls her eyes at Morena as they both chuckle. It’s the same t-shirt. 

“How did you-”

“I asked Karlach as well,” Gale cracks up. “She must have picked up two.”

🏎️🏎️

I didn't mean for this to turn into an entire mini-chapter but here we are. I can't get enough of The Meddling Thoughts of Mory D.

Read Driven on AO3!

[babybells123]

Do you ever think of how;

“Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair.” (Arya, AGOT I)

“The wildlings seemed to think Ygritte a great beauty because of her hair; red hair was rare among the free folk, and those who had it were said to be kissed by fire, which was supposed to be lucky.” (Jon II, ASOS)

“I might get her with child."

"Aye, I'd hope so. A strong son or a lively laughing girl kissed by fire, and where's the harm in that?" (Jon II, ASOS)

(And Sansa II follows where she thinks of having children resembling/named after lost family members)

‘Sometimes she sang in a low husky voice that stirred him. And sometimes by the cookfire when she sat hugging her knees with the flames waking echoes in her red hair, and looked at him, just smiling . . . well, that stirred some things as well.’ (Jon II , ASOS)

‘Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells.’ (Arya I AGOT)

“She had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft . . . the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper.” (Catelyn, ACOK VII)

“Her hair was a rich autumn auburn, her eyes a deep Tully blue. Grief had given her a haunted, vulnerable look; if anything, it had only made her more beautiful.” (Tyrion, VIII ASOS).

This is autumn auburn hair: (*note* this photo also appears when you search dark honey hair)

I cant decide whether this is auburn or a dark blonde caramel (and I think it can be seen as both)

‘They look as though they belong together. Val was clad all in white; white woolen breeches tucked into high boots of bleached white leather, white bearskin cloak pinned at the shoulder with a carved weirwood face, white tunic with bone fastenings. Her breath was white as well … but her eyes were blue, her long braid the color of dark honey, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely.’ (Jon, ADWD XI)

“She donned silken smallclothes and a linen shift, and over that a warm dress of blue lambswool. Two pairs of hose for her legs, boots that laced up to her knees, heavy leather gloves, and finally a hooded cloak of soft white fox fur.”

….

“When she opened the door to the garden, it was so lovely that she held her breath, unwilling to disturb such perfect beauty. The snow drifted down and down, all in ghostly silence, and lay thick and unbroken on the ground.”

…

“I wish you could see yourself, my lady. You are so beautiful. You're crusted over with snow like some little bear cub, but your face is flushed and you can scarcely breathe.” (Sansa VII ASOS)

“It was the old days she hungered for. Prayed for. But who could she pray to? The garden had been meant for a godswood once, she knew, but the soil was too thin and stony for a weirwood to take root. A godswood without gods, as empty as me. (Sansa VII ASOS)

A sight so lovely = Val with Ghost, cheeks flushed red, clad in all white like snow, sometimes she’s described as having grey eyes but she has blue eyes in this excerpt, bearskin cloak, long braid the colour of dark honey, reference to a weirwood = old gods.

So lovely she held her breath = Sansa clad in a white fox fur cloak (which GRRM has as a figurine), all white surroundings (snow), building a snow castle, face flushed, referred to as a little bear cub, covered in snow, the snow is very romantically coded in this scene as well + there is talk of weirwood trees = Ghost, not to mention ‘ghostly silence’ and Jon reuniting with Ghost in the previous chapter where he also talks of the godswood and weirwood trees.

The connections that Jon makes here are associated with warmth, home, belonging, and Winterfell.

Sansa’s quotes are also rich with themes of home, belonging, and Winterfell where she draws strength from the snow and rebuilds from the ‘ashes.’ Just as Jon in the previous chapter talks of doing.

And “drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover’s kisses…..it was the taste of Winterfell, the taste of innocence, the taste of dreams.” (A dream of spring)

All of these above associations are overtly positive.

Now compare that to….

“The light of the half-moon turned Val’s honey-blond hair a pale silver and left her cheeks as white as snow. She took a deep breath. “The air tastes sweet.”

“My tongue is too numb to tell. All I can taste is the cold.” (Jon VIII ADWD)

I’m not going to say anymore on that.

Dark honey hair:

Light auburn hair:

Copper hair:

You could also interpret the dark honey as actual dark honey i.e

<333

[kvetchlandia]

Man Ray Jean Cocteau Aux Gants de Laine (Jean Cocteau with Woolen Gloves), Paris 1924

"I am a lie who always speaks the truth. Jean Cocteau, "Le Paquet Rouge" in "Opéra" 1925

[yrluvjane]

you can’t just tease us like that!! Please write a fic with roommate!Remus chopping firewood, if you feel so inclined!

Snow fell gently around the small cabin nestled in the woods, blanketing the world in a serene, white silence. Inside, the fire crackled softly, providing a cozy warmth against the biting cold outside. Remus stood by the door, pulling on a pair of thick woolen socks before stepping into his well-worn boots. He tugged his scarf tighter around his neck and pulled on his gloves, preparing to brave the icy winter chill.

"Are you sure you don't want to wait until tomorrow? It's freezing out there," you called from the couch, your breath visible in the cold air despite the roaring fire.

"We need the wood," Remus replied with a soft smile. "I'll be fine. Besides, it's a good way to warm up."

You rolled your eyes but didn't argue further, knowing Remus well enough to understand he wouldn't be swayed. With a nod, he stepped outside, the icy air hitting him immediately. He shivered briefly before taking a deep breath and making his way to the woodpile.

Dressed in a pair of sweatpants that clung to his legs, a thick sweater, and a beanie pulled low over his ears, Remus cut a striking figure against the white landscape. He grabbed the axe, the metal cold against his gloved hands, and set to work. The rhythmic sound of wood splitting filled the air, echoing through the trees.

Inside, you watched from the window, unable to tear your eyes away. There was something mesmerizing about Remus out there, muscles flexing under his clothes as he worked, determination evident in his every swing. The sight of him so effortlessly strong and capable stirred something warm inside you, a heat that had nothing to do with the fire burning nearby.

Despite the cold, Remus worked steadily, the exertion keeping him warm. As he finished splitting another log, he paused, breath visible in the frosty air, cheeks flushed from the effort and the cold. He looked up to see you standing in the doorway, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in your hand.

"Thought you might need this," you said, a playful smile on your lips.

Remus grinned, setting the axe down and taking the mug with a grateful nod. "Thanks."

You stepped closer, your own breath mingling with Remus's in the cold air. "You're going to freeze out here," you murmured, letting a touch of concern lace your voice, but your eyes betrayed a hint of mischief.

Remus shook his head, sipping the hot chocolate. "I'm fine, really. Almost done."

You raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Well, hurry up then. I've got a warm blanket and a spot by the fire with your name on it."

Remus chuckled, the sound warm and inviting in the crisp air. "That sounds perfect."

He finished splitting the remaining logs, stacking them neatly before joining you. As you made your way back to the cabin, you slipped an arm around Remus, sharing your warmth. Inside, the fire crackled invitingly, and you settled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, the cold outside forgotten.

You reached out, adjusting the blanket around Remus's shoulders, your fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. "There, much better," you said, your voice soft but teasing.

Remus met your gaze, a glint of amusement and something else, something deeper, in his eyes. "Thanks. For the hot chocolate, and the company."

"Anytime," you replied, your voice dropping slightly as you leaned in closer. "I have to admit, watching you chop wood was... quite a sight."

Remus laughed softly, his breath warm against your skin. "Glad you enjoyed the show."

You smiled, your face inches from his. "Maybe next time, you can show me how it's done."

"Maybe I will," Remus whispered, his eyes darkening with an unspoken promise. "But for now..." His arms wrapped around your shoulders and pulled you into his chest, "I just want you here." he whispered into your hair.