#THREAD. lances and lace

[askrena]

lances and lace

lance +1 starter for @vaida

          SHE SETTLES INTO A RHYTHM WITH GRACE AND EASE; her hands braiding each colored thread unto one another in smooth, practiced motions. Black over red over silver then back, the bracelet is quick to form itself beneath Sharena's expert guidance. Her daily routine of braiding her hair has finally paid off, it seems. This is her fifth bracelet of the hour. If she keeps the pace, perhaps she could decorate the lances of everyone she's befriended and beyond.

          She smiles as she finishes it with a knot. That would be nice. Green eyes gaze fondly upon the Askran's creation, deft fingers toying with the circlet. Perhaps she'll put a charm on it— a small wyvern, if she can find one, to match the tenacity of its would-be-owner. The thought further pulls the curve of her lips.

          "This is fun, isn't it, General Vaida?" she chirps to her partner, seated next to her in the monastery grass, participating in the same bracelet-making activity. Sharena hadn't thought she would accept her invitation, but she's happy that Vaida came along. She would have given her a bracelet, anyways, "Certainly better than when we last met!"

[comicaurora]

tldr I committed to a bit too hard

The slow-dawning sunlight dappled down through dense, rich foliage, scattering golden lace across mossy trunks and grassy hillocks. The light caught on the forest floor in a thousand glassy dewdrops and bent, fisheyed, in globed inversions of the canopy above.

No breeze stirred the forest so early in the morning, but a thin mist gathered in the valley under the warming air. Sunbeams lanced through the fog, pale in the dawn but soon to brighten and intensify. For now, the air was damp and cool and still, and the scent of the night lingered.

Pip bent a pawful of grass to the side and sniffed the air suspiciously.

It was too quiet, too still. And with no wind, she couldn't mark the position of the strange beasts and their odd, dusty, acrid scent that had no place in these woods. It hung low and directionless over the peaceful morning, distant but permeating, like a faraway fire.

She adjusted her backslung blade, wrapped her cloak closer around her and dropped onto all fours, nose pointed straight ahead and whiskers standing at attention. Her dusty green-gray wrap would shield her from all but the most attentive prying eyes, and - she quirked an ear, just to be sure of the silence - most of the forest was still asleep, unlikely to mark her passage.

She managed to stifle a flinch as a sound that wasn't a sound bypassed her ears and rang straight into her head.

Pip? Where'd you go?

She exhaled softly through her nose, the barest expression of frustration she allowed herself.

Scouting, Alder. Go back to sleep.

She set off before he could reply, scurrying silently along the mossy forest floor, tracing a sinuous route through the canopy's shadow to stay out of the slow-brightening sunbeams.

Scouting?!

The thought squeaked with disbelief. She didn't answer it.

Alder never had fewer than three thoughts at a time, and the more agitated he became, the harder they became to sort through. A jumble rang in her skull, a snatch of Eldest told us- and moves like thunder and have to hide, that last one echoing in six different ways with the significance it held in his mind. She concentrated on tracing her silent route, one shadow to the next, and came to a stop under a broad-leafed stalk as Alder's distress built to a crescendo.

If she kept moving, eventually she'd slip out of his range. Wasn't that a tempting thought.

I said go back to sleep, she sent, and with an afterthought of inexpert kindness, added I'm being careful. It'll be fine.

The chattering ground to a halt, and she felt the effort it took him to focus his thoughts down to a single thread. Come back, Pip. We have to stay hidden until they're all gone.

We can't hide if we don't know where they are.

Pip caught the beginning of his protest and shook herself violently, breaking off the connection. It was rude, she knew; closing her mind completely was one of her rarer talents, but unlike her other oddities, this one she wasn't particularly respected for. Her skills as a scout were admired precisely because she had such sharp senses, physical and mental both - some days she could even hear the slow, tangled thoughts of the Long Shadows - but when she didn't want to be disturbed, she could wall herself off from the others as thoroughly as if she'd been on the other side of the forest.

And right now, picking her way between treetrunks and sniffing her way towards the bizarre menagerie that had invaded her forest, the last thing she wanted was to be disturbed.

Her right forepaw sank in unexpectedly soft soil, and she recoiled with a stifled gasp. Her eyes darted across the swath of ground, analyzing its shape - and then she widened her scope, scanning the yards beyond that first strange softness. In a low-lying, hollowed track between two thick-rooted trees, the carpet of grass and flowers were flattened and crushed into a felted mat, mud bubbling through it in irregular patches like sickness in a wound. A wide track had been beaten into the soil by dozens - at least dozens, she amended - of flat-pawed creatures. Their dusty, acrid stink lay heavily over it.

She drew back from the unnaturally soft soil. Even with her diminutive size and weight, there was the risk of getting mired in unexpectedly watery ground, and while rescue was never far away in these woods, she certainly didn't want to weather Alder's overconcern or Eldest Luma's quietly smug passivity. Instead she skirted towards a point where the track narrowed, lashed her tail for a momentary burst in balance, then sprang over the mud and latched onto a tree root on the other side, freshly ripped free from the soil and scored with dozens of thin scars from the claws of the marching creatures. She scurried up and settled at the tree's base, where the gnarled roots tangled into a more-than-sturdy foothold overhanging the morass.

With the newfound advantage of height, she surveyed the terrain. The tracks overlapped one another in a mad scramble, pouring up from the lowland forest and curving up and away.

They moved with surprising organization for such motley creatures. She counted at least four very different sizes of print in the track, some barely longer than her own body (nose to the base of her tail) while some were large enough to crush her underfoot without even noticing.

The tracks were only a few hours old. The swarm must have passed in the early pre-dawn. She strained her memory to try and recall if she'd felt any tremors from down in the sleep-halls of the hollow, but if she were honest with herself, they were too far down and too well-insulated by the soft soil walls to have marked their passage.

She turned her attention to where the trail vanished from sight, curving over and up the slope. The land in that direction was treacherous and, to the mind of her people, best avoided. Gravel slips and rain rivulets ran down between the massive plates of rock that jutted out of the soil, and even though trees and flowers overgrew them, their roots could not be trusted to hold the ground together enough for safe passage of one of her size. Fresh rainfall unearthed and dislodged glassy chips of stone, and the soil turned to mud and slipped between the boulders, exposing treacherous chasms that could swallow an unwary traveler. The shattered earth built up and up until it abruptly skewed and slanted down in a gentle curve, like the ground had been struck with a terrible force and the shattering had rippled out from the center. And in the heart of that broken land, glimpsed fearfully from treetops or the shadow of the stones, lay the stronghold of the Long Shadows.

Once, long redmoons ago, Pip had traveled three days and nights to scale the shattered peaks herself, to see the stronghold with her own eyes (mostly due to a burst of rebellious curiosity after a scolding from Eldest Luma). The works of the Long Shadows could always be distinguished from natural formations or nests - they had a love of smooth things, and the stone they shaped stretched cleanly skyward and bore no footholds beyond the straight, geometric fissures that ran up and through them. So Pip already knew that the stronghold was encircled by a massive shadowcrafted cliff, pale and smooth as ice and taller than trees, and it surrounded the entire stronghold just behind the shattered peaks. Beyond the wall, great columns and cliffs jutted skyward, more smooth handicraft of the Long Shadows. At times they were even spotted outside the walls, tending great swaths of land in the same precise straight lines they shaped their stone. Those tracts bore vast quantities of food in unnatural abundance, some that grew nowhere else in the valley, but the Long Shadows guarded them closely and harshly punished intrusion, and the Eldest three generations before Luma had forbade anyone from entering (or even approaching) their strange geometric works, no matter how lean the winters became.

She debated following the trail. It would inexorably lead her towards the stronghold, but if the creatures were focused solely on the Long Shadows, that was valuable information to bring back to the hollow. No doubt Eldest Luma would be pleased to have yet another reason to avoid the Long Shadows and their works.

A sudden awareness prickled in the small of Pip's back, shivering up into her ears and all the way down to the tip of her tail. Her gray fur bristled and she froze, eyes darting wildly, seeking the source. The feeling had no obvious impetus, but she trusted her tail with her life, and something was happening. Something sourceless, something…

At the base of the root she was balanced on, a sprout punctured the trodden soil and curled upwards, splitting into pairs of pale green leaves. She watched as it climbed to twice her height in less than three beats of her racing heart.

Instinct took over. She scampered up the tree like a shot, finding footholds in the bark with a practiced ease that belied her jolting terror. She plunged into the safety of the leafshadow and clung to a branch, breathing fast and shallow and trying very hard to stay quiet.

Below her, a green carpet spread across the mire as grass and flowers bloomed impossibly fast.

The Weeping Shadow was approaching.

Pip strained her ears and caught the hint of a whisper of movement through the grass, distant and soft but certainly coming closer. It was pointless to cast her eyes towards the darkness - The Weeping Shadow was, in the stories, always swathed in gray, near invisible in the shadow of the canopy, and it passed in many tales without a trace, save for its flowering footsteps as its passage drove the forest to frenzy.

But it never came so close to the stronghold. The Weeping Shadow's domain was the deep and tangled woods, much further into the valley than even the hollow. It haunted the river and the wild places, and its realm was thick with plants of impossible vitality and sweetness - but not even the bravest scout dared its domain, even when hunger was rampant. The fruits of the Weeping Shadow's realm were steeped in an absolute sorrow whose depth defied comprehension, and the slow pulse of its thoughts churned in dark and wrenching misery that could be heard across half the valley. It was too much for the mind to take for long, and scouts that had strayed into its influence took moons to recover from the borrowed grief.

That had been the prickling on Pip's neck. The slow approach of the Weeping Shadow was already casting a pallor on her mind - and it was getting closer.

Pip's thoughts scrambled for her next move. If she stayed hidden, the Weeping Shadow would pass nearer to her than anyone had ever dared. She flattened her ears against her head and focused on the walls around her mind. Could she close herself to it strongly enough to hold out?

A wild fear beat against her ribs. She wanted to stay clinging to this branch forever, but she also wanted to bolt, to sprint the length of the branch and fling herself into open space, trusting the soft soil to cushion her fall - or rather, if she were honest with herself in that moment, heedless of what the fall might do to her. The desperate urge to flee was strong in her people, and here, faced with a terror closer than ever before, it was nigh overwhelming.

But Pip had a third instinct that overruled all others when she allowed it, and it had been slowly growing in her mind ever since she'd slipped from the hollow before the dawn. It was a hunger, of a sort, and one that warred always with fear. The hunger was curiosity, a thrumming urge for exploration and understanding that spurred her on through peril and dark for the promise of clarity on the other side.

The beasts in her forest were descending on the stronghold, and their passage had stirred the Weeping Shadow from its domain. Something was happening - something vast, something perhaps unknowable. But it would certainly stay unknowable if she didn't even try to know it.

And perhaps the Weeping Shadow knew.

Pip had more control than most over the openness of her mind. It alarmed her peers, sometimes, that she could pass among them in silence, unreceptive to their soundless speech. It unnerved them more, for those who knew - from a time when she was more open with her secrets and her strangeness - that she could at times hear the deep thoughts of the Long Shadows, and stranger still, sometimes even catch a shred of their meaning. The idea that the minds of the Long Shadows could in any way compare to the bright, clear thoughts of her people was on the surface laughable, and just under that surface, frightening. Still, she knew it was true. Their minds were dark, slow places, but they contained meaning and knowledge, most beyond the reckoning of her kind.

The mind of the Weeping Shadow was an abyss of grief and sorrow, but if she could attune her senses to it - if she could withstand its pressure - she could, perhaps, glean its purpose in the shattered peaks, and what it knew of the creatures that she pursued.

The underbrush cracked. Pip flattened herself against the branch and peered intently at the sound as the rolling wave of green spread under the tree, blanketing in every direction.

A shape moved in the shadow of the trees, ponderous and slow.

Pip felt her eyes grow hot and stinging, the space behind them heavy with unshed tears. A borrowed bottomless grief encroached on the walls of her mind, lapping at it like a swelling river threatening its banks.

The Weeping Shadow broke from the treeline and stepped forward.

It towered, even from Pip's high vantage point. It was gray and still and almost shapeless in the dim of the canopy, but twin lights glimmered near its summit, pale green like the sprouts boiling at its feet.

Pip's head pounded. The pressure of its presence was terrible. It was vast, yes, but the power of the sorrow within it seemed vaster still - like all the forest around it was desperate to weep, and the Shadow was the only part of it that could, yet it refused to.

The Shadow tilted its head down, and the lights of its eyes vanished in the gloom. But it was not weeping, Pip knew. It was… looking.

Looking at the tracks under its carpet of grass.

Pip gritted her teeth, gripped the branch, and opened her mind.

It was gentler than she had anticipated. The pressure and power was indescribable, but once she stopped trying to push it back, she found it moved her rather like water would - with force, but without pain. It was almost easy to let the thoughts of this vast creature buffet her where they would.

The words in the Weeping Shadow's mind were unknown to her, but she felt a snatch of them repeating over and over again. The words mattered less than the feeling that drove them, and as she focused, she realized that the Weeping Shadow was, in some way, at war with itself; the thoughts were not all in agreement. The repetition smelled of deep, old terror, but its loop was broken over and over again by a different, newer thought - one that Pip herself was intimately familiar with, strong enough that she needed no translation to parse it:

But I can help.

Dimly, in her faraway body, she felt tears pouring from her, hot and desperate from a grief she couldn't fathom. Her claws gripped the bark of the branch. The Weeping Shadow's thoughts, at the moment, were focused on its inner war, but it did nothing to shield Pip from the substrate of its misery. Still, she was onto something. If she could just push through, she might learn what the Weeping Shadow understood of the intruders to their forest.

Pip dug deeper. The Weeping Shadow knew what these creatures were - knew what they intended - believed it could help in some way - but what did it know of them?

Running below the looping dread and the punctuating bursts of hope, Pip glimpsed a glimmering ribbon of understanding wending its way just below the Weeping Shadow's conscious thought. It snaked under the fear, coiled around the thought of help. This had to be the knowledge that had motivated the Weeping Shadow's unheard-of migration. This was the mystery of the creatures answered.

This, perhaps, was Pip's only mistake. As she caught the thread of that understanding, it abruptly yanked against the current and plunged her down, down, down into the icy depth of the Weeping Shadow's truest misery. Its knowledge of these creatures came from the same bone-deep wellspring as the torrent of tears, and Pip screamed aloud as it battered her mind full-force. Alien thoughts crashed against her, unbearably loud; the grinding of bone, the shifting of stone, the pounding of waves greater than any river, the splintering of mighty trees. A twisting, a breaking - a power like a maddened, wild animal, thrashing and uncontrollable, kept in check only by its own terrible exhaustion and grief. She was so, so small, and somehow in the depths of this vastness she was even further diminished, crushed to a single point of light-

And something was watching her.

With a last mighty burst of willpower she released the thought-thread, flung herself away, and tumbled off the branch. It was something of a mercy that she was too stunned to feel the impact, and the carpet of seedlings cushioned her fall.

The first thing she became aware of was her breathing, high and fast and shallow in time with her racing heartbeat, real panic and borrowed sorrow draining away with shocking rapidity. Second, she felt the pain; her head pounding with spent exhaustion, her paws cramped in every joint, her back and shoulders bruised from where the impact of the fall had driven her scabbarded blade against her spine.

The third thing she became aware of was the shadow stretching towards her, claws stretched as long as her whole body, the deep purple of the skies after dusk.

The Weeping Shadow loomed over her, vaster than mountains. Two points of green pierced out from the dark.

She ran.

[in4vitable]

[18+] AHWHH, here is a sneak peak of a lengthy fanfic i am writing!! it is a male reader! x keith kogane fic, cus i don’t see many :< but you can read it as lance if you squint but if you do, please don’t comment anything related to them.. this is a male READER fic 🤍

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

keith had him pinned to the wall, their breaths colliding with each other the closer they got. the tension was thick, and the thrill of getting caught rushed through keith’s vains. he knew this was wrong.. so so wrong.. but having his knight pinned like this in front of him was so tempting. he couldn’t help himself. Y/N reached up gently to cup keith’s cheek, his thumb trailing his jaw.

“keith..” his voice was soft and breathy, desire laced each word, “n-not here..” he almost whimpered. keith felt his knees grow weak at this. he pressed forward, his chest hitting Y/N’s as he dropped his head onto his shoulder. keith inhaled sharply, taking in the familiar and comforting scent of his knight.

“god you’ll be the death of me.” keith said, biting back a groan as he took another sharp breath, “fuck..”

Y/N nuzzled his nose into keith’s hair, he could feel keith’s growing erection pressing against his leg. he wrapped his arms around keith’s neck and hugged him, kissing the side of his neck, causing keith to let out the groan he was holding in.

keith moved his hands to grip at Y/N’s hips tightly, pressing them against the wall, his own hips following. he mouthed at Y/N’s shoulder, moving to his collarbone and letting out another gentle groan, “please..” keith almost whined, “i can’t..”

Y/N furrowed his brows at the slight shift in keith’s tone, “what’s the matter?” he asked, moving his hand to thread through keith’s hair. Y/N isn’t stupid, he knows what’s wrong, he can feel it pressing against him, but there’s just something about the way keith was so desperately mouthing at his collarbone that made him want to tease him..

keith whined, “don’t make me say it..” he said, his hands moving to grasp at the back of Y/N’s shirt, pressing against him more and starting to slowly grind against his leg.

Y/N pouted, “sweetie..” the nickname caused keith’s knees to buckle ever so slightly, “we’re in the middle of the hallway—“

“i don’t care—!” keith said, slamming one hand against the wall, pushing Y/N further against the wall, squishing them so close together, “i don’t.. care..” he said softer this time, pulling back to look at Y/N in the eyes, “please..”

Y/N smiled slightly and pressed his forehead to keith’s, “okay..” he mumbled, nudging his nose to keith’s. he knew if he teased anymore, keith would get upset, so he let his hand trail down keith’s chest, making him shiver. Y/N’s hand moved to gently cup keith’s growing bulge through his pants and keith hissed, his eyes fluttering and his face flushing.

they kept eye contact as Y/N began to palm at keith’s clothed crotch. keith let out airy, light moans, his eyes constantly flickering between Y/N’s.

Y/N had his normal, soft expression on his face, pressing his palm a little harder, causing keith to jolt and moan a little louder. keith moved his hand down, wrapping his fingers around Y/N’s wrist as he began to hump himself, desperately, against Y/N’s hand, not caring how embarrassing it might’ve been.. all he could think about was Y/N.. his smell.. his touch.. his body.. he so badly wanted to be inside him..

Y/N moved his hand to grasp at the hair at the nape of keith’s neck, tugging it causing him to pull back and stare at Y/N, his hips slowly down.

“let me take care of you..”

keith whined and his body slumped forward, his forehead connecting back with Y/N’s. he let go of Y/N’s wrist and moved his hands, placing one of the wall and the other gripped at Y/N’s side.

Y/N’s fingers hooked under keith’s belt, tugging it gently and keith whined again, his breathing ragged as he looked down at Y/N’s hands as they slowly unzipped his pants, then reaching into his boxers, fishing his pulsing hard cock out.

keith moaned at the contact and his hips bucked forward, earning a small, “shh..” from Y/N, who gently caressed keith’s cheek with his free hand, “shh.. i’ve got you..” he whispered, starting to slowly move his hand up and down keith’s shaft.

keith’s body shivered and his eyes fluttered closed as his mouth parted. soft, melodic moans fell from his lips. Y/N watched in awe at the way keith’s face, normally so stern and dominant, shifted so quickly and so softly.. he felt his own body heating up at the sight.

Y/N twisted his hand, jerking it even faster and keith let out a louder moan, moving his head and burying it into Y/N’s neck, muffling his moaning and whimpering. keith’s hips started to instinctively thrust into Y/N’s hand, losing himself to the pleasure.

to be continued.. <3

[ghoulphile]

I am RATTLING THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE WITH EXCITEMENT!!!! do you have an idea of when the chapter will be up???

this is me rn:

and.... bc i love you, here's a treat ❤️~

Then broad palms slide beneath the rucked up hem.

The calloused fingers of one hand chart a path up the line of your stocking, Cooper’s blunt nails skipping across nylon until sheer fabric blends into a delicate dusting of lace covered elastic. The other cups your thigh, his thumb tucking under the garter strap to caress an angry indent.

You tremble.

“Soft and pretty; how the hell’d an old fella like me get so goddamn lucky?”

At the drag of roughened skin, your clit twitches. Meanwhile, goosebumps prickle down your bare arms, baby hairs standing on end as axons fizz and pop. You sigh. “Cooper — oh, I need you — please.”

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Keep talking to me, sugar.”

The unexpected drag of a forefinger over the front of your panties catches you off guard, sends you reeling as a bitten off mewl tears itself from your throat. Your hands shake as you struggle to restrain yourself, hyperaware of the tranquil silence of the apartment interrupted only by an occasional murmur of the TV from down the hall.

“Don’t! I - I can’t--”

Even though the fabric keeps Cooper from touching bare skin, the grind of his knuckles along your pussy feels like a punch to the gut. Your toes curl and your hands yank at the roots of his hair. “Hhn!”

“Thought you said you could keep quiet. Did you lie to me, sweetheart?”

“No, I promise I can. Just not when you d-do things like that…”

His brow quirks. “Why don’t we put that to the test then?”

“Cooper, what’re you — hng! S-Shit, I--!”

He circles the swollen nub of your clit with his thumb, humming in approval when it twitches against the pad of his finger before inching down to the damp seat of your panties. “Fuck, you’re soaked. I can’t believe you’re letting me touch you like this.”

As he plays with the sticky evidence of your arousal, tracing your folds and teasing at your entrance, shame burns quick and bright. Coils behind your navel, a viper in the shade, as little sparks of black thread through blooming passion.

Bastard.

You sniffle, glaring at him through teary eyes. “You said you wouldn’t tease.”

Tiny aftershocks rock through your frame as your legs clamp around his flexing wrist; nerve endings raw and exposed. The languid strokes of his fingers are tantamount to torture.

You’re going to burn up, supernova bright, if he doesn’t stop.

Who knew being silent was so hard?

You’d never struggled before (then again, maybe that says something about the sex you’ve been having) but Janey’s a room away. There’s no other choice, and you’ve wanted this for too long to stop now.

“Well, now, I don’t recall making any promises.”

Cooper smiles, pulling back the hood of your clit through the thin layer of ruined fabric with startling accuracy. His palms stop the squirm of your hips as you try to arch away, electric shocks lancing through you at the rough friction against exposed nerves.

“Guess I can’t seem to help myself. It’s your fault for looking so pretty.”

He’s the furthest from apologetic.

In fact, his voice is low and whiskey rough — full of grit and gravel.

It scrapes down your spine, sinks into your bones. Makes your eyes squeeze shut as you chew on the fat of your lip. A fever creeps up the sides of your neck, settles into the apples of your cheeks; the skin swollen and tight like a sunburn.

A shaky noise of disbelief tumbles from your mouth.

“Don’t lie,” you mumble, your hands flying up to cover your face. His chest vibrates with a snicker and your shoulders tuck towards your ears, elbows drawn into your ribs. “I know you’re loving this, Mr. Howard.”

Cooper groans.

When you peek through splayed fingers, your breath catches.

White lightning. Silken heat.

His dark gaze rests past your chin, caressing the compressed swell of your breasts with avarice. Your arms pushed them up past the neckline of your sundress, the dainty trim of lace mere inches away from exposing your nipples.

“Well, well, well. Looks like I’m not the only one, sweetheart.”

A hand extricates itself from the skirt, snaking up your torso to palm over a curve of exposed skin, fingertips testing the plush weight of your chest with a gentle squeeze. “How long were you planning on this happening, huh?”

“I--”

“Ah,” Cooper tsks, dragging his thumb over where your nipple is, “None of that now. An honest question deserves a proper answer, don’t you think?”

Your hands press on the back of his to strengthen his touch. White static dances along your nerve endings, your nipple pulling into a tight peak as a fluttery sensation roosts in the valley between your hips.

“Since,” your lips tremble on an exhale, and when you swallow, it feels like shards of glass, “since the beginning… Was waiting for the day you’d look at me — see me. Nothing worked, and I almost gave up. But then I caught you staring, and I — Coop, please.”

[ravellaarryns]

who; @percival-templeton when and where: moments following ravella's conversation with merei rogare, ravella arryn remains within the tent when merei is escorted from it, following her identification of the attacker upon the life of king graham of hosue royce. ravella remains quiet for a few moments as the knights of the vale surrounding her converse with targaryen guards, before she raises her gaze to look upon the lord commander of the queensguard. with a silent understanding, the pair make their way out from the tent back into view of the tiltyard, the sound of clashing lances and the cheering of crowds seemingly drowning out the conversation shared between the pair.

the sounds of the cheers sounded distant compared the dull noise coming from the very back of her mind; she watched as lance smashed against lance with not the slightest bit of a flinch as the queen of the vale stood silently beside the lord commander of the vale, no doubt disassociating in the thoughts of her own mind. it felt like an eclipse, as the dawning realisation of what had happened seeped within her, orbs of ice falling upon the retreating figure of the lyseni woman who had been the one to explain the link. the true identity of the person that had attempted to take the life of an integral part of their realm; despite her dizzying levels of self-importance, the queen of the vale was also aware of the roles within their society.

in class, in position, and in gender; the marriage she had made legitimised her in more ways than one to the traditional gaze of the vale. there was no better choice following the weaker example of masculinity that was rowan arryn in the eyes of the falcon court.

there was an inhale, the smallest inclination that something was entirely weary within her; as though she was holding on to her composure by the weakest of threads. the eyes of the world would remain upon them in such a moment, courtiers were their beady gazes fleeting over to the sight of civilisation itself; two ancient andal bloodlines stood side by side, though her arms remained crossed over the bodice of her deep indigo corset, laced with thread of black and silver. there was no need to speak, for it was understood should the silence break too early, so would her composure; the lyseni had crossed the vale of arryn, and had crossed the wrong individuals.

they were not ruthless like the lions, nor were they cunning like the thorns; the very reality of it all was they were worst. the belief in their superiority made this all too personal an attack, and ravella finally found herself turning her gaze toward the man who towered beside her.

"ensure it is known there is to be a council meeting this evening." ravella commanded, her hands clasping together in fists as they folded beneath her arms: so blind in their fury they were to the fact that one of the rogare siblings had attempted to help them. ravella would rather set that olive branch aflame, for she believed them to all be the same; cut from the same cloth, jumpstarts who had severely forgotten their place on the great chain that was life itself. it appeared as though she had nothing more to say to lord templeton, and yet, she remained stood next to him.

"lys." she uttered, with a sense of disdain dripping her voice: the actions of their rulers had made an enemy of them this day. her tone implied disbelief, that they would even believe themselves worthy of being within the same vicinity as them.

her cousin had made a guest of them it appeared: seated comfortably within the stands. "this is a blatant declaration of war, lord commander." she uttered, for that was what it was. there was no way they could sail over the narrow sea to war on the lyseni by sea; but their influence was already in westeros, and it was in westeros they would face the consequences of their actions. "bring me our braavosi ambassador."

[bluedemon1995]

October 5: Medieval Fair

Pidge is staring in the mirror. She looked… different. She turned slightly to the left, then to the right. Not bad really just not like herself. Usually for work she is the behind the scenes girl. Or if she had to be out and about, a court jester was her go to role. It was fun and it allowed her to tease and interact with the crowd. But now, um, yeah.

How did she get here? Well, Allura had to go out of town unexpectedly and they needed a stand in. Then Romelle had a thing with her brother come up, so here she was, dressed in an emerald green gown, with red lacing and black thread woven in the hem and edges of her sleeves. Her hair was currently being stuffed in some sort of lacy hat thing that somehow sparkled by Veronica who swore this is how it was done in the old days. Unfortunately for her, Veronica believed in historical accuracy. Yet, she still sneakily switched out the ‘boots’ with her real boots. It was all tied up though because Veronica got carried away and did her make up as well. Not bad but she looked too…different. It made her feel self conscious. She didn’t want to go out there. But, well they could not very well get Shiro in the dress now could they!

Regardless, Hunk was telling her through the door that it was showtime. The jousting tournament was going to start and as the ‘princess’ she had to be out there. Hold court. Look princessy. Nadia was at least her lady in waiting so she wasn’t going to be alone but damn she felt uncomfortable with being in the spotlight.

Hunk escorted her out and she found she enjoyed the waving to kids and even hugging some of them. It was the sitting on the stage part she wasn’t too excited about. She sat and was surprised to see Shiro at her side. “Shiro?”

Shiro smiled and bowed. In a loud carrying voice, “My lady, the knights fight in your honor. For you. For the land of Voltron. Victory or Death.” Applause and shouts erupted as the horses carried in the knights. Shiro continued in a low tone, “I’m officially your steward here so I can help you out. You didn’t think I’d leave you all alone, did you?? In fact, I think Griffin is due to win today’s joust. As far as I know-Lance, Keith and Kinkade are fighting as well as some new guy. Then you have to let them kiss your hand. The winner gets to help you down the stage to the back. Cool?”

Pidge nods. At least she didn’t have to actually do anything, no fighting or heaven forbid dancing! She could handle waving and bowing. Right?

As the jousts went on, she found it was different on the actual stage versus mingling with the crowd. As she could see things from up a little higher she instantly could determine who was who. Lance was all loose limbs and smiles since his helmet was usually in his hand. He was all winks and grins. Definitely flirting with the girls in the audience. Gosh, we was getting a lot of ‘favors’ from the women!

Then there was Hunk selling food and skewers on the side of the action. Looking as if he truly was a merchant or food seller, she wasn’t quiet as good with her Middle Ages lingo as others but Hunk was a natural. Her brother had taken over the court jester role and Veronica was a servant girl.

As the fighting went on she found she was a little nervous thinking James was going to be named the winner. He had been slightly flirty with her lately and she was not sure if he was serious or just teasing her. She knew she didn’t really date but he didn’t seem like the type of guy to lead one on.

Refocusing on the task at hand, she smiled and waved as she imagined a princess would. Trying to mimic to the best of her ability how she saw Allura act. Smaller actions than she was used to. She can do what she wants just more controlled. Dainty. Sweet. Just pretend but damn it was getting hot! Muttering to Shiro that she felt light headed, he quickly waved Hunk and Veronica over for a drink. Taking a careful sip, she tried to maintain some dignity. She did NOT want to faint in front of a crowd!

Then after a few rounds, the final knights approached. Keith and James. She looked in concern to Shiro. Not good. Shiro whispered to Keith, “Follow the plan.”

James stepped up to the dais she is currently seated on first, bowing and taking her hand and kissing it. Whistles and cheers abound. He winks, murmuring how they should get dinner afterward. After some stilted conversation on my part he finally bows and leaves.

My eyes glance to Shiro but all she sees is Keith. He kneels. She starts to question what he is doing when he takes also takes her hand and kisses it. Then he nips her finger tip causing a slight yelp and then he pulls her slightly forward. Leaning forward he says one word, “Katie.” She blinks, huh? He holds her gaze, his thumb rhythmically stroking her hand. He then looks to Shiro, emphatically stating, “Not today.” Blushing furiously, Pidge can’t help but hold her breath. Keith. The guy she never heard of before this job. But damn if he doesn’t pop up everywhere. He grinned and bowed again, raising his voice, he calls out loudly, “My lady, my love, your favor?”

After a second she grins and tosses her handkerchief down to him, “Don’t lose.”

He bows once more, “Never!”

[libidomechanica]

Since my name

But that little made high degree.     Where her. The eyes of fearlesse mount: and skill making of Ianus     gate weight climate weigh, lanced threade the children art. Whom     to live in secret Well

word blow, thought with he to hard-mailed?     Since is braine and if Ida, that sweet is Algrinders wont     on my bootes importune suicide with his shalbe the     garden-wall; man whose prest

pained, though the familiar Juice, that     oft her smiled, in worker inspirit, as at last I speak.     Her see thinke at earth fresh out of scorn. The little laces     of all under in

contemporary bus-kets and vertue     may climbe. Ne ought things me perfect be coueted the night—thus     merry ripe them smyles heauen heat, and takes apart, I blessing     him down lend, in sleep.

Lands sorowe nearer, till assured     air subject of her, and on the rain unceasing to bites.     And great Pan across too; and groned, and feede, the your faire     sun began in word she

children of my dark cloudest and     in filmy veiled him in the faults ye may, fresh again: ask     the friends, that cracke, forgot: let her cause know fire, but when al     think upon the stand of

yours, it to yielded upon they     hand be sank and suffering breeze of spiteful at a titles     too late guests, cows with her arms; and, Julia, thought seemed, or better,     the Desting flood, woodes

Embleme. Through the law for to     this masked and Tygres, so allied. Because not Melanche at     thy to come we tall make, but my braine answer should be by     therein her; the seas: this

wreath that bear it. That. The did scorn’d,     Man’s he has a bright and rose true loue lyke but red-hot iron     palace: what can we her yet aspyre. The authentic     in these embrace the can

at last echoing then the cup.     It wound her looking to be ye sure in the wish in bitter     pittied that fayleth they lock of through your thrice has run     those will is it take my

bruised to me, until the mild     petition the old Fate sighing it the cry: all that, through man     calls, and sheepe runs to laugh and wayle, my face she rocke of     your fair were wet winged neuer

to the bed well eyed, as not     mars half a mother liuing lost his Theatre in eastes the     cold and you can called touch out obviously; and buy!     Explosions of my great breast;

and haue power: There charms to his     is once at thefts to me, agained. Since my name. That loue     when the chace for all our glorian, they contain roads do     conspire the sweetly; i’ll

weary night Cecilia raised me     had you say that brooke, if their delivery day like rose     a wildly light, so run; at night bids me seek or fayrer     that mournful twilight. Bids

me doth tye, she light—swear to the     yearest fall, not perfection shall hath end perfect wound her     amaze weake of you art can make, to catching to her,     Her bloody race, rather.

[sylvanfreckles]

Thicker Than Water (5 of 5)

For no. 18/alt 7: Protective

Fandom: Fire Emblem: Three Hopes Rating: T General Warning: Canonical child abuse, violence, nyctophobia

Summary: Three weeks ago, Margrave Gautier ordered Sylvain to find Miklan and recruit him for the war effort. He hasn't been seen or heard from since.

Now, Felix and Shez race to find him before Miklan finally does away with his brother for good…or worse. (Read on AO3)

...

Felix dodged to the right, his sword a gleaming silver arc in the air as he brought it down across Miklan’s outstretched arm. The other man pulled back at the last second and pulled his lance around, but his movements were easy to follow, and Felix rolled under the blow to come up on Miklan’s other side.

“I should have dealt with you when I had the chance,” Miklan growled. He feinted, but Felix had retreated far enough back that he could clearly see through the movement. “You know what we did when a runt was born back at House Gautier?”

“You talk too much,” Felix replied coldly. He parried the lance with his sword and swung around to catch Miklan in the side with a powerful kick. “Guess you two have that much in common.”

Miklan managed to catch his leg, but Felix was too close for him to strike effectively with his lance. He tried to grab the front of Felix’s armor instead, but the smaller man easily twisted away and danced back a few steps.

He’d spent years training with Dimitri and Sylvain. Miklan’s skills with the lance paled in comparison to theirs.

“That the best you’ve got, runt?” Miklan beckoned with his fingers, his grin feral across his face. “I could take you with one hand tied behind my back.”

Felix snorted. He held his ground as Miklan charged, deflecting the lance up and away with his shield and stepping in to draw a couple of quick slashes across Miklan’s face. “You couldn’t take me on my worst day,” he taunted.

Miklan reared back, temporarily blinded, and Felix took advantage of his movements to aim a strike at the underside of his arm, across the lacing of his braces.

“And this isn’t even close to my worst day.”

…

“All right,” Shez hoisted herself out of the well. “Ready?”

Miranda had threaded the other end of the rope through the pulley above the well’s mouth and stood waiting, rope wrapped around her forearm. “Ready.”

Shez took up position behind her, twisting her own arms into the rope. “On three.”

They pulled. Shez wound up the slack as Miranda passed it on, always keeping the rope taut. Slowly, little by little, a limp form was pulled out of the well. Shez dropped the rope, leaving Miranda to anchor it, and hurried over to haul Sylvain free of the inky depths.

“You with me?” she patted his face and chafed his wrists. “Come on, Sylvain. I need you to wake up.”

Miranda was beside them, cutting the rope free from around Sylvain’s chest. “He’s cold.” She pulled off her outer robe and draped it over his shoulders, then braced an arm behind him to help sit him up against the side of the well. “Those bruises.”

“I know.” In the strong morning light, Sylvain’s condition was even worse than she’d thought. His face was swollen, and dark, finger-shaped bruises circled his throat. Peeking into the torn neckline of his tunic, she could see even more bruises on his chest, along with some discoloration over his ribs on one side. “We need you, friend. Come on.”

Miranda cursed and rose to her feet. “I left my staff with the horses, give me five minutes.”

Shez raised her eyebrows. “You know healing magic.”

“Not much,” Miranda hesitated. “I think Simeon had some vulneraries.”

“Anything would help,” Shez said as she shook her head. “Thank you.”

“Add it to my bill.” Miranda winked, then was off across the field.

Shez turned her attention back to Sylvain relieved to see his eyelids flutter. “Are you with me?”

He sucked in a ragged breath, eyes barely flickering open before closing again. “In-Ingrid?”

“Sorry,” Shez winced. “She wanted to come, but…it’s just me.”

This time, he managed to open his eyes enough to focus on her. “Oh. Hi.”

Shez laughed weakly. “Hi, yourself. Don’t worry, we’re gonna get you home.”

“We?” He stared at her. His eyes were sunken, his face pale beneath the bruises and bristly scruff on his chin. Her heart ached at the sight of the flamboyant, exuberant man she knew made pale and weak by his captivity.

“Felix is here,” Shez explained. She made the mistake of turning around to look for him, and Sylvain followed her movements in time to see Felix duck a blow from Miklan’s lance.

“No!” Sylvain surged forward, though Shez held him in place with a hand on his shoulder. “No, he…he can’t fight him. You can’t…don’t do this.”

“Hey, hey,” Shez put both hands on his face to turn him away, shifting until she was directly in his line of sight. “You don’t need to watch that. Just look at me.”

Sylvain’s fist curled uselessly in her sleeve as he weakly pushed at her. “You can’t…don’t kill him.”

“Look at me,” Shez repeated. She stared into his eyes, willing his focus to stay on her. “You have to trust Felix on this, all right? He’s doing what he has to in order to protect you.”

He stared at her, eyes wretched, then Sylvain’s face crumpled, and he tipped forward until he was resting his forehead on her shoulder. “You can’t kill him,” he said, voice cracking with a sob. “He’s my brother.”

“Oh, Sylvain.” Shez wrapped an arm around his shoulders to hold him close, bringing up her other hand to card her fingers through his hair. His hair was matted with sweat and dirt and blood, and he shuddered in her arms at the touch. She rested her cheek on the top of his head and held him, barely looking up when Miranda returned with her healing staff.

That was how Felix found them a few minutes later, striding up to their little group as he slid his sword back into its sheath. “How is he?” he asked, coming to a halt next to Shez.

She looked up at him, her own eyes damp with unshed tears. “Did you kill him?”

Felix snorted. “Does it matter?”

Sylvain was quieter now, but it seemed more from exhaustion than any lessening of emotion. “I think it does,” Shez murmured.

Rolling his eyes, Felix dropped to one knee next to Shez and put a hand on Sylvain’s shoulder. “We’ll contact Margrave Gautier. His can take responsibility for his oldest son.”

That wasn’t really an answer, but Sylvain stirred a little at his friend’s words. He twisted in Shez’s arms to look at Felix, then he was reaching for the other man, struggling out of Shez’s grip. Felix, for his part, let Sylvain fall against him and wrapped his arms around him to hold him close.

Something seemed to loosen in Felix’s expression then, some softening emotion or fading fear. He tipped his head back, eyes closed, and rested his chin on the top of Sylvain’s head for a long moment.

“Come on,” he finally said, pushing Sylvain back enough to cup both hands around his face. “Let’s go home.”

[autisticlancemcclain]

Lance was preening in front of the mirror, running his hands over his torso to make minute corrections to the criss-crossing lace of his cropped shirt.

“Damn,” he said. “We need to dress in fancy clothes more often.” He bent over slightly and arched his back, bouncing on the tips of his toes to wiggle his ass. He side-eyed his reflection, smirking, “I look good as hell.”

Hunk noticed that Keith was staring open-mouthed at his best friend. He wondered if the Red Paladin would start drooling. Hunk shared a look with Pidge. He didn’t know if Lance was doing this on purpose, but Jesus - if he kept it up, Operation Klance might be a go without any of their interference. Shiro sighed heavily.

“Lance, get it all out of your system here, ‘cause you have to be professional when we land.” Lance turned to Shiro, pouting.

“Aw, c’mon. I can’t even be a wee bit of a hoe? A bit of a skank? A tramp, even?” Shiro tried to look sternly at him, but Hunk could see him fighting off a smile. On top of the fact that he definitely thought Lance was funny (much to his own chagrin, no doubt) he was enjoying Keith’s embarrassing speechlessness as much as everyone else. More so, probably.

“Maybe a little,” Shiro conceded, “Just don’t get propositioned.” He grimaced, likely remembering the last planet they’d been on. It had been ridiculously hot, so they’d all ditched their armour in favour of their flight suits, and Lance had… personalized his flight suit, a tad. Meaning, Lance had somehow made his suit tighter than anyone else’s, and embroidered “GO VOLTRON” in sparkling gold thread across his ass. Hunk literally had to drag Lance away from the arms of several…suitors. He’s never heard so many proposals in one place.

“On second thought, I don’t want to spend another four hours explaining to an entire planet of people why you don’t have a dowry and will not be giving away your hand in marriage. Pretend you’re a monk.”

originally written 03/04/22

[ruvatia]

Sorry if this is a bit much with everything going on, but could I request a scenario where the Paladins + Matt & Lotor have a black s/o and they’re scared abt everything that’s happening in their country and are sad that racial injustice is happening? I’ve been rlly worried the past few days, but if this is smth too uncomfy I understand ;w; Thank you 💖💖💖

This got really long, I apologize but I turned it into half-headcanons with just the main paladins-- i apologize for not doing all the characters you’ve mentioned, but I don’t think they would fit all in a single post anyways www

On another note I hope you and every other reader take good care of their mental health; it’s important to be aware of what’s going on but it’s also important to be in the right mindspace to be able to tackle everything that’s being shared. It’s pain that’s been boiling for a very long time and there is absolutely no shame in taking some downtime to recover before heading back into current issues.

SHIRO:

If you were saddened, Shiro would suggest that maybe you switch to something else; if there was something that he knows will distract you and temporarily have you be a little more at ease, he’d do that!

But also maybe add a little twist-- extra soft blankets (fresh out of the oven! Screw the bills you’re worth it), extra cheese on your favorite dish, whatever it is that can make your smile a little wider, bigger or brighter just let him know!

Would give you hugs if you asked, but usually Shiro pets your head and brushes your cheek for comfort

He also does this when he wants to ask something of you, but thats another story

Why the TV was still on was a mystery to you, you’d stopped listening a long time ago. Your partner besides you noticed, and you felt the hand around your shoulder tighten his grip a little, bringing you out of your thoughts.

“Hey, maybe we should watch something else?” he asked softly, brushing your cheek with his hand. “I can’t really listen to this anymore.”

“Yeah… Sure.” you replied, though it felt like an automated response more than your actual opinion.

“Okay, I’ll switch to that weird show Pidge recorded the other day, we agreed to watch it, right?” he replied, quickly grabbing the remote to change the program.

The first episode started playing, but the moment that it did, you felt cold as Shiro left your side.

“Where are you going?” you asked, your interlaced fingers the only thing keeping him close.

“Ah, I thought I’d make us something. We both kinda skipped dinner….”

He’d thought about putting something together that you’d like, maybe order dessert to surprise you but seeing the look on your face, leaving your side was the hardest thing to do right now.

So he gave in, and your both fell asleep until the doorbell rang with your delivery.

KEITH:

I have this headcanon that Keith isn’t very good with physical touch but after the end of voltron and after enough time of humanitarian relief, he learns how important it is for someone that’s in a specific state of mind

So the best he has to offer when his words fail is physical touch

Over your time together he’s learned what you need depending on your mood, and it helped him out lots when you were more vocal about it-- if anything he liked it when you asked for things that he could easily deliver, he’d do anything to see you smile

A hand came over your phone screen, Keith’s fingers lacing into yours and making you drop the device onto the crevices of the sofa.

“Why did you--”

“You’ve been staring at that thing for the past hour, biting at your nails.” he said in a worried tone. “That’s enough. We’re going to bed.”

“But it’s just--”

“We’re going to bed.” he repeated in a harsher tone, lifting you off your seat.

Keith sat down onto the bed first, pulling you into him. You both fell onto the bed, Keith quickly pulling the covers over your shoulders before his arms came around you.

“My alarm is my phone.”

“That’s nice, but we both know we have nothing to do tomorrow.” he replied right away, making you chuckle.

“Keith…” you called, your hands sneaking up to his face.

You brushed away some of his hair from his face as he gave you a complicated expression, unable to reflect the small smile you wore. He knew things were shit outside, that being apart from your family and other loved ones was a toll on both you and that lately negative thoughts have plagued you more often than not but Keith, despite his good intention was still somewhat of an awkward man.

“Thank you.”

He kissed you in reply and you both left it at that, glad that he had someone like you to meet him halfway.

LANCE:

Lots of hugs the moment he feels something is off with you

Will be a brat™ for the sole purpose of distracting you, bET

I feel like post-series Lance tries his best to be as observant as Allura and tries to understand others better-- but it didn't take a genius or incredible empath to know why your eyes looked like they were about to overflow at the sight of the news.

I’d like to think that Lance, with a big connected family is one of the paladins that very easily gets what you’re going through, wouldn’t be surprised he’s been called one or two things in his past either

That being said it doesn’t mean that he completely understands your personalized struggles with racial injustices that you encounter everyday; as another minority himself + coming from a culture and upbringing that might be different than yours, its a very different experience.

Memories flooded as the news anchor spoke about “lootings” and as you scrolled down your feed to see feeble attempts at sympathy from local peacekeepers. You sigh and retweet another thread, only to find something equally as shocking right after. You stopped commenting in quote retweets a while ago, you felt like you were constantly repeating that none of this was okay and that a reform was desperately needed. Rather than typing out your thoughts you typed out your name, address and email over and over again, signing one petition after the other.

Hearing sigh after sigh, Lance eventually put an arm around your shoulder. He startled you, but his soft voice made both your shoulders and your guard lower.

“Hey, do you want to make a midnight snack with me? I’m getting kinda hungry.”

“What about that new rule we were talking about? Not eating 4 hours before we went to bed?”

“Every diet has one or two cheat days, don’t they?” he replied, kissing one of your eyelids. “Come on, I’m sure your neck is sore from being like that for so long.”

In the end you both made some soul-food until a food-coma knocked you out until tomorrow. In the morning, you realized that Lance must’ve woken up in the middle of the night because you remember cuddling on the couch, and yet you’re waking up on the bed. Of course, still in his arms.

HUNK:

Having a sensible heart, I feel like both you and hunk would struggle a little about maintaining a healthy distance with current events.

Though overtime he would understand that keeping in touch with everything that’s going on is important, but not at the sake of burning out

His best bet, to him, to pull you out of a such a dark space is with comfort food

“Ok ppl feel like they want to eat a horse but they actually cant when they’re in that mind space Hunk, let’s make something sweet and small; something direct and straight to the point! Let’s add smiley faces on it!”

Your turned down the volume from the news, let your head fall backwards and brought up your forearm over your closed eyes. It felt warm and made it you realize that you had probably been staring very intensely at the screen as a wave of comfort hit your eyes the moment they were drowned in darkness. Letting out a deep breath, you stilled and let yourself bask in your thoughts until a familiar voice brought you back.

“Maybe a little bit more sugar? No, then it would be disbalanced. The base is already so sweet-- Ah, I have to take the cupcakes out or else they might get burned!”

You felt a smile grow on your lips, making you ignore the horrid news being broadcasted to turn to your partner that as usual, seemed to juggle ten thousand things to create a whole meal.

“What’s going on over here?” you asked, leaning over the counter to note that one of your favorite dishes was made and machines that were mostly used for baking had been brought out.

“Oh you know, just a little pick me up for my most favorite person ever.” he shrugged, but a smile soon came to his face. His hands were full but he leaned over, his lips meeting your cheek. “Things outside are a little dark, so I thought we could both use a little something nice.”

He turned on the machine after dropping a drop of dye to make it your favorite color and within a few minutes the icing was finished. Hunk scooped up a small amount on his finger and brought it to his lips and nod.

“Wanna taste?” he asked you, his finger dipping into the icing.

A mischievous grin spread on your features as you took his wrist and let his finger fall on your tongue, the sweetness quickly spreading through your mouth. The yellow paladin shivered as you let his digit hang in your mouth for longer than necessary, letting out a satisfied hum when you returned it to him.

“Tastes perfect.”

PIDGE:

She knew what could be fixed, she knew how to fix it but this meant she was also aware of how long such a transition would take

I think Pidge would be similar to Shiro: whatever she remembers that helps you be at ease, she would defect to that in hopes to maybe distract you for a while.

I don’t think Pidge is a very touchy person either, so if she reaches out to you _physically_ in worry, it’s a very clear sign she’s serious/anxious

I feel like she would reach out in other ways and then if she knew you were in a specific state of mind where touch was not useful, or if she just also wanted to try things out lol

As you watched the twisted information that was being shared on screen, another message caught your attention. Rather than a small red icon in the corner, a small window appeared in the middle of your computer screen.

<I found a way to modify notifications sent to another device.>

The video had stopped, every horrible gif about police brutality was paused and there was nothing else but the small window pidge had thrown onto your screen. You chuckled, and felt a pressure behind your working chair.

Another message popped up.

<You’ve been catching up with twitter for the past two hours. Surely you’re done now?>

A soft laugh came from you, making Pidge release a breath she didn’t know she was holding. You typed out an answer:

<Is it possible to be completely caught up with twitter? I follow like 500 accounts.>

<Okay, but half of them are just cat videos and the other half are just retweets of said videos.>

<Oh here I was thinking that this was an intervention to brighten my mood. We’re dragging each other’s follows now?>

<Oh please like you don’t want to be dragged, with that kind of follow list.>

<I can’t believe you’ve done this.>

You both laughed, before Pidge turned around and tapped your shoulder. She let her hand float in the air, yours coming to join it as a soon as your turned her way.

“Wanna take a nap?” she asked, letting her head fall onto your shoulder. “I had Chip make some hot chocolate, Hunk style.”

You squeezed her hand, putting your computer on sleep mode.

“Yeah, that sounds nice.”

[cappymightwrite]

So I’ve just read your meta on the TWOW Alayne I sample chapter (it’s amazing btw!) and I noticed something while reading it that I wanted to share and see if anybody else has noticed - nearly every man Alayne dances with during the feast could be taken as a reference to Jon or the Night’s Watch.

Ben Coldwater -> Snow is, obviously, cold water, and Ben is a sneaky Benjen reference

Andrew Tollett -> most likely related to Dolorous Edd Tollett, Jon’s old steward and good friend

Ser Byron the Beautiful -> GRRM has described Jon as a Byronic hero

Ser Morgarth and Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse -> these men are more dubious, I’m not really sure of the link with Morgarth. Shadrich is a callback from Brienne’s AFFC plot though, and a sign that Sansa’s cover isn’t as secure as she and Littlefinger think it is

Ser Albar Royce - a reference to Waymar Royce, he of the many Jon parallels and Sansa’s old crush, though she finds his cousin(?) stout and dull

The Sunderlands - their family are the lords of the Three Sisters. In ADWD, Davos is told a story on Sweetsister about Ned having to sneak across the Bite during Robert’s Rebellion, to get North and call his banners. A fisherman helped him but drowned when a storm caught their boat - but his daughter got Ned safely to the Sisters. The prevailing story on the islands seems to be that he left her with a bag of silver and a bastard in her belly, whom she named after Jon Arryn

Uther Shett - I was half-convinced this guy also had a relative on the wall, because his name (insulting pun aside) seems to be a reference to Chett, the prologue POV of ASOS who had a grudge against Jon for losing him his position as one of Maester Aemon’s stewards in favour of Sam

Ser Targon the Halfwild - Jon will likely be half-wild when he comes back from the dead, but he’s already been described as ‘half a wildling’ multiple times. Also Targon = Targ-Jon?

Ser Roland and Ser Wallace Waynwood - both are described earlier in the chapter as long-faced with brown hair, which are also Stark features. Alayne thinks of them as “horsefaced”, probably an Arya reference that also calls back to her and Jon’s shared Stark look. Wallace is even the same age as Robb, and thus Jon, would be.

So though Jon wasn’t mentioned by name in the chapter, I think he was very present... not just lemoncake-wise ;)

Thank you! :D Haha for a moment there I was like...wait which meta? Had to take my mind back for a sec there because I've written quite a bit since then! But yeah, doing deep dives into certain chapters is really fun — my next one that's in the works is Jon XI in A Dance With Dragons. Great to hear you enjoyed my Winds one :)

Ooooh that is really interesting and a mighty fine catch! Definitely the vibe I got whilst reading that chapter, after having analysed Alayne II, AFFC (which chronologically precedes it), is that Jon's presence or references to him are made subtly throughout the chapter(s) — especially whenever Winterfell is alluded to because Jon is the "Snow of Wintefell", the "blood of Winterfell", etc. But also vice versa, Sansa is very much connected to Winterfell in Jon's chapters as well — "Winterfell belongs to my sister, Sansa."

But let's take a look at those names you listed below the cut! Big post ahead, so buckle up kids!

So, I hadn't noticed the significance of those names on my reading, but I can well believe what you're suggesting because it plays very much into how I interpreted the subconscious goings on of that chapter — that you have these rememberances/reminders of Winterfell and Sansa's Stark idenity at crucial moments within the chapter’s narrative pacing, especially prior to moments with Harry the Heir. Not to sound too crass, but it's sort like a marking of territory, and this is made even stronger by that goddamn phallic as hell Giant's Lance lemoncake (aka Jon's peen). It's all quite neatly buried, but when you start matching up the imagery...I mean, I guess wolves are territorial beasts, so...checks out? (George...why are you like this?)

It is interesting that we get that iconic entrance of the Giant's Lance lemoncake prior to these dance partners, i.e. a claim has been staked essentially, and it ain't from Littlefinger, which is what could be interpreted on first inspection. And let's not beat around the bush, as uncomfortable as it is (because Sansa is ONLY 13/14!!), this is a sexual claim being made owing to the phallic symbolism and the general tone of the chapter being about Alayne's betrothal/marriage:

And best of all, Lord Nestor’s cooks prepared a splendid subtlety, a lemon cake in the shape of the Giant’s Lance, twelve feet tall and adorned with an Eyrie made of sugar.

For me, Alayne thought, as they wheeled it out.

I legit just snorted re-reading this: "splendid subtlety" MY ASS! What follows is a whole lot of gift-giving, which come to think of it, in combination with this bloody big cake...well, it reads quite a bit like a wedding breakfast to me, followed by dancing, in addition to a possible nod to a Stark bridal cloak, masked by the Arryn colours:

There were gifts as well, splendid gifts. Each of the competitors received a cloak of cloth-of-silver and a lapis brooch in the shape of a pair of falcon’s wings. Fine steel daggers were given to the brothers, fathers, and friends who had come to watch them tilt. For their mothers, sisters, and ladies fair there were bolts of silk and Myrish lace.

Because if we compare this "cloak of cloth-of-silver" with previous descriptions of Sansa's maiden cloak, we see this obvious recurring inclusion of either silver or grey as one of the Stark colours:

Cersei Lannister ignored the question. "The cloak," she commanded, and the women brought it out: a long cloak of white velvet heavy with pearls. A fierce direwolf was embroidered upon it in silver thread. Sansa looked at it with sudden dread. "Your father's colors," said Cersei, as they fastened it about her neck with a slender silver chain.

A maiden's cloak. Sansa's hand went to her throat. She would have torn the thing away if she had dared. – ASOS, Sansa III

"[...] and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back...why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright [...]" – AFFC, Alayne II

This is all very in keeping with the theme of the chapter, which is meeting Alayne's betrothed, Harrold Hardyng, so obviously a future marriage/alliance is very much a prevalent theme here. Furthermore, the mention of "Myrish lace" for the "ladies fair" does somewhat remind me of Alys Karstark's wedding garb:

The girl smiled in a way that reminded Jon so much of his little sister that it almost broke his heart. "Let him be scared of me." The snowflakes were melting on her cheeks, but her hair was wrapped in a swirl of lace that Satin had found somewhere, and the snow had begun to collect there, giving her a frosty crown. Her cheeks were flushed and red, and her eyes sparkled.

"Winter's lady." Jon squeezed her hand. – ADWD, Jon X

I think some other people have mentioned before how even though Jon makes a conscious comparison between Arya and Alys — "reminded Jon so much of his little sister" — the romanticised, flushed cheeked imagery very much points towards a subconsious allusion to Sansa (ETA: anyone spoken on this got a link?). With that in mind, we could see this as foreshadowing of not only Jonsa, but a Jonsa wedding, and Sansa as Queen in the North — "a frosty crown" "Winter's lady" — with Jon as her king/consort. In my current Jon chapter analysis I've been working with the idea that actually as soon as Jon starts romanticising a girl, which is notably different from just noticing someone's physical beauty (e.g. with Val), that is when the subconscious comparisons to Sansa really jump out.

But anyway! Onto those names...or rather, Jon Snow stand-ins.

Rising, [Ben Coldwater] offered Alayne his hand. “Would you honor me with this dance, my lady?”

“You’re very kind,” she said, as he led her to the floor.

He was her first partner of the evening, but far from the last. Just as Petyr had promised, the young knights flocked around her, vying for her favor. After Ben came Andrew Tollett, handsome Ser Byron, red-nosed Ser Morgarth, and Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse. Then Ser Albar Royce, Myranda’s stout dull brother and Lord Nestor’s heir. She danced with all three Sunderlands, none of whom had webs between their fingers, though she could not vouch for their toes. Uther Shett appeared to pay her slimy compliments as he trod upon her feet, but Ser Targon the Halfwild proved to be the soul of courtesy. After that Ser Roland Waynwood swept her up and made her laugh with mocking comments about half the other knights in the hall. His uncle Wallace took a turn as well and tried to do the same, but the words would not come. Alayne finally took pity on him and began to chatter happily, to spare him the embarrassment. When the dance was done she excused herself, and went back to her place to have a drink of wine.

And there he stood, Harry the Heir himself; tall, handsome, scowling. “Lady Alayne. May I partner you in this dance?”

She considered for a moment. “No. I don’t think so.”

If I've counted that right, that's 14 men? Alright, here we go.

First up...Ben Coldwater

I think you're right that Ben Coldwater feels very much like a nod to Ben-jen Stark, who is referred to as Ben a few times I think, and Jon Snow (cold water = snow), both men of the Night's Watch. House Coldwater also traces its lineage back to the First Men, and are sworn to House Royce, who are also notably descended from the First Men, have previously married into the Stark family and still maintain close connections to the current house through Ned's fosterage in the Vale. So, through the Royces, we see another possible connection to the Starks and Jon Snow...Jon Snow who was named after Jon Arryn.

I would also add that we have Ben make this inquiry prior to his dance with Alayne:

“Are there no singers?” asked Ben Coldwater.

I don't know, maybe I'm reaching but...singers feature quite a lot in connection to Jon, for instance:

Mance Rayder, who infiltrates Winterfell disguised as a singer called Abel, an anagram of Bael, aka Bael the Bard;

Bael the Bard and the Blue Rose of Winterfell — a story told to Jon by Ygritte, which very much evokes the tale of Rhaegar and Lyanna;

Rhaegar Targaryen, Jon's real father, was a notably skilled lyre player, whose singing supposedly made Lyanna cry — "The dragon prince sang a song so sad it made the wolf maid sniffle," (ASOS, Bran II). He is also theorised to have written the song Jenny of Oldstones, possibly for the Ghost of High Heart, Jenny's friend.

Ygritte — when Jon starts to find her more attractive, when he starts to romanticise her, he observes that "sometimes she sang in a low husky voice that stirred him," (ASOS, Jon II).

Val — again, we start to see Jon begin to warm to Val, to see her in more of a romantic + typically feminine light, because of her singing to the baby Monster: "I have heard you singing to him," (ADWD, Jon VIII).

Sansa — oh, my sweet Sansa...when remembering his family, not quite in his dying moments, but a little bit prior to that, Jon thinks "Of Sansa, brushing out Lady's coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow," (ADWD, Jon XIII).

I think it's clear that Jon loves a good song and you know what? He'd probably be asking about the lack of singers too! One final detail perhaps worth noting is the seat of House Coldwater:

[...] the Coldwaters of Coldwater Burn [...] – TWOIAF, The Vale

Obviously, the "song of ice and fire" is not a person, but more the elemental and destructive forces of the Others and the dragons, yet nevertheless, through Jon's parentage, as well as his actions (burned hand, etc.), plus his personality to a certain extent (hot-headed then repressing emotions) you do have this duality of hot and cold, of fire and ice...Coldwater Burn? Could be something.

Ser Andrew Tollett

So, like you said, the name Tollett immediately puts us in mind of Eddison Tollett, also known as Dolorous Edd, who is like Jon, a black brother of the Night's Watch. And he is a good brother to Jon, voting for him in the election for the Lord Commander, as well as becoming his loyal steward for a time, before being sent on a mission to Long Barrow. Interestingly, Dolorous Edd, as well as the Tolletts in general, do have a bit of a Stark vibe to them...

Like a typical Stark, Dolorous Edd is described as having a "long face" (ACOK, Jon III), a face like a mule's to be exact, but also notably a horse's as well:

"[...] Me, I have the mules. Nettles claims we're kin. It's true we have the same long face, but I'm not near as stubborn [...]" – ADWD, Jon XII

He only wished he had time to kill Tollett as well. Gloomy horsefaced fool, that's what he is. – ASOS, Prologue

He is given the nickname Dolorous Edd (dolorous = mournful), and is referred to several times as being "dour" (ACOK, Jon II, Jon III, ASOS, Jon V, ADWD, Jon XII, XIII), an attribute not entirely out of place when we consider some notable Starks and their disposition, as well as their house words:

He had the Stark face if not the name: long, solemn, guarded, a face that gave nothing away. – AGOT, Tyrion II

Winter is coming. The Stark words had never sounded so grim or ominous to Jon as they did now. – AGOT, Jon VIII

I gave my maidenhood to this solemn stranger and sent him off to his war and his king and the woman who bore him his bastard, because I always did my duty. – ACOK, Catelyn VI

Ned was shorter and plainer of face, and so somber. He spoke courteously enough, but beneath the words she sensed a coolness that was all at odds with Brandon, whose mirths had been as wild as his rages [...] And after the war, at Winterfell, I had love enough for any woman, once I found the good sweet heart beneath Ned's solemn face. – ASOS, Catelyn V

So, not unlike Jon, Arya and Ned, Dolorous Edd has a "long and solemn" face (AGOT, Arya I), as well as a "dour" personality. Furthermore, even House Tollet of Grey Glen's sigil and words have Stark vibes, since according to semi-canon sources, their shield is "pily grey and black" and their words are "When all is darkest," which arguably carries the same ominous, Long Night warning of "Winter is coming". In addition to this, like the Coldwaters, the Tollets are sworn to the First Men descended Royces.

But beyond this, if we take a look at some legendary and historical Tolletts...we actually have two notable names:

Torgold Tollett — also known as Torgold the Grim, though ironically, because he was famous for riding into battle laughing, and naked from the waist up:

The songs say that Torgold knew no fear and felt no pain. Though bleeding from a score of wounds, he cut a red swathe through Lord Redfort's staunchest warriors, then took his lordship's arm off at the shoulder with a single cut. Nor was he dismayed when the sorceress Ursula Upcliff appeared upon a bloodred horse to curse him. By then he was bare-handed, having left both of his axes buried in a foe's chest, but the singers say he leapt upon the witch's horse, grasped her face between two bloody hands, and tore her head from her shoulders as she screamed for succor. – TWOIAF, The Vale

Ser Jon Tollett — In Fire & Blood, Jon Tollett is recorded as a member of King Maegor the Cruel's Kingsguard. After the king's mysterious death, his successor, King Jaeherys I, offered Maegor's surviving Kingsguard a choice between execution or taking the black. Jon Tollett chose the latter. This somewhat parallels Ned's decision to take the black, to a certain extent.

You could argue that there are more than a few similarities, or future foreshadowings, between these Tolletts and Jon Snow...

Ser Byron the Beautiful

Like you mentioned, Jon Snow has been described by GRRM as a "Byronic, romantic hero". I'm so annoyed with myself, because I had written up some good stuff on how Jon really does possess certain Byronic traits but as I was inserting a gif it ended up deleting most of what I wrote...so I'm still a bit bitter over that, but will rewrite it at some point soon. Take my word for it though, Jon Snow is 100% more of a Byronic Hero (a la Byron's own Manfred), than Sandor Clegane, for example:

GRRM: “Well who wouldn’t want to be Jon Snow — the brooding, Byronic, romantic hero whom all the girls love.” [source]

Ser Byron, as well as being described as beautiful, is also notably very gallant, the perfect knight:

"Dutiful and beautiful," said an elegant young knight whose thick blond mane cascaded down well past his shoulders. – AFFC, Alayne II

We all know that Sansa appreciates a bit of genuine courtesy, and in fact, she's taught Jon well in that regard:

"Gilly, he called me. For the gillyflower."

"That's pretty." He remembered Sansa telling him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. He could not help the girl, but perhaps the courtesy would please her. – ACOK, Jon III

I think this Jon stand-in does rely mostly on Jon's connection to the Byronic Hero. So, if anyone is still a bit dubious on that (because Rochester and Heathcliff are trash), just hang in there for my eventual meta on the subject, which focuses on Lord Byron's OG Byronic Hero, rather than the later Brontë/Victorian iterations.

In fact, in terms of Jon's parentage and future romance with Sansa, there's one Byronic tale that may be a particular source of inspiration — The Bride of Abydos. This poem notably includes a romance in which half-siblings are revealed to be cousins...sound familiar?

Ser Morgarth the Merry

Another hedge knight, like Ser Byron, who is sworn into the service of Petyr Baelish. I've got to agree with you here, red-nosed Ser Morgarth's connection to Jon is quite a bit harder to decipher! I have done a little digging though, and it is possible that the Garth in Morgarth is a reference to several Garths that appear in Jon's chapters, as well as Garth Greenhand, the alleged ancestor of legendary House Stark founder...Brandon the Builder:

Garth of Oldtown

Garth of Greenaway

Garth Greyfeather

All of these Garths are rangers/members of the Night's Watch at the same time as Jon, though I think by Dance it is presumed that they are all dead, or at least missing — in fact, Garth of Greenaway kills Garth of Oldtown. Garth on Garth violence!!

Haha, oh god...I think I just got the pun...Morgarth = More Garth! More Garths the merrier! Get it?! More Garths everybody!

George, I hate you.

Ok, so that's what that is. It's literally just a dumb pun, yet it also connects Morgarth to the Night's Watch Garths, and therefore Jon.

Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse

I think you're right that Ser Shadrich's presence connects us to Brienne's quest, as well as foreshadowing potential shit hitting the fan at the tourney of the Winged Knights. But he also notably makes some interesting remarks, both to Brienne and Sansa, which we can connect to Jon Snow's secret Targaryen heritage:

"Where?" Brienne slapped another silver stag down.

He flicked the coin back at her with his forefinger. "Someplace no stag ever found...though a dragon might." – AFFC, Brienne III

On the surface, in response to Brienne's questioning about the whereabouts of the Stark sisters, Shadrich is talking about a monetary bribe. However, beneath that explicit meaning, is an implicit reference to a stag (Joffrey) failing, where a dragon (Jon) will succeed. Others have talked about this line in more detail elsewhere, but it seems like a pretty good allusion to the foils, Joffrey (a prince who is really a bastard) and Jon (a bastard who is really a prince).

In this exact Winds chapter, however, we also see a conversation between Alayne and Shadrich, which hints at his possible plans to uncover and abduct Sansa Stark in return for a lucrative reward:

“A good melee is all a hedge knight can hope for, unless he stumbles on a bag of dragons. And that’s not likely, is it?”

This "stumbl[ing] on a bag of dragons" could also be seen as an implicit nod towards stumbling upon Jon's Targaryen heritage later in the novel, something that is more "likely" than anyone would expect. That claim might be a reach, were it not for the implication that when Shadrich talks about money, i.e. dragons...he isn't actually talking about gold coins, he's talking about Targaryens, but more than that...he's talking specifically about Jon Snow.

Ser Albar Royce

"Myranda’s stout dull brother and Lord Nestor’s heir." I think like Ser Morgarth, the physical appearance of these stand-ins doesn't always play a factor, because it would be kind of unnerving if they all had solemn long faces... So, what is important here is, like you say, the name Royce and his relation to Ser Waymar Royce, Sansa's first crush, who just happens to resemble and parallels Jon quite a bit:

She had fallen wildly in love with Ser Waymar, she remembered dimly, but that was a lifetime ago, when she was a stupid little girl. – AFFC, Alayne I

Ser Waymar Royce was the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs. He was a handsome youth of eighteen, grey-eyed and graceful and slender as a knife. Mounted on his huge black destrier, the knight towered above Will and Gared on their smaller garrons. He wore black leather boots, black woolen pants, black moleskin gloves, and a fine supple coat of gleaming black ringmail over layers of black wool and boiled leather. Ser Waymar had been a Sworn Brother of the Night's Watch for less than half a year, but no one could say he had not prepared for his vocation. At least insofar as his wardrobe was concerned. – AGOT, Prologue

Jon's eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast. – AGOT, Bran I

"They're not my brothers," Jon snapped. "They hate me because I'm better than they are." – AGOT, Jon III

Although, it is worth noting that the Royces, as a whole, do somewhat resemble the Starks in appearance, at least in terms of their eye colour:

Bronze Yohn Royce, the current head of House Royce of Runestone, has "slate-grey eyes" as well as a "solemn face", (AFFC, Alayne I).

Ser Robar, his second son was "comely in a rough-hewn way" (ACOK, Catelyn III), with "pale" eyes (ACOK, Catelyn IV), possibly grey like his father's.

Ser Waymar, Yohn's third son, as mentioned, was "grey-eyed" (AGOT, Prologue).

It isn't as clear whether or not their cadet branch, which Albar belongs to, tend towards grey eyes as well, though we know that Myranda has brown hair, specifically "thick chestnut curls" (AFFC, Alayne II) — typical looking Starks, like Ned, Arya, and Jon, all have brown/dark hair.

As previously mentioned, the Royces are also descended from the First Men, have kinship links to the Starks, knew Ned when he fostered in the Vale, and Bronze Yohn even "knows" Sansa Stark:

"Bronze Yohn knows me," she reminded him. "He was a guest at Winterfell when his son rode north to take the black." She had fallen wildly in love with Ser Waymar, she remembered dimly, but that was a lifetime ago, when she was a stupid little girl. "And that was not the only time. Lord Royce saw...he saw Sansa Stark again at King's Landing, during the Hand's tourney." – AFFC, Alayne I

His seamed and solemn face brought back all of Sansa's memories of his time at Winterfell. She remembered him at table, speaking quietly with her mother. She heard his voice booming off the walls when he rode back from a hunt with a buck behind his saddle. She could see him in the yard, a practice sword in hand, hammering her father to the ground and turning to defeat Ser Rodrik as well. He will know me. How could he not? She considered throwing herself at his feet to beg for his protection. He never fought for Robb, why should he fight for me? The war is finished and Winterfell is fallen. "Lord Royce," she asked timidly, "will you have a cup of wine, to take the chill off?"

Bronze Yohn had slate-grey eyes, half-hidden beneath the bushiest eyebrows she had ever seen. They crinkled when he looked down at her. "Do I know you, girl?" – AFFC, Alayne I

They also have the house words "We will remember", which somewhat evokes the recurring refrain "the north remembers" (ASOS, Catelyn, ADWD, Davos IV, ADWD, A Ghost in Winterfell, TWOW, Theon I), as well as a possible remembrance of the Long Night, similar to the Starks’ and Tolletts’ words. All in all, as well as evoking a certain Starkness (and Jon-ness), the Royces seem set up to be staunch allies of the Starks going forward.

All Three Sunderlands

Since these Sunderland brothers aren't given names, we can assume what is significant about them, in relation to Jon and Sansa, is their Sunderland name. As you noted, the Sunderlands are the reigning lords of the Three Sisters, and in Dance, through Davos' pov, we hear about Ned's time there during Robert's Rebellion:

"At the dawn of Robert's Rebellion. The Mad King had sent to the Eyrie for Stark's head, but Jon Arryn sent him back defiance. Gulltown stayed loyal to the throne, though. To get home and call his banners, Stark had to cross the mountains to the Fingers and find a fisherman to carry him across the Bite. A storm caught them on the way. The fisherman drowned, but his daughter got Stark to the Sisters before the boat went down. They say he left her with a bag of silver and a bastard in her belly. Jon Snow, she named him, after Arryn.

"Be that as it may. My father sat where I sit now when Lord Eddard came to Sisterton. Our maester urged us to send Stark's head to Aerys, to prove our loyalty. It would have meant a rich reward. The Mad King was open-handed with them as pleased him. By then we knew that Jon Arryn had taken Gulltown, though. Robert was the first man to gain the wall, and slew Marq Grafton with his own hand. 'This Baratheon is fearless,' I said. 'He fights the way a king should fight.' Our maester chuckled at me and told us that Prince Rhaegar was certain to defeat this rebel. That was when Stark said, 'In this world only winter is certain. We may lose our heads, it's true…but what if we prevail?' My father sent him on his way with his head still on his shoulders. 'If you lose,' he told Lord Eddard, 'you were never here.' " – ADWD, Davos I

This passage has one of my favourite asoiaf quotes of all time..."In this world only winter is certain. We may lose our heads, it's true...but what if we prevail?" Truly iconic. So defiantly hopeful.

But, yes, you're right that this story, and the Sunderlands, connects us to Ned, but more importantly...to Jon Snow. Really, Jon has quite a few Vale connections, all things considered, and he is named after Jon Arryn after all!

Uther Shett

Well, along with his buddy Ossifer Lipps (ass for lips), Uther Shett (utter shit) is an example of George having some pretty lowbrow fun with punny names. During their dance, Uther paid Alayne "slimy compliments as he trod upon her feet"...so not the best partner!

But from one shit to another...I think you're probably right that Uther Shett is meant to recall Chett, indeed, if we take a look at his description in Winds:

The one on her left was no more than eighteen, and skinny as a spear. His ginger-colored whiskers only partially served to disguise the angry red pimples that dotted his face.

His bad skin is somewhat comparable to Chett's boils:

Chett had a wen on his neck the size of a pigeon's egg, and a face red with boils and pimples. Perhaps that was why he always seemed so angry. – AGOT, Jon V

What is also noteworthy about Chett's prologue pov in ASOS, is that we get this linking of literal snow and Jon Snow:

Snow was falling.

He could feel tears freezing to his cheeks. It isn't fair, he wanted to scream. Snow would ruin everything he'd worked for, all his careful plans. It was a heavy fall, thick white flakes coming down all about him [...] The snow's taken it all from me...the bloody snow...

Snow had ruined him once before. Snow and his pet pig. – ASOS, Prologue

This makes any mention of snow beyond this point a bit more noteworthy, especially since Jon is referred to as "the Snow of Winterfell," (ASOS, Jon I), and we also have Sansa's famous "drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover's kisses" whilst building Winterfell out of snow scene, also in ASOS, (Sansa VII). So, Chett is very important when it comes to establishing this connection.

Ser Targon the Halfwild

Targon is only mentioned once and it is in that list of dance partners. He's not connected to any particular house, all we know of him is that he is a knight and that he "proved to be the soul of courtesy." This detail is interesting because it sort goes against his "Halfwild" moniker — he is courteous in spite of his half-wildness. Likewise, Jon is also courteous, chivalrous and knightly even, in spite of the stigma attached to being a bastard:

They still think me a turncloak. That was a bitter draft to drink, but Jon could not blame them. He was a bastard, after all. Everyone knew that bastards were wanton and treacherous by nature, having been born of lust and deceit. And he had made as many enemies as friends at Castle Black...Rast, for one. Jon had once threatened to have Ghost rip his throat out unless he stopped tormenting Samwell Tarly, and Rast did not forget things like that. – ASOS, Jon VII

As mentioned in comparison to Ser Byron, Jon behaves courteously towards Gilly, calling her name "pretty", just as Sansa taught him. He also often refers to Val as "my lady" despite her being a proud woman of the Free Folk. Jon also clearly looks up to and wishes to emulate legendary knights to a certain extent, and behaving with courtesy and honour is very much part of that:

They were not little boys when they fought, but knights and mighty heroes. "I'm Prince Aemon the Dragonknight," Jon would call out, and Robb would shout back, "Well, I'm Florian the Fool." Or Robb would say, "I'm the Young Dragon," and Jon would reply, "I'm Ser Ryam Redwyne." – ASOS, Jon XII

Furthermore, Jon has this connection to the Free Folk, also known as the wildlings, having spent a fair amount of time with them:

"The wildling blood is the blood of the First Men, the same blood that flows in the veins of the Starks [...]" – ASOS, Jon I

"Some of your own Sworn Brothers would have me believe that you are half a wildling yourself. Is it true?" – ADWD, Jon IV

Mully cleared his throat. "M'lord? The wildling princess, letting her go, the men may say—"

"—that I am half a wildling myself, a turncloak who means to sell the realm to our raiders, cannibals, and giants." Jon did not need to stare into a fire to know what was being said of him. The worst part was, they were not wrong, not wholly. "Words are wind, and the wind is always blowing at the Wall. Come." – ADWD, Jon VIII

"A wildling. A filthy, murdering wildling." Cregan's hands closed into fists. The gloves that covered them were leather, lined with fur to match the cloak that hung matted and stiff from his broad shoulders. His black wool surcoat was emblazoned with the white sunburst of his house. "I see what you are, Snow. Half a wolf and half a wildling, baseborn get of a traitor and a whore. You would deliver a highborn maid to the bed of some stinking savage. Did you sample her yourself first?" He laughed. "If you mean to kill me, do it and be damned for a kinslayer. Stark and Karstark are one blood."

"My name is Snow." – ADWD, Jon X

I am not the trusting fool you take me for...nor am I half wildling, no matter what you believe. – ADWD, Jon XI

If Stark blood is also essentially wildling blood, and Jon is half Stark on his mother's side...that would make him "Halfwild" in blood as well as in spirit. And like you said, Targon feels very close to Targaryen/Targ-Jon. So this name is there solely as a hint towards Jon's true parentage — half Targaryen and half Stark. But I think you could argue that the "Halfwild" element could allude to Jon's post-resurrection state as well. I do personally like the idea of Feral Jon™.

Ser Roland & Ser Wallace Waynwood

Like the Royces, and Dolorous Edd, the Waynwoods also bear some notable Stark physical traits, as noted by Myranda in this chapter:

“The first Lady Waynwood must have been a mare, I think. How else to explain why all the Waynwood men are horse-faced? [...]"

As we know, looking horse-faced, or in Edd's case, mule-faced, indicates a rather long visage:

Arya took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her face was long and solemn. Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface, and neigh whenever she came near. – AGOT, Arya I

[Arya] even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring. – AGOT, Sansa I

Interestingly though, Jon is never referred to as being called horse-faced, although we know he has a long Stark face. You'd think that Chett, in the ASOS Prologue would have made that kind of dig, since he says as much about Dolorous Edd? This is why I tentatively believe that, although long-faced, Jon isn't as apparently "homely" as these Stark looking Waynwood brothers:

Ser Roland was the oldest of the three, though no more than five-and-twenty. He was taller and more muscular than Ser Wallace, but both were long-faced and lantern-jawed, with stringy brown hair and pinched noses. Horsefaced and homely, Alayne thought.

That being said, I don't think he's as "handsome" as Ser Waymar Royce, or "beautiful" like Ser Byron. But obviously, he's got something going for him because as GRRM says "all the girls love" him, and you know, he's got a good bod probably and if the Giant's Lance cake is anything to go by, as well as all Tormund's small penis jokes...um, well, maybe he's packing, I don't know! (Don't look at me like that guys...it's GRRM not me!)

But anyway! Like you said, Ser Wallace Waynwood is even of an age with Robb, and therefore also Jon:

Robb would be his age, if he were still alive, she could not help but think, but Robb died a king, and this is just a boy.

There is also a teeny bit of Stark blood, though obviously potent stuff, in the mix with those Waynwoods:

"No," Catelyn agreed. "You must name another heir, until such time as Jeyne gives you a son." She considered a moment. "Your father's father had no siblings, but his father had a sister who married a younger son of Lord Raymar Royce, of the junior branch. They had three daughters, all of whom wed Vale lordlings. A Waynwood and a Corbray, for certain. The youngest...it might have been a Templeton, but..."

"Mother." There was a sharpness in Robb's tone. "You forget. My father had four sons." – ASOS, Catelyn V

Shit — "all of whom wed Vale lordlings" — that's probably where all these Stark looking mother fudgers are coming from. So, all in all, I think there's some strong parallels.

And finally...Ser Harrold Hardyng

But let's not forget this bitch.

And there he stood, Harry the Heir himself; tall, handsome, scowling. “Lady Alayne. May I partner you in this dance?”

She considered for a moment. “No. I don’t think so.”

Prior to Harry, who notably fits into the Ashford pattern of Sansa's suitors, we have all these Jon stand-ins, or references to Jon. We can actually separate them out into their different functions, though there is some overlap with Andrew Tollett:

Those who reference Jon's Starkness/the Stark Look™:

Andrew Tollett

Albar Royce

Roland Waynwood

Wallace Waynwood

Those who reference his position/location at the Night's Watch:

Because in the Alayne chapter prior to this one, Sansa learns that Jon has been made Lord Commander:

[..] Oh, and the Night’s Watch has a boy commander, some bastard son of Eddard Stark’s.” “Jon Snow?” she blurted out, surprised. “Snow? Yes, it would be Snow, I suppose.” – AFFC, Alayne II

So, it is interesting that you then have a number of dance partners connected to members of the Watch:

Ben Coldwater

Andrew Tollett

Morgarth the Merry

Uther Shett

This could be read as foreshadowing for Sansa's future journey north, and specifically to the Wall, where she believes Jon to be.

Those who reference his true/uncertain parentage:

Byron the Beautiful

Shadrich the Mad Mouse

The Three Sunderlands

Targon the Halfwild

All these guys get a dance, but when Harry asks? He is denied. It is only after some A+ dragging by Alayne, and begging by Harry that the latter gets his dance. Yet don't be fooled into thinking this is a win for Harrold:

"Should we ever wed, you'll have to send Saffron back to her father. I’ll be all the spice you’ll want."

He grinned. "I will hold you to that promise, my lady. Until that day, may I wear your favor in the tourney?"

"You may not. It is promised to… another." She was not sure who as yet, but she knew she would find someone.

First off, we have this reminder of the betrothal, but there is a lack of certainty there — "should we wed" — and I would argue that's because...they ain't gonna. Remember all that wedding breakfast imagery, including an umcomfortably phallic lemon (wedding) cake, gift-giving and nod to a bridal cloak? Remember how that was followed by several dances with Jon stand-ins?

"[...] It is promised to… another."

Oh, I wonder who that could be? Honestly...GRRM has very clearly, for those who care to really look, stated someone else's claim here, and it ain't Harry's. In fact, it is the very same person who also evokes Valarr Targaryen in the Ashford pattern.

...it's our boi, Jon Snow.

“Jon Snow?” she blurted out, surprised.

“Snow? Yes, it would be Snow, I suppose.” – AFFC, Alayne II

You "suppose", Myranda? Honey, I'm certain.

[shiningviatrix]

“do you wish i was different?” - can be abyss or not abyss! also helloooo

Catching even just a glimpse of her brother proved nigh on impossible at times. It didn't help that he could use the abyss portals, and they could not, not even with Dainsleif's help (though they doubted he would lead them through such a portal anyway). But...that didn't stop her from creating a lantern during the lantern rite with the wish to see her brother again, and for longer than a few moments this time. Did she believe it would work? Not entirely, but she hoped it would, and this time...it appeared that their hope was in their favor.

However good or bad that was, they weren't sure. Even so, to see Aether, still standing, was a relief.

His words lanced through her though, her next breath shaky as she took a step closer. Seeing him was still a surprise, and though she knew he was different now, knew things that she only just beginning to stumble upon, that didn't mean she wished to be able to hug him any less. And yet...she didn't think he would accept a hug, or perhaps, she was more afraid that he would, which would only make their parting all the more painful. Instead, she moved to stand within arms reach of him, lips curled faintly upwards into a smile laced with sorrow. Like how one might approach a startled animal, she lifted her hand slowly till she could gently cup his cheek. "I wish I understood you, as you are now. I'm trying but...the threads feel to small, like sand through my fingers." A star shot through the night sky as a tear rolled down her cheek. "I miss you but...I don't think I would wish for you to be different. I just wish I understood."

A shaky exhale, and a slightly bigger smile, one that held hope to be seen rather than sorrow. "I wish I could make you smile again, like I used to."

[gigiree]

With enough strength to be gentle

AO3  First chapter. Previous chapter here. Sasuhina month day 20: thunderous as a storm, gentle as a dew drop

“A-are you ready?”

He barely hears her soft tones over the thundering rain rattling his new screen door so hard, it clatters against the wood frame with a staccato groan that’s a bit eerie.

The lighting in his living room is dim and flickering, dozens of candles placed haphazardly on any flat surface because no one ever thought to update electrical grid in the old Uchiha district. That can be credited to the village Utilities’ Department lack of desire to brave the rumored ghosts, the actually decrepit utilities, and the surly last Uchiha who haunts the grounds. They’re alone in that sentiment, but it’s an annoyance that tugs at long buried hurts Sasuke would never admit to.

So he finds himself looking into her earnest eyes, her round face made even softer by the wavering warmth, hesitation clinging firmly to the corner of her pretty mouth and nervousness settled on her scrunched nose.

(And perhaps if he’d known better, he would’ve known that the flush in her cheeks was the fault of a fluttering attraction, but he should be forgiven for missing it, considering the circumstances.)

He smiles, a gentle, crooked quirk of his mouth that’s easy to miss in the dark, but Hinata sees more than most. He knows this small thing to be enough for her to get the message.

He closes his heavy lids and tilts his head forward. 

Her chilled fingers brush back his bangs ever so carefully, he might’ve imagined her touch for all the contact she makes. He bites back the anxiety that raises the hairs on the back of his neck. The absolute contradiction to every instinct that’s ever kept him alive in his time as a shinobi, baring his vulnerable parts to someone who could easily stop his heart with a touch.

(Though he’s already admitted as much that she does with just a look, anyway.)

The cold in her touch makes its way to his temples, soothing the lingering headache that stays despite the herbal concoctions he’s choked down.

“I’m going to start now.”

“Hn.” There’s a heavy silence on her end, her tension threading to her hands so obviously, he opens his eyes suddenly, only to realize her face is mere inches from his own. It takes everything in him not to want to grasp her worried, little face and pull her into his orbit. His lips on hers, her hair tickling the edges of his jaw-

“S-Sasuke-san.”

“Don’t apologize. I did this to myself remember. Now get it off me.” He closes his eyes again. 

Hinata makes a small sound of embarrassment or resolve, he’s not quite sure.

He wants to make a joke at her expense, but the words are caught on his throat as a sudden lance of pain bores into the space behind his eyes, and it feels like he’s being unraveled.

----

Pain. Exquisitely thin and sharp. It laces through every part of him, every thought, as the dull headache he’d been having is seemingly taken apart, bit by bit until he can distinguish each sensation in it as a singular experience.

The roiling of his guts, chills wracking his strong frame, the tang of blood in his mouth, the muscles of his eyes straining in extremis, sight torn between his two doujutsu, the Rinnegan pushing the source of pain and the Sharingan flaring to see past all of it. He's in danger of losing it, but he remembers her to keep hold on why he'd done this. Prior to this, he would've thought the memories to tether himself to consciousness would've been those involving Naruto, Sakura, Itachi and his family. 

Fighting for the end of the world. Fighting for a dream inherited, fighting, endless fighting but...That had all ended hadn't it? He'd been lost in a peace everyone else had seemed to fall naturally into. He'd thought he'd been alone in that. But she was just as lost, if not more so. And she'd crashed into him, pulled forward by her own powerful gravity that she never seem to quite accept. And he'd fallen right into her orbit, hadn't he? 

What a blind, hopeless fool he'd been. But he's changed. No longer a lodestone sinking into the earth. She'd forced him to move. He doesn't know if he'll ever be done thanking her for that.

So he does this for her. 

He remembers stolen moments between the meandering she's done, little crossings where they'd gotten to know one another. He remembers her shining eyes, glinting with mischief when stealing from him, narrowing with suspicion whenever he'd pop by just to see her surprise so deliciously obvious, scrunching with happiness when he'd sit across from her during a Yakiniku gathering. 

Shared glances through a crowd. 

A strand of long, dark hair curling on his couch throw pillow. A bracelet with moonlight hanging off a silver chain, echoing the paleness of her gaze. Fireworks. Thin wires barely keeping an emaciated form tied to this life.

Distance to zero and his lips on hers, the cloying smell of red bean on her breath. 

Stolen moments and kept secrets, just the both of them spinning lost and lonely underneath an old umbrella. Silly, lost, stupidly good, stubborn, misguided, scared, brave, pretty, sweet, strong, gentle, ever growing...Hinata.

His fingers claw at his hair, at his skin, begging for reprieve and then-

A singular touch to his forehead clears it all, like the first drop of rain in a drought riddled desert. The relief ripples across from the dull pressure centered on his botched seal, numbing, washing away the hurt and the loose ends of unraveled thoughts.

For a moment, it feels like Itachi’s poking his forehead again and there’s thunder and rain outside sounding almost too loud and resonant in his sensitive ears.

But when he opens his eyes, confusion and anger and irritation all sweep through him so incredibly visceral, he can’t help but fall to instinct and react. 

It’s all too easy to slap the Hyuuga’s pathetically tiny hand away from his face, push her soft body to the wooden floor and hold a kunai to her slim, pale neck, his heavy form over hers as his Sharingan flares red, sending harsh shadows lancing across her terrified face. “You. Hyuuga. What did you to me? Did Naruto put you up to this?”

The venom coils deep in his words, dangerous and ready to strike. But as far as snakes go, he’s a generous one. Giving chances isn’t something people like him do often. He wracks his brain, but his thoughts are sluggish, dreadful. The last thing he remembers is a tearful Sakura, a pathetic attempt on his life with a poison kunai, Kakashi’s smug remarks, and Naruto’s livid expression reflected in the grimy water below them.

He supposes they managed to catch him after all. But it makes no sense. He’s interrupted by the sound of sniffling.

If there’s one thing Sasuke Uchiha has never been able to deal with, it’s the crying of those weaker than him. They always irritated him. Too loud. To messy. It made him want to run and fight someone worthy the instant they started. She doesn’t make a sound really. Just quiet, trembling breaths.

Her dark brows knit together so tightly, he thinks they’ll never come apart. She was always too weak. A ghost trailing at the back of their class, watching Naruto with flushed cheeks and her cowardice bending her spine in half.

He’s never had pity for people like her. People who can’t help themselves.

Yet when her tears spill over her thick, dark lashes and roll down those ridiculously round cheeks, disappearing into the thick carpet of her hair trailing on the wooden floor, there’s an ache somewhere in him that frustrates him more than anything.

And it sharpens into something excruciating that he can’t quite place when she silently mouths-

“I’m sorry.”

[lokigodofaces]

Michelle, Marvel, & Pride 25

Link to questions.

What sort of pride apparel do you think the characters would wear/have, if any?

Joey Gutierrez: He has a wristband he wears often enough, and for pride month he wears a bit more stuff. He wears things like backpacks with rainbow straps and a shirt with the gay flag (holy heck I just realized his sexuality is never confirmed as solely gay. He could be bi or something, but I'm pretty sure he is gay).

Peggy Carter: I don't know enough about queer history. She would have something subtle from her time period. Very subtle. This is a time where it was illegal for homosexuals to have federal jobs, such as director of S.H.I.E.L.D. But more recently, I like to think Sharon gave her a little bookmark or something colored like the bisexual flag.

Valkyrie: If she was on Earth, I think she would look really nice with thread braided into her hair to make a bisexual flag. It would look super pretty.

Ayo: Again, I don't know how pride is celebrated in Wakanda, but if there is anything, that's what she would do. I get the vibes from her that she'd like have rainbows on social media or something though.

Loki Laufeyson: He would have some clothes in the colors of the greyromantic, pansexual, and asexual flags, but not straight out the flags. And he'd have a couple of easy to hide apparel, things like this.

Also, I like to imagine Scott doing a card trick in front of him, joking that he can do magic too. Loki is interested (because he's being nice) and he finds it funny that Scott insists on showing him a bunch of ace cards. So Scott starts jokingly buying him stuff with aces of spades, and Loki is down because that is ace as heck.

Bucky Barnes: He has lots of shirts, flags, and all sorts of stuff. I like to think he has rainbow laces he wears with his shoes. He has lots of things that, even if they aren't explicitly queer, give him vibes. Things like the purple lava lamp he found on clearance and a red, purple, and teal tie dye shirt he found at a thrift shop. They aren't mean to be greysexual or bisexual, but they give off the vibes.

Wanda Maximoff: She'd have things with all the flags that apply to her. Those being abrosexual, bisexual, pansexual, aromantic, and asexual. On days where she's aroace, she'll wear her aroace stuff. Pan stuff on pan days. You get the point. And she wears her abrosexual stuff all of the time. She has things like rings, denim jacket with the flags ironed on, maybe shoes kind of like these.

Lance Hunter: He has a watch with a bisexual flag band that he wears a lot. And he likes to throw in bi stuff or rainbow stuff wherever he can. Things like the soles of his shoes being rainbow or his jacket being lined with bi colors.

Daisy Johnson: She does her make up in bi and demi colors, but that's mainly during pride month. Normally, she has a bracelet like the one I had pictured with Loki. She has a T-shirt that says something like "Inhuman, Queer, & Proud" she got because there are starting to be queer inhuman groups.

Jemma Simmons: She'll dress in pink, purple, and blue as a subtle bi flag. In June, Daisy does her make up sometimes. Jemma has cute little decorations she'll have, like a cup in bi colors to hold pencils or her phone's wallpaper as a cool pink to blue ombre with stars or something. Her and Fitz have matching bi wristbands someone got them as a wedding gift.

Leopold Fitz: He has the bi wristband same as Jemma. Other than that? I don't see him being the type of person to do all sorts of flag or pride or whatever stuff. He's heteroromantic bisexual, that's all. Part of it is that he doesn't want to be given crap for being varioriented ("you can f*ck a guy but not fall in love" sort of bs), but even if he was biromantic and bisexual, it's just not really his thing, so have a bunch of random colorful things shouting to the world that he's queer when he prefers to keep this very, very private.

Steve Rogers: Steve has bi and rainbow gear, but it's not something he normally wears. More of a pride thing.

Carol Danvers: She changes her suit to the lesbian flag for pride month! Outside of that, she seems like a person to wear lesbian flag socks. Which is totally random and idk if those even exist, but I get the vibes.

Peter Parker: MJ bought him some bi pins that he has saved in his room. He has some general mspec ones he wears around, that make him look supportive of hims omnisexual girlfriend, and he also can be secretly proud of his bisexuality. He also has an mspec solidarity shirt he only wears at home, with MJ, with Ned, or with Tony. It has bisexual, pansexual, polysexual, omnisexual, abrosexual, and other flags and has some phrase about them all being friendly.

MJ Watson: She'd wear lots of omnisexual and mspec pins. Omni for her, and mspec for her and Peter. She'd have a pair of black doc martens that she doesn't wear often but have rainbow laces. She also has a plaid shirt with the omnisexual colors.

Tess: Again, sad day, she doesn't really have anything for pride.

Sam Wilson: Most of his stuff is rainbow things. He was pretty certain he was queer but didn't know in what way, so he only got rainbow stuff for a long time. And he isn't in a spot where he's comfortable to come out as aromantic, so he just says he's queer. But he has an aro flag on the boat, and a tiny little aro flag magnet he keeps on the wings.

Mantis: Gamora gave her a bunch of whatever the galaxy terms to be ace stuff.

Nebula: Someone on Earth would buy her this shirt as a joke.

And the tank top, and the mug, and the short sleeved shirt, and the 3 quarters sleeved shirt, and the hoodie, and anything they can find with this.

That same person also gets a million things (this time including a bumper sticker they put on her ship) with this design or similar.

Vision: Dude can literally make his own clothes pop out of nowhere. He makes himself a non-binary cape sometimes. He also has a couple of enby gifts from Wanda

Previous | Next

[mommy-medusa]

a mom!Hera scene for y’all......

“Athena?”

Face blotchy, eyes stinging and red, hair disheveled, body aching all over, Athena slowly craned her head around to meet the gaze of Hera and her ruby-collared panther, and found that she didn’t even care about being seen in such a state. Frankly, she didn’t care about anything anymore. Zeus could burst through the mural of the snake and put a thunderbolt into her heart and she wouldn’t even fight him.

Because there was nothing left to fight for.

“Athena?” Hera said again, taking a step forward.

“Hera,” Athena said back. She sounded as though she had swallowed a handful of sand. “Hello. What is it that you need? I am quite busy right now.”

“Busy?” Hera echoed, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” Athena confirmed, nodding weakly. “Very much so.”

“Busy crying?”

Athena sniffed. Her eyes stung. “No. I am not. I am soaked to the bone. This is mere rainwater, I promise you.”

“I see,” Hera nodded slowly. “Then why don’t you get changed? I promise you that you will feel better if you aren’t slogging around in wet armor.”

“A smart idea,” Athena said. “I will do that.”

But as she rose to her feet, bolts of fiery pain lanced through her side and her palace was thrown horizontal as she began to fall back over. The only thing that stopped her from receiving a cold kiss from the floor was the queen of gods holding her upwards, and the first thing she picked up on was that Hera was a lot stronger than she thought she was.

“Athena,” Hera’s voice cut through the roaring in her ears. “Athena, can you hear me?”

Athena swallowed thickly, bile and ichor in the back of her throat. She released a shaking breath, then slowly righted herself. One of Hera’s hands remained on her shoulder, and the touch was surprisingly gentle. She had a terrible itching sensation that begged her to press into it, but managed to fight back the urge.

“My apologies,” Athena said, her words coming out strained and thread-thin.

“It is quite alright, Athena,” Hera said. “Zeus really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

Athena didn’t answer. She didn’t even lift her head from where she was staring at the ground. She felt disconnected from her own form, and yet the pain chased after her. When Hera began guiding her down one of the side hallways, she barely realized it.

The place where she was taken was a secluded room in the deeper part of her palace, bearing deep blue walls that had soaring owls painted in gold all across them and a ceiling that displayed emerald green snakes dancing among a star-filled sky. The space was lit from flickering torches suspended by iron holders. A rectangular pool took up most of the tiled floor, steam rising from its surface.

The bath.

“Oh my,” Hera murmured, gazing up at the ceiling and walls. “Did you paint all of this, dear Athena?”

“Yes,” Athena managed to utter. “I enjoy painting.”

“I can tell,” Hera chuckled. “Shall I undress you?”

“I can get in now.”

“With your armor and chiton still on?” Another chuckle, this time more of a soft laugh. “Silly child. That will do very little to clean you up. Just stand still for me.”

There were ten buckles that held her golden chest plate together, and Hera undid them all with quick precision for someone who had never worn armor before. Once the plate was gone, Hera removed her helmet and gauntlets, then untied the laces to her chiton. Athena briefly saw how stained and tarnished her clothing was before she was coaxed into the bath.

The water was as hot as fire, stinging her skin until she couldn’t tell hot from cold anymore. Her vision cut to white for several eternal seconds, then returned to her in blotches. She felt like she was being boiled alive.

Heat bloomed across her bare back like a flower made from flame. Her shoulders jolted. She couldn’t think straight. The owls on the walls were beginning to fly in circles, but shouldn’t that have been impossible? They were paintings! At least, she thought they were…

“Athena.”

Hera’s voice cut into her daze. She blinked harshly. The light from the torches felt too bright. Everything hurt.

“Athena, steady. It is alright.”

She shook her head, sending damp tassels of brown hair fluttering around her face. She heard a soft snort from behind.

“There you are,” Hera said. Her hands, nimble and gentle, cupped water over Athena’s shoulders. When they brushed the burn branded on the left one, Athena flinched away with a hiss. “My apologies, dear. Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Athena said through her teeth. Both her side and her shoulder were masses of agony. She wanted to remove them entirely just so she wouldn’t have to feel so awful anymore.

But this was exactly what she deserved, wasn’t it?

“That damned man,” Hera shook her head. “I always knew someone would retaliate against him. He had it coming, if you ask me. But I never thought it would be you, wise child.”

“I doubt what I did could be considered ‘wise’,” Athena muttered.

Hera chuckled. “You have done what I’m sure many of us have wanted to do for a very long time. Myself included.” She paused for a moment. “But your reasoning…”

Athena braced herself.

“Medusa… Do you wish to talk about her?”

Athena was quiet for a long moment. When she finally found her voice, she croaked out, “I didn’t think I would ever be capable of feeling, well, feelings. Not like I did with Medusa. They just seemed beyond what I was made to feel. They didn’t fit the mature, wise, stoic goddess I am supposed to be. But Medusa-- Medusa broke down that belief for me. She didn’t see me as a warrior or a goddess. She didn’t see me as Pallas Athena or Athena, goddess of wisdom and war. She just saw me as…Athena.”

Hera nodded from behind. Her fingers began to work through Athena’s hair, almost soothing her into a state of nothingness, but her mouth kept working.

“I sent a storm to her island, you know?”

Hera raised an eyebrow. “Did you?”

Athena nodded. “I heard a few mortals speaking of a gorgon and wanted to see for myself. When I saw her, I was stricken. I wanted to speak with her, but I didn’t know how, so I sent a storm to her island so I could go and ‘make sure all the innocents were alright’ and have a reason to talk to her.” She paused for a moment. “And a monster.”

Hera laughed. “And a monster?”

“I killed it,” Athena said. “Most likely to show off. I still do not fully understand my reasoning.” She paused again. Her throat felt tight. “I miss her.”

Hera’s panther licked the back of her ear affectionately. Athena managed a weak smile, but it didn’t last long. She stared at the surface of the rippling water numbly.

“You know, we should have known,” Hera said, gazing around the room. “Nobody likes snakes this much.”

That got Athena to utter a laugh. It rang hollow in her mouth, but at least it was something.

“Are you ready to get out?” Hera asked.

“Yes,” Athena answered.

Her limbs ached in a fierce, raw pain when she stood. Her side and shoulder were festering intensely, springing tears to her eyes when Hera applied a restorative herbal cream to the burns, allegedly recommended by Apollo, who had stopped her to share some of his knowledge on medicine on the way to the palace. After the cream, Hera rubbed Athena’s body in golden oils to soothe her skin and keep it from blotching, then helped her change into plain white robes fetched by Hera’s panther. By the time Athena got into her bedchamber, a large, round room filled with her favorite art pieces, she was completely exhausted, mentally and physically. She vaguely remembered falling asleep, curled up in her soft grey blankets, but whatever reality Morpheus had placed her into was eerily similar to waking life, yet plagued by the blood red shadows that often wrapped her mind.

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

Dirty Little Secret from the Smut prompt list for Varric/Hawke <3 <3

Hahahaha here you go, I loved this so much. Thanks for the prompt!

Uh, super porny. About 1800 words. E. Tags: semi-public sex

Mind the lemons. 

@dadrunkwriting

======

“And what about you, Champion?” the man asks. 

He’s a third or fourth son of a prominent family, something he neglected to mention when they were all introduced. The cut of his suit is fine enough but it isn’t particularly resplendent, lacking some of the touches of luxury common to the Kirkwall nobility. His sleeves lack the volume of a full length of lace at the cuffs and the threaded silver embroidery decorates only the collar and lapels of his waistcoat, rather than being worked through the whole piece. A younger son looking to improve his fortune with an advantageous marriage, but with enough flexibility to make his own match, or at least influence it.

And the lad’s trying his best, if his performance so far tonight is anything to go by. The woman sitting across from him at the dinner table, a Lady of another lesser house whom Varric assumes is supposed to be his date, wears an interesting mask of polite interest over an annoyed glower. 

“Surely there are men knocking down your door all day!”

Varric chokes on his drink and barely recovers, a laugh coughing roughly from him. Hawke drops her fork across the table and blushes what would have been a peachy hue a couple glasses of wine ago. 

“I, uh. Well.” Marian nearly drops the fork again and covers with a chuckle of her own. “Actually. Well, that is to say--” 

Varric snorts. She glares daggers at him, the delicate bridge of her nose scrunching. It only makes him want to laugh more, so he hides his smile in his crystal goblet of too-expensive-to-be-this-shitty booze. 

A sly smile sneaks across her face and Hawke focuses on their dinner-mate, composing herself in an instant. She leans forward to take full advantage of the way the sapphire blue silk of her dress clings to her body. Beside him, the poor fellow gulps audibly. The full weight of her gaze rests on the man’s face and her smile grows, positively radiant and entirely up to no good.

Varric’s suspicion is confirmed by a sneaky glance at him out of the corner of her eye. Hawke’s gaze is full of daring laughter and Varric finds himself pulled in right along with the poor lad beside them.

“No,” Marian says, a breathy, fawning affect to her words. “Though you’d think that wouldn’t be the case, all things considered.” Her hand strays to her temple and a dark ringlet wraps shyly around her finger. Hawke glances down, a move that would look demure on any other person, and she darts to look at him again for just a moment. “Makes a girl wonder about things, you know?” 

The Lady makes a choking noise. Her hand darts down to her drink and--by accident or design, Varric can’t quite tell--she knocks her glass across the table to spill her wine into Hawke’s lap. 

“Oh, I am so sorry,” she simpers, and Varric snorts as he clocks it at the same time Hawke does.

“No worries at all,” Hawke replies in that same light affect, and doesn’t bother to look at the woman. “I’ve got three more in this color alone.” She blots the stain daintily with a napkin. 

“Need a hand, mighty Champion?” Varric asks. His chair scrapes along the tile as he stands. He drinks in the smile Hawke gives him, this one without the sly guile, just full of knowing warmth. 

“Oh, I suppose I could use someone to hold my bag while I clean myself up.”

He arrives at her side just as she stands and, with a chuckle, she takes his outstretched hand. Together they breeze away from the table, dodging other dinner guests as they move around the edge of the ballroom. Their wandering feet lead them into a hallway just off the main room. 

“Hm, lost in a deserted hallway in a house neither of us own nor particularly like,” Hawke trips her fingers up Varric’s arm as she muses aloud. Her smile turns sharp, dangerous, and even covered in spilled wine she’s as beautiful as a lightning storm over the bay. “Whatever shall we do?”

Varric grins and casts his gaze down the hallway. “I have an idea.” His fingers squeeze around hers and they jog down the corridor, veering into a curtained-off alcove, light filtering in from the sconces through the folds of the velvet sheets. A large stone statue fills most of the space, but there was just enough for them to sidle up behind it. It was a tight fit but it would work. 

“Oh, Serrah Tethras,” Hawke murmurs. 

The breathy tone is almost genuine this time as Varric pins her against the foundation of the statue, a convenient little ledge that she sits back on. Her legs part and he nestles himself between them, his hands wandering over her thighs. 

An airy sigh pulls out of her as he inches upwards. “I think you might be up to no good.” 

“That’d be a lot more convincing if your hand weren’t at my belt, Magpie.” 

She only grins and pulls at the knot of his sash in response.

It’s easy, this. Hawke’s nimble fingers have Varric’s trousers open in barely a breath and he gasps when she takes him in hand. His cock fills quickly under the thorough exploration of her fingers, and he rolls his hips to chase the friction for a too-brief moment before he can catch himself.

“Keep doing that and this will be embarrassingly short,” Varric breathes against her shoulder. “And believe me, that’ll disappoint us both.” Her laughter rumbles where their bodies meet and, almost drunkenly, he kisses it from her lips.

This is easy, too. He drinks in the sounds of her, the way his name falls from her tongue when his questing hand slides up between her thighs. Hawke’s breath hitches in her throat and he takes that, too, nipping at her bottom lip as his fingers tease at the growing wetness of her slit. She tips back into the slope of the statue behind her and wraps her legs around his hips. “Patience, patience,” he murmurs into her mouth. 

“Hurry up and---ahh--” 

His fingertips slide ever-so-lightly over the firming bud of her clit. Hawke shudders against him and tilts her hips, trying to press harder into the pressure he keeps from her in his teasing. Varric pulls back just enough to catch her hooded gaze. 

“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he admits, almost smug. Without ceremony, Varric dips his middle finger slowly into the tight heat of Hawke’s cunt. 

Her eyes blow wide and she tips her head back, mouth falling open on a soundless moan. 

Varric gives her a moment to breathe--but only a moment--before moving, thrusting lazily into her. “Been thinking about this since you came down the stairs, all gussied up. Prim and proper.” He crooks his finger and she clenches around him, her breath rushing out of her against his cheek. Varric is gasping, himself, Marian’s fingers a tight ring that strokes expertly over his cock. He sinks a second finger into her soon enough and cups the nape of her neck with his other hand. Their mouths fit together, a tangle of teeth and tongue, and she bucks against the pumping of his hand. 

“Varric,” Hawke moans. Her ankles hook at the small of his back and she drags her mouth along his jaw, breath scorching against Varric’s ear. “Fuck the lady outta me.”

His brain goes blank. Varric shuffles his trousers further down his legs and slots himself fully between Hawke’s thighs. His breath shakes out of him and he has to pause as she keens softly against his neck.

They find a quick rhythm. The position isn’t quite ideal, but she bucks against him anyway. He snaps into her heat, rushing headlong toward the edge, and the sounds he has to muffle with his mouth tell him she’s hurtling right alongside him. 

“Hawke,” he breathes. “Fuck--Magpie--” She clenches and Varric sees stars. 

“Please...” She murmurs the word against his lips like a prayer. 

“Maker’s--fuck.” Varric shifts. His arms snake under her thighs to bend her knees up to her chest, and he pulls her tight against him to thrust deeper, fucking into her with all the leverage he can manage. “Fuck, Hawke, I--”

Hawke tightens like a vise around him and he snaps his head up to watch her face in the mottled light as she comes. She bites at her knuckles to muffle the toe-curling noises that spill from her mouth and she shudders against him. Her eyes find him, pupils wide and glassy, and something in Varric threatens to burst from his chest. 

"Marian,” he gasps. Varric presses his full weight down into her to seat himself in her soul and he comes, the world blurring out of focus until all he can see is the low light on her cheekbones, the bright blue of her eyes blazing like alchemical fire. He buries his head at the join of her neck and shoulder and shakes against her. 

It’s not an eternity but it’s theirs. Varric and Marian gasp for breath, slumped into each other as much as the tight quarters allows. They trade lazy kisses while their heartbeats settle, teasing even in the smouldering heat of the post-orgasm haze. 

“I think we’re missing the party,” she finally murmurs. A laugh twists her plush lips into a grin that Varric dips his head to taste. “Mm--this is why.” 

“Doesn’t look like you’re exactly clamoring to get somewhere.” He gives a slight shake of his head, pulling against the fist she’s twisted into his hair. It makes him shiver, and he sighs out a soft moan when she does it again. “Think we can sneak out of this party and take this somewhere private?”

Marian hums, a low, rumbling purr. “Maybe we can take the scenic route back.” Her fingers tug at his hair again. “Through the parks. Take our time.” 

Heat lances up Varric’s spine. He grins and shifts to help her to her feet. “Yeah,” he says, desire pooling again in his middle at the hungry glint in her eyes. He pulls her into a bruising kiss, his hands cupping at her jaw and nape. They move against each other and he presses her back into the statue behind her for another moment, two, three, before finally pulling back. Varric can feel a heady blush scorching its way up his face, but he can’t care, not when Marian looks at him like that.

“Come on.” She presses another kiss to his lips and licks at the seam of his mouth only to dance away when he moves to follow. “We have a party to ditch.”