#up to you if the breastplate is the same one from the 'husband & wife' prompt

[atrueneutral]

"It's nothing" for the two word prompts for Tav x Raphael, please? Perhaps Raphael notices and injury on them that she tries to brush off but he is not having it. Or maybe it's the other way around. Idk. I just really enjoy your writing.

“It’s nothing,” Tav said, brushing off the scrunched nose assessment Raphael gave her as she limped across the room and collapsed in the nearest chair from the door of the Den - an unwise action that left her hissing and wincing.

“‘Nothing’, you say?” he asked, tone flat and skeptical.

It was fair to say it wasn’t entirely ‘nothing’; pain flared from the injury on her thigh - a deep gouge from the tusk of a giant boar sustained in a surprise attack in the forest. Seven swine had ambushed the camp as she and another were settling down for the night, and at the end of the slaughter-fest, a majority of her (expensive) healing potions were used to keep her novice-of-an-adventuring-partner alive. A Potion of Healing was all that remained for her own consumption, and, thankfully, the single tincture had been enough to finish the job tasked to them.

Two days of travel later, here she was at the Devil’s Den with a festering wound that had barely mended.

“It’s fine,” Tav said (still wincing) with a wave of her hand. “I’ll grab a Superior Potion of Healing on my way home. Thought I’d first personally deliver the news that everything went smoothly - mostly.”

It would have been more accurate to have said she’d ‘purchase a Superior Potion of Healing on the way home if she could’. The empty, cavernous state of her coin-purse meant she would be limping home and limping into bed with no relief.

As for why her coin-purse was spent, she’d recently (and covertly) upgraded her leather boots and gloves to go with her upgraded (and quite stylish) leather breastplate.

Hindsight lamented that these newer, costly additions to her ensemble did not include thigh armor.

Raphael judged her disapprovingly from where he stood.

Snap!

A chalice filled to the brim with what she knew to be a Superior Potion of Healing materialized in his hand.

Tav’s cheeks became heated. “Oh, thank you, but like I said, I’ll get one on my way home.”

His eyes narrowed, and Raphael began to move towards her with resolve plain on his face; the potion he held would not be declined; he would force it down her throat if need be.

“Really, Raphael, this is unnecessary. I’ll go right now,” Tav said, pushing herself into the back of the chair in a superfluous attempt to inch away from the fiendish man who came to loom over her after four great strides.

“You are being more stubborn than usual - either you will drink this potion, by my hand or yours, or I will steal you away to the boudoir and dump you in the bath.”

“Is there a third option?” Tav meekly asked, cowering in his shadow.

“I sever your leg from your body.”

A morbid joke, but one that saw her glower and grab the encrusted-chalice from his hand.

“Bastard,” she muttered before bringing the rim of the cup to her lips and tilting the contents back. Swallowing every drop, Tav shoved the chalice into Raphael’s chest, and his hand snatched her wrist.

“My stubborn little mouse,” he rumbled. “Here I was favoring the second option...”

“Oh, not the third?” Tav retorted wryly. She sighed and relinquished the chalice to him as she pulled her hand away and sagged in her seat. “I feel like I’m relying on you too much. Not that I don’t appreciate everything you do for me, but I’m used to fending for myself… You always have what I need when I need it, or provide me with what I want - which is in your job description, I know.” She stared at her thigh and could feel a tingling sensation taking over her wound. “It’s probably past experience that’s telling me it’s all going to blow up in my face one of these days.”

“I have told you before that what I provide for you is given freely.”

She peered up at him. “You’re not secretly logging every donation? To foot me with a bill for thousands-upon-thousands of gold when I’m crawling to you on death’s door needing you the most?”

“No,” came his reply. “And let it be said that death would not take you even as you clamber on his doorstep - your maddening obstinance would not allow it.”

The corners of her lips twitched, and Tav heaved herself to her feet (without wincing in the process) to come face to face with Raphael. Her hand raised, cupping his cheek, and she caressed stubbled skin with a swipe of her thumb.

“Thank you for the potion,” she said, planting a kiss on her cambion’s lips.

“It’s my pleasure, my dear.” 

[chez-pezeater]

TCR Birthday Bash 2018

Day 3: Role Reversal 

‘Well this was certainly different,’ Baron thought to himself, feeling sweat dripping down towards his collar while trying to keep a pleasant expression on his face.

Now normally whenever on a case, Baron Humbert von Gikkingen (Baron to his friends) would be the one swooping in with a dramatic flair and saving the helpless damsel in distress. This time however the glass slipper (A/N: lol, Sunday’s prompt) was on the other foot. For once HE was the damsel in distress.

The Bureau got a case in trying to help an exiled princess regain her stolen throne. Needless to say they were successful... until it was time for the coronation. 

Apparently Princess Blanche (A/N: Shout out to YarningChick!) had decided that Baron would be the perfect Prince Consort for her as he had saved not only the princess herself but her entire kingdom from her power hungry stepmother. Even though Baron was A) Not human and most importantly B) Spoken for. 

Princess Blanche in typical (*cough*snobbish*cough*) royal fashion just said that there was nothing he would want that she could not provide and thus was obviously a much better match between her wealth and prestige. Baron tried to be a gentleman about it and let her down gently both in public and private but to no avail. Toto left a few days ago to get help (from where Baron wasn’t sure but at this point he wasn’t picky) but at least Muta was still around (though mostly for the free food as “Friend of the Groom”, thanks Muta) so Baron wasn’t completely alone.

Baron was brought out of his thought by the cheering in the throne room, Princess Blanche was now Queen. He politely clapped but that was as far as he was willing to go at this point. Pr- Queen Blanche rose from her throne and held up a hand.

“My people, it is so good to stand before you once again. And now I have an announcement. As we all know, this kingdom hasn’t had a king since the passing of my father so many years ago. It is now my great pleasure to announce to you all, your future King Consort and Champion of our beloved kingdom, Baron Humbert von Gikkingen!” 

Baron stiffened in righteous fury. (Spoiled, manipulative, rotten, little-) Baron cut those thoughts short as well wishers, courtiers, and guards banded together to bring (read: shove) him closer to their Queen. As he was pushed onto the dais next to Her Highness, Baron’s thoughts went out to his beloved. How he wished he had let her know where he was going before taking this case. He hoped she would one day forgive him for this.

Blanche smiled proudly at Baron. Everything was going the way it should be. Her wicked stepmother was gone, her kingdom was safe, her friends were with her and now she had a handsome savior who would become her husband. All was right in her world. (Or so she thought.)

“Baron Humbert von Gikkingen, please kneel so we may say our marriage vows and rule this kingdom together,” Blanche (kindly) commanded, readying her skirts to do the same. Baron’s already strained temper frayed.

“For the last time Your Majesty! I am not free to wed! I am spoken for and very much in love with the one waiting back home for me!” Baron yelled, loud enough that his voiced echoed throughout the Great Hall and into the castle beyond the doors.

“I would certainly hope so,” a playful feminine voice called out. The entire hall turned to look at who would dare to disrupt such a sacred ceremony. Baron’s heart beat fast full of love, awe, and wonder as he saw his knight in shining armor.

It was Haru.

She really was wearing a shining armor breastplate, with an acceptable sized sword hanging from her waist. Her hair was flowing freely until the nape of her neck so as to not pull around her ears. Her tail flowing proudly behind her like a banner of freedom. And with her was King Lune with his queen Yuki and a battalion of guards from the Cat Kingdom. Haru was still marching, full of confidence, down the center isle towards the dais.

“Especially since you married me, my love,” Haru continued with a playful smile.

“What?!” Blanche screeched furiously.

Baron breathed a sigh of relief before running up to Haru, sweeping her into his arms and delivering a very passionate kiss upon her lips. 

“I demand an explaination!” Blanche hollered, stomping her foot like a petulant child.

Baron slowly stopped the twirling lip lock to finally respond to Her Spoiled Highness.

“Your Majesty may I please present Baroness Haru von Gikkingen-Yoshioka, my wife.” 

[wendynerdwrites]

Recovered Jonsa fics #1: Jon Tackles Littlefinger

So, since my blog was erased, so were a bunch of fics since many of them were under a “read more” cut and now the links are gone. Some I am not able to recover some of them, but I am able to repost others. Some are prompts, and with some, I don’t have the og prompts, just the response. So here I am, reposting what I can. Apologies for the long posts, but it’s for preserving them!

After two weeks of knowing the man, Jon Snow is of the opinion that Petyr Baelish does not walk. He slithers. He does not smile, he smirks. He does not love, he wants.

And he has saved them all. Even Rickon, though he stays in the corner of his bedchamber, staring at the wall and shaking, is alive. Baelish convinced Ramsay with a letter that Rickon was of more use to him alive than dead, at least until the Northern Insurrection was quelled. Then the man, under the guise of bringing the Vale’s Army to serve House Bolton, entered Winterfell and managed to get the boy out.

Ultimately, thanks to Baelish, the battle was practically over before it began. Ramsay, of course, still tried to put up a fight. It gave Jon the singular pleasure of hacking off the bastard’s arms and delivering him to Sansa to deliver the blow to the throat that makes her a widow. Soon after, Baelish remarks that widowhood becomes her.

It’s then that Jon is certain of what is coming.

Baelish doesn’t just arrive with an army. He arrives with coin, with lumber, with workers. He arrives with silks, furs, and even jewels. A sapphire necklace that he remarks still can’t match the luster of Sansa’s eyes. He wears armor, new, expensive, gilded, the breastplate emblazoned with a mockingbird. The armor is undented, untouched, and it is clear by the way his shoulders sag that he is not used to wearing such things. The armor itself is forged more for style than function.

Baelish even brought toys and things for Rickon. He brought the boy a puppy, of all things. He encourages the young lord of the Vale--- gawky, pale, awkward, spoiled--- to try and play with the new Lord of Winterfell. The new Lord of Winterfell stays in his corner.

When Baelish speaks to Sansa, he leans. Forward, to the side, whatever angle at which he can get close. Sansa stiffens when he does this, but she doesn’t stop him, and he doesn’t stop.

From their first night in Winterfell onward, Jon visits his sister in her chambers in the evening, stays late, and leaves Ghost outside her door when he leaves. More than once he’s caught Baelish lurking in the hall outside her chamber. It’s a couple of days after the first time he finds Baelish there that Jon notices how Sansa has started hurrying to the table at meals and “playfully” stealing food from Jon’s plate before he has a chance to touch it. She pretends it is sibling mischief, but he can tell from the look in her eyes that it isn’t.

Soon after that, Baelish starts approaching Jon, offering “whatever help he can give” in the upcoming war against the White Walkers. Coin, men, supplies, connections… The worst part is that Jon has to take it. He feels like a pimp.

It’s midday when he looks out a window, down onto the glass gardens, and sees them walking together amidst the greenery. Baelish is smirking, leaning, slithering. Jon has had enough, and he’s out the door and down the stairs quick as lightning. He is as silent as a ghost as he slips into the garden. His time hunting with Father, Theon Greyjoy, and Robb taught him how to sneak. Ygritte taught him to sneak even better. He crouches behind a set of shrubs once he is in earshot.

“Sansa, no one can offer you, no one has offered you, as much as I offer you. You wrote of a reward in your message to me, and I came. I am your ally, your partner. I saved---”

“---Me from the very monster you delivered me to. One might say that me not divulging that information to Lord Royce should be reward enough after all that I’ve suffered thanks to you.

Jon cannot help but smile.

“I once offered you the same army and you rejected me. You were the one who wrote to me, who offered me a reward. I promised to keep you safe, and the best way I can do that is if I become your husband.”

Jon had guessed it was all heading towards this, but something about hearing it spoken aloud makes his heart race.

He watches as Sansa moves away from Baelish to play with a white blossom.

“I could tell them about Aunt Lysa as well.”

Baelish stiffens. “Then everything I have to offer you would be lost. Tell me, Sansa, have you considered your brothers?”

“I hope you’re not implying any sort of threat, Lord Baelish.”

“No, of course not. I was referring to the oncoming war,” Baelish moves up behind her. He leans again, “Jon marching off to battle against the White Walkers. He’s safer with me supplying him what he needs. He’s even safer with my men going to battle instead of him.”

Sansa speaks for both of them when she asks, “What are you talking about?”

“I could insure that your cousin never has to face an army again. He can stay home, alive, safe, while others fight the war. You were just reunited with him, it’s cruel that you’ll have to see him go off to war again so soon, possibly to lose him forever. But if he were somehow prevented from leaving to fight, his life is assured.”

Sansa stiffens, “Jon is determined to fight. People follow him.”

“He has fought enough. He has even died for others. He’s fought for Winterfell, he deserves to live. To be protected. People can follow other people. I mean, you don’t actually believe that nonsense from the Red Woman---”

“---Don’t be absurd.”

“Then there is no reason Jon has to risk his life again. You can keep him safe. We can keep him safe. And all that I ask in return is…” And that’s when his lips brush her ear. That’s when Jon springs from his hiding place. That’s when she screams. That’s when the flowerbeds topple over as Jon forces Baelish atop the table, blade to his throat.

“Jon! Stop!”

At the sound of her voice, he pulls back. He wants to slit Baelish’s throat from ear to ear with every fiber of his being, but he won’t scare her. He won’t.

He’s panting, he’s furious. He glares as Baelish sits up, shaking.

“You don’t lay a hand on her,” Jon tells him, “Do you understand me?”

“I believe that is up to the lady,” Baelish says hastily.

“I would not be dishonored!” Sansa says, clearly upset, “I have suffered that enough!”

Baelish gets to his feet. And his lip curls. It’s amazing to Jon how quickly he recovers. “Of course, Lady Sansa, forgive me. Only your husband has a right to touch you.”

“Yes,” she says nervously, “Only my husband.”

“Would you dishonor yourself by breaking your word?” Baelish asks her. “Because I would give my word that I will not lay an unworthy hand upon you.”

Sansa takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I will not break my word, if you do not break yours. Here, before Jon, you promise us men, supplies, coin, all we would need to fight the war against the White Walkers?”

Jon looks at Sansa, horrified. No, please, no, he pleads with her silently. But she doesn’t respond.

“In exchange for---?”

“By the week’s end, I will be a widow no longer. You will make a bride of me.”

Baelish grins, then bows, and excuses himself. Once his footfalls are out of earshot, Jon turns to Sansa. “I am going to kill him. You know that.”

“Jon, you can’t---”

“---I can, and will, if it means you will not become that man’s wife. This is not up for discussion. I heard everything. I know what he’s done. He will die, one way or another,” he grabs her shoulders, “I understand if you will not forgive me. But I cannot, will not allow this to happen. I will not see you bartered off to some unworthy snake. It will not happen again, Sansa.”

“What about all he offers us?”

“None of it’s worth it. I’d rather die again than let it happen. What kind of world would I be fighting for, when it’s one where you are surrendered to that monster? I’ve sacrificed enough, I’m not sacrificing you. You are not to be sold, not to be given away, bartered away.”

She seizes him, kisses him, and Jon is suddenly lost in the soft, warm sweetness that is her mouth. He is stunned. Not simply by the kiss, but at the realization that he has wanted this ever since he saw her that day in the courtyard of Castle Black. He seems to melt into her.

It seems an eternity and half a moment when their lips part. His eyes open without him realizing that they were ever closed. Her eyes seem to pour into his.

“I suppose I should be ashamed, but only if you are displeased,” she says breathlessly. All he can do is shake his head.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You could do something else instead of killing him. Something that would keep him or any other opportunistic lech from making me his.”

“What?” He feels like he should know the answer to this, but he can’t think of anything right now except the scent of her hair and the music of her voice.

“Wed me. You are Jon Targaryen, not Jon Snow. Do it, before witnesses. Wed me, bed me, come back to me, be mine. No one would be able to keep us apart. We could stay in Winterfell, keep Rickon safe, keep the North safe, bring the Starks back, stay home where we belong. I know it’s much to ask, but I would be a good wife to you, Jon, I would. I---”

“---Yes.”

Her mouth falls open, and it takes a little while for words to come out of it. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. That is the life I want. You are the life I want. I love you. And I am not letting you go.”

It’s the most simple thing in the world, the most obvious thing. She is what I will fight for. She’s what I’ve been fighting for since I came back to life. She is what I came back for. She is what I’m going to come back for. She’s all I want to come back for.

She smiles then. “Then I think tonight should be the night that Baelish makes me a bride.”

~_~_~_~_~_~

It’s the first time Jon has seen Baelish slither and smirk without wanting to kill him. Baelish, head to toe in deep green velvet, escorts Sansa to the godswood, to the Heart Tree. It’s immediately clear that he is unfamiliar with Northern customs.

Lord Royce is there, as is Lady Mormont, Lord Arryn, Lord and Lady Manderly. All of the remaining Northern elite.

Sansa is a vision in ivory and silver brocade that Baelish has brought her. She wears her Stark cloak over it. Baelish wears a mockingbird cloak on his back, clearly intending to eventually drape it upon the bride’s shoulders.

Jon watches them from the base of the Heart Tree. He waits until the are close to ask, “Who comes before the gods?”

“I do, Petyr of House Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Protector of the Vale, and uncle to the lady.”

“And who do you bring with you?”

“Sansa of House Stark, a lady trueborn, noble, and flowered, coming before the gods to be joined with her husband.”

Jon steps forward and takes Sansa hand. “I am Jon of the House Targaryen, rightful heir to Dragonstone, the Iron Throne, and the Seven Realms of Westeros. And I stand here, before the gods of the First Men, to take Sansa of the House Stark, Lady of Winterfell,  as my wife.”

At this, Littlefinger steps in. “What?! She is to be muy---”

“And I, Sansa of the House Stark, Lady of Winterfell, stand here before the gods of the First Men to take Jon of House Targaryen, rightful heir to Dragonstone, the Iron Throne, and the Seven Realms of Westeros, as my husband.”

Baelish stepped back then, eyes wide, gaping. “But… But… You said…”

“I sad that you’d make me a bride. And you did. You led me to my husband.” Sansa says after turning away from their kiss. And in exchange for that honor, you have sworn men, supplies, and coin to aid us.”

“I was promised a reward!’ He snarled. Sansa move towards him, grabs him by the collar, and leans in. Jon doesn’t have to hear to know what she’s saying, 

“Your reward is your life.”