While shopping for perfumery reagents at the market in Waterdeep, Tav purchases a particularly interesting bottle: A powerful aphrodisiac. And Gale is eager to learn what she intends to do with it.
Her subtle smirk persists as she lifts an unlabeled bottle, removing the cork despite the stalltender’s pursed lips and tired eyes. She sniffs the contents, head reeling back ever so slightly. It must be the profile rather than potency, as Gale can smell nothing from just a foot away. She puts the cork back on, eyeing the shopkeep with skeptic curiosity. “That’s obscenely cloying. What is it?”
The merchant’s jaw clenches for a fraction of a moment, then he quickly dons his charismatic smile. The value of her potential purchases is not one he’s willing to sacrifice over a bit of brusque criticism. “You have a keen attention to detail, my lady. My wife is a most talented apothecary, and I sell her concoctions on the side.” He presses his hands together, fingers splayed. “What you have there is called Foetidal, a very powerful aphrodisiac.” His gaze shifts from her to Gale, his salesman’s grin ringing a bit too eager. “Results guaranteed.”
Tav’s eyes lift, stonefaced in the wake of his pitch. She examines his face, the stock of bottles and reagents behind him, the gold band on his ring finger. He sweats under her scrutiny, but does not falter. Without a word, Tav sets the vial on the counter amidst her collection of perfumery components. “What do I owe?”
Gale doesn’t hear the total amount. Does not particularly care. The only thing he’s thinking about is the heat coalescing in his stomach and the bounds of his imagination. They certainly had no need for such a stimulant…But color him deeply intrigued.
Unfortunately, Gale has no idea how long he’ll have to endure tight britches before she reveals what she’s planning.
-.-.-
Rating: K
Pairing: Implied noremma, but mainly ot3 friendship
Wordcount: 1k+
Summary: In a world parallel from the one we all know, there's no demon and the such. But in this world, Norman got himself sick from exhaustion again, and his two best-friends are thankfully there to scold him.
A/N: It’s parallel to canon events but there isn’t really any spoilers. Inspired by how Emma was scolding Norman in ch. 153, lol.
-.-.-
Cross-posted on AO3
-.-.-
The last thing Norman remembers is the scorching heat and the sun blinding brightness. But he opens his eyes to a bright neon lamp and a mop of dark hair. His body feels somehow heavy and really, really tired. He blinks a few times, adjusting to the light.
“…Ray?”
Ray glances from his crossed legs position on the bedside. An open note book in his lap. He looks like he’s writing down something.
“Ah, you’re finally awake,” Ray comments simply, then back at his writing for a bit, before closing the book and fetching a glass of water that someone has put on the study desk. Probably Ray himself.
Norman sits up groggily, taking the offered glass.
“You passed out in the track field at P.E.,” Ray explains. He’s then back at the writings again after handing out the glass
Norman tries to peek over curiously. “What are you doing?”
“Writing down the notes from today’s class.” Ray pauses, biting his pen and mumbles something about Pythagoras’ Theorem before continuing again.
Norman frowns. “But you never write notes.”
“Yeah, because my anomaly memory ability fortunately can do wonders.” Ray shrugged shamelessly. “But you usually write it. And event though you don’t need it, that idiot definitely does.”
“That idiot– you mean Emma?” Norman’s eyes widen slightly, only realizing just now that there’s a very familiar voice humming from somewhere in the house.
“Wha– Did she got sick too?” he asks worriedly.
Ray stares at him flatly. “No, dumbass. She got worried after you passed out and demanded to all the teachers to be the one who’s bringing you back home.”
Norman feels a pang at that. Regrets wash over him as he realizes that he has caused Emma to worry so mu—
“Don’t you dare feeling sorry only to her! I’m the one you puked on to on the field, and had to carry your stupid ass to the infirmary!” Ray grumbles, slapping his head lightly with note book he’s writing on.
Norman grimace. “…Sorry?”
Ray doesn’t reply.
“Can me buying you a new video game counted as an apology?”
“…Only if it’s the latest of that series I collect.”
Norman blinks. “Eh?” He actually expected Ray to grumble a bit more before agreeing along with his joke.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m still really pissed at you landing your stupid ass sick again. But you’ll get worse from Emma anyway, so I’ll just let her scream her heart content first.”
Precisely at that, the door to his room creaks open. Emma comes in carrying a bowl of……something.
She gasps. “Norman! You’re awake!”
He winces, accepting her hug. She seems to magically forget that she was carrying a bowl in her hands earlier. Thankfully Ray has fast reflexes, otherwise they all would be drenched on the suspicious-looking soup.
Norman smiles a little at Emma. “I’m sorry for making you really wor—”
“THAT’S RIGHT! YOU SHOULD BE REALLY SORRY!”
He winces again from the shouting. Oh, God. She’s really pissed off now.
“How DARE you! I know this time it’s not just because of your naturally weak immune! It’s exhaustion, isn’t it? I didn’t realize it at first, but then everyone’s saying the same thing: you’ve been helping them! You’ve been going around helping everyone! From Jemima’s handcraft project, to Nat and Anna’s science papers, to Thoma and Lani’s upcoming math test, and to- to- …even helping me with my chemistry project and reviewing the latest physics chapters this week…” Emma trails off sadly.
“Emma…” He clasps his hand over Emma’s palm, trying to placate her. “You know I didn’t mind—”
“Oh, I know you didn’t mind it even a bit. I know that!” She slaps his hand off. “And frankly, Norman, that’s the exact problem here! You always want to help everyone! But you can’t! you’re not super-human, you’re only human!”
Norman widens eyes at her words.
“Please, Norman… You can’t just say ‘yes’ to anyone or anything… You should rely on everyone else a bit more! Like, you can get Gilda or Don to help with Jemima’s craft project, and even I could help if it’s only Thoma and Lani’s sixth grader level math!”
“And don’t forget that you’re not the only one who graduated with honors in middle school,” Ray pipes up from behind. Norman can feel Ray scowling at him even without really looking back.
“See?” Emma takes his hand in her own palms this time, clutching it close to her heart. “You don’t have to be the only one who helps everyone. We can help each other out. That’s what a family do, right?” She’s looking deep into his eyes, her own eyes pleading.
“I’m sorry,” he finally caves in, smiling a little at her. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”
Emma beams up at his words. “Now that’s settled, let’s get you something to eat to make you feel better faster!”
She brings back the bowl that Ray placed on the desk earlier. A questionably edible soup-looking liquid swimming in it.
“Um… Emma… What exactly did you put on the…uh, soup?”
Emma blinks. “The usual healthy stuffs, of course. Like, carrots, broccoli, peas, garlic, spinach, tomatoes– and, oh! Lots of the spinach and tomatoes part, because I read that they’re good for stamina and increasing blood pleasure!” she explains cheerfully.
Norman gulps. He glances at Ray for help.
Ray barely even makes an effort to hide his snickers as he fakes a cough. “Ahem. Anyway, I just realized that I promised to help Oliver with…something-science project this afternoon. Bye! Get well soon, Norman!”
With that, Ray hurries out and slams the door.
‘You TRAITOR!’
“Now, Norman, say ‘aaah’!”
Norman gulps, eyeing the very-not-appetizing weird color of the soup and tries his best not to grimace.
‘Emma tries her best. Emma tries her best. Emma tries her best.’
His pseudo-mantra chanting only does little wonder.
“A–aah—”
Needless to say, he never dares to get sick again in the presence of Emma since that day.
A bit of Christmas fun for @subjunctivemood, my lovely recipient for the Holidays round of @jonsaexchange‘s Jonsa Exchange. I hope you like it!
It all started the year Theon Greyjoy kissed Margaery Tyrell at the Starks’ Christmas party.
Catelyn Stark had a fondness for mistletoe, and she scattered sprigs and of it all over her house when she did her Christmas decorating every year. Rumor had it she had acquired a taste for the plant when she and her husband Ned had had their first kiss underneath a spot of it in her grandmother’s kitchen when he had been helping her with the dishes after her family’s Christmas party. And he never failed to find a bunch under which to sweep his wife every year, even decades into their marriage.
Catelyn, however, was also more than wise to the unpredictability of teenage hormones, so once Robb and Sansa hit their adolescent years, she stopped hanging standalone bunches in the middle of the ceilings and instead wove sprigs into the Christmas wreaths decorating the walls and the evergreen garlands wound around the banisters. Nobody ever noticed it much, although on occasion Theon caught Ned and Catelyn kissing fiercely under one or the other of the wreaths on the family room wall when he snuck out of Robb’s room to filch a drink from the downstairs refrigerator. One year the Starks rearranged the family room furniture, and the wreath happened to be hung over one of the couches. Ned and Cat both had quite a bit of Arbor Gold at that year’s party, and Theon, unfortunately, snuck out of Robb’s room exceptionally late, well after everybody should have been in bed. He wasn’t sure his eyes or ears would ever quite stop burning from the display he’d witnessed the Stark parents putting on that night.
Still, Theon had eyes, and he couldn’t help but notice how drop-dead gorgeous Sansa, the elder Stark daughter, was. By the time she went off to college she’d grown as tall as a model and every bit as hot. She had a head of fiery red hair that could light up a room, and she had legs for miles and one holy hell of a body. But Sansa was Robb’s sister, and that meant she was way off limits. The one time he’d tried to flirt with her, Robb had shouted, “Oi, Greyjoy! You wanna try that again?”, and Jon Snow, Robb’s broody best friend who barely ever said a word, stalked over and shoved him away from Sansa.
“Leave off her, Greyjoy,” he’d growled, making a noise in his throat Theon could have sworn sounded more wolf than human, and Theon did.
Then he went to the first session of Psychology 101 his sophomore year in college and laid eyes on Margaery Tyrell. So did every other guy in the room. Hell, the girl was a knockout. She might not be as tall as Sansa, but she had the finest backside a man could ask to look at, hourglass curves for days, and a saucy smile that made Theon drool. She had the professor eating out of her hand by the end of the first class period, and it didn’t take much longer for Theon to realize her flirtation game was a fearsome thing to behold – almost as fearsome as his. Try as he might, though, he could not get her to give him the time of day. He tried every grin and wink in his repertoire. He attended her volleyball games. Hell, he trotted out pickup lines he reserved for only the hottest, smartest, classiest girls in his life. All he got for it, though, was a smattering of smiles, and they weren’t those big, bold grins he saw her use on other people. She knew how to play it coy, Theon would give her that.
So he waited to make his move until that year’s Stark Christmas party. After Bran and Rickon, the two youngest Starks, had gone to bed, Theon spiked the punch bowl and helped him to several glasses. Then he nicked a sprig of mistletoe from one of Catelyn’s wreaths, duct-taped it to the doorway between the basement’s family room and game room, filled another cup with punch, and offered it to Margaery along with his most winning smile just as she stepped under the mistletoe. A snigger spilled out of Theon before he could stop it – in fact, he managed to stifle a string of moment-ruining giggles only just in time – and when she raised an eyebrow at him, he saw his opening. Clearly, he’d intrigued her. The long game had paid off – now it was time to close the deal. He closed the distance between them in a flash, pulled her flush against him, and gave her his most swoon-worthy kiss. He might have hiccupped a bit in the middle of it, but Margaery did not seem to notice. In fact, when he finally let her go, she winked at him. Theon’s eyes lit up, but Margaery shook her head and clicked her tongue at him.
“I’m flattered, Greyjoy,” she cooed, “but I’m very particular about the caliber of kisser I need.” She turned her back to him, stalked off to the punch bowl, ladled herself a glass, and drained it all in one go. Across the room, Robb and his friends Pyp Black and Grenn Wall burst out laughing. So did Shae Smith and Myrcella Baratheon, who had been tittering over on the other side of the room.
Well, son of a bitch. Theon Greyjoy had never been played quite so hard.
Theon slunk toward the pool table, but before he got there he saw Sansa Stark out of the corner of his eye. She swept over to Margaery and the others, flashing one of her megawatt smiles at something. Theon goggled at her for a moment before turning out of instinct to check for Robb and Jon. Robb was nowhere in sight, but Jon was sitting in the corner holding a beer and looking even gogglier than Theon.
He was staring at Sansa Stark, too.
Weird, Theon thought before he passed out in the nearest chair. Snow must have been drunker than he thought.
By the time next year rolled around, Margaery had begun dating Robb Stark. Theon’s one consolation was that she brought her friend Ros North, a curvaceous redhead with a wicked grin and a reputation to match. Two beers and two glasses of punch into the evening, Theon snagged another sprig of mistletoe and taped it over the same doorway. He approached Ros with a glass of punch, just as he had done with Margaery, and graced her with his much-improved kiss, which he’d practiced thoroughly with a couple of week-long girlfriends the prior year. Barely five seconds into the kiss, Ros burst into giggles, pulled away, and patted Theon on the head.
“Poor baby,” she snickered. Theon still couldn’t quite tear his gaze from the way her bright, full red lips caressed the words. She tilted her head so those lips were nearly brushing Theon’s ear. Theon’s face went as red as Ros’s hair.
“I like to roll with men, dear,” she whispered. “I’ve had enough of the boys.” She whirled around, giving Theon a view of her perfect ass, and sauntered over to talk to Myrcella Baratheon and Shae Smith, who were giggling like crazy.
Bloody hell. Maybe he was losing his game. Thank gods Robb hadn’t noticed – he was too busy snogging Margaery Tyrell in the next room. Nor did Jon Snow, who was in his usual corner but talking to Sansa Stark instead of nursing his usual beer.
Theon raised an imaginary glass to Sansa. The girl had more tricks than he did if she could get Mr. Antisocial himself to smile at a party.
The following year, with both Robb and Jon occupied at the pool table, Theon used his mistletoe – and, of course, the punch – on Sansa Stark, who got more stunning every year. Sansa gave a startled yelp and shoved him backward. Theon stumbled wildly and nearly fell on his backside, only saving himself by crashing into the wall.
“Geez, Greyjoy,” said Sansa, rolling her eyes. “Sod off. You’re drunk.”
“Oi!” Suddenly Jon Snow’s glowering face obscured Theon’s field of vision. “Leave her be, Greyjoy.”
“He’s just drunk, Jon.” Sansa’s soft voice sounded from somewhere behind the curly-headed menace currently occupying Theon’s shifting eyesight. “We should get him to Robb’s room.”
Jon shook his head. “Robb and I’ll get him,” he said. “You should stay and – and have fun.”
His hand reached over to rub the back of his head. Somewhere between slumping to the floor and staring at Ros, who had come to the party with her new, rich boyfriend, Theon risked another glance at Jon. His face looked awfully red.
The following year, Sansa brought Myrcella’s nasty older brother Joffrey to the Starks’ Christmas party. Joffrey had loved nothing more than bullying Theon and anyone else he felt owed him some human misery back in high school, and from the moment he swept into the Starks’ house looking as though he owned it, Theon could tell the blond prick hadn’t changed one bit.
Good God, thought Theon as he unscrewed a bottle of rum over the punch bowl and watched Joffrey snap at Sansa for the third time in an hour. The guy was one hell of a douche. And even if Theon didn’t stand a chance with Sansa, he knew she deserved better than that twat.
But hot damn if Joffrey Baratheon didn’t have a gorgeous sister. She entered the room just then, and Theon’s eyes bulged almost out of their sockets. Myrcella got prettier every year, especially when she wore short, sparkly dresses like that…
Not until Myrcella had headed over to talk to Shae Smith did Theon realize he’d accidentally dumped the entire bottle of rum, instead of only half, into the punch bowl. Oops.
So it only took Theon until his third glass of punch to get drunk enough to kiss Myrcella under the mistletoe. She squealed and flung his arm away from her.
“Go away, Theon,” she said in that tone of prim disapproval not even Sansa Stark could match. “You’re drunk.”
Theon giggled. “I kn-know!” he agreed. “It’s called letting loose, Myrcella. You should try it some time.” He gave her his most charmingly subtle wink, although somehow he sensed that it was not coming off as subtly as he wanted it to. Myrcella merely rolled her eyes and strode off in Margaery Tyrell’s direction. Halfway there, she frowned and changed course, this time to where her brother was snapping at Sansa yet again. Jon Snow, however, got over there before she could, and before Baratheon knew what had hit him, Snow spun him around by the arm and started growling at him. He really did look almost like a snapping Rottweiler, Theon thought, and managed a few more giggles before he collapsed on the nearest couch.
The following year, Sansa had dumped Joffrey Baratheon, who was smart enough not to show his face at the Starks’ party. His sister showed up, though, on the arm of Trystane Martell, who spent much of the evening getting his ass handed to him at pool by Arya Stark. The spirited younger Stark daughter was in an even feistier mood that night; she had apparently lost some bet or other with Sansa and had to wear a dress to the party, instead of her usual baggy sweatshirt and jeans, as a result. Now she was taking out her anger on the pool balls and not missing a beat despite the constraints of her form-fitting dress. Luckily, Trystane was a good sport about it, and so was Jon Snow, who got her frown to transform into a hearty laugh by the end of his second match with her.
Damn. Who knew Arya Stark could look that good when she smiled?
Theon hadn’t until now, but after a few glasses of punch, he decided to show his appreciation. Unfortunately, those glasses had made him forget just how proficient Arya was at martial arts. His lips were on hers for all of one and a half seconds before she twisted his arm around and kicked him to the floor. She emptied the glass of punch he’d offered her onto his face for good measure.
“Bugger off, Greyjoy,” she spat, and stomped off. Gendry Waters and Grenn Wall whooped from their perch in the corner. Arya glared at them, and they promptly subsided. Jon Snow and Sansa Stark, whom Arya had startled out of one of those philosophical sci-fi discussions they’d gotten so fond of all the way back in college, both had shit-eating grins on their faces. Luckily, Arya was too busy stomping over to the refrigerator for a beer to notice them.
Theon snorted, and then winced when he felt the remnants of Arya’s drink getting sucked into his nostrils. That hurt worse than the kick she’d given him, although he had a feeling that if Arya had really wanted to hurt him, she’d simply have knocked him out cold. The girl was bloody fierce, he thought, grinning, although he waited to make sure she was safely across the room before pushing himself off the floor.
He was mildly surprised when Gendry showed up as Arya’s boyfriend to the following year’s Christmas party. Aw, shit. Another one bites the dust.
Wait. Another one?
Theon stopped cold in the game room doorway on his way to retrieve the rum, which he’d stashed in the spare room he was occupying for the night.
Last year, when Theon had kissed her, she hadn’t had a boyfriend, and now she had Gendry. The year before that, it had been Myrcella Baratheon, and she’d begun dating Trystane Martell the month following the party. That had been the year Sansa Stark had shown up with Myrcella’s jackass of a brother, but they hadn’t gotten together until after Theon had kissed Sansa the prior year.
Back when Ros had shown up with that rich asshole, whom she’d only snatched up from gods knew where after Theon had tried his mistletoe game on her a year prior. And that had been the year Margaery had started dating Robb Stark, but not until after Theon had kissed her a year before that.
Theon scratched his head. Well, shit. Apparently the mistletoe worked after all, if not exactly the way he wanted it to. He frowned. It hadn’t worked so well for Sansa, though. Every other girl he’d kissed had done all right – hell, Robb and Margaery were engaged now, and so were Myrcella and Trystane – but all Sansa had gotten was six months of preening viciousness from Myrcella’s jackass brother.
Theon scratched his head again. Maybe that problem could be remedied.
“And you told Mum about the wreaths down here, right?” Sansa swept up to the punch bowl alongside Robb. “Gods know Theon won’t leave the bloody stuff alone if he gets an eyeful of it.”
Robb nodded as he poured her a glass of punch. When he reached out to hand it to her, she regarded him with a sharply raised eyebrow. Her brother held out both hands in a gesture of utter placation.
“Yes, I spoke to Mum, as requested,” he answered. “You should know by now that when a woman in my life asks me to do a favor, I am only too happy to oblige.”
A flurry of giggles bubbled out of Sansa’s mouth. “Oh, I know,” she remarked, wiggling both eyebrows at him. “How could I ever forget all three hours’ worth of assistance you gave Margaery and me when we were looking bridesmaids’ dresses?”
Robb rolled his eyes and mumbled something Theon couldn’t hear. Sansa grinned and kissed him on the cheek.
“I love you, too, big bro,” she said in her sweetest voice.
Theon shook his head. Margaery Tyrell really did have Stark trained in the art of pleasing women. But he was still sorely lacking in the art of keeping up with Theon Greyjoy.
Theon headed back toward the spare room. He’d found out a couple of years ago that Catelyn Stark stashed her mistletoe in one of the laundry room cupboards. She’d asked him to stay at the house for a few hours with Bran and Rickon, whom she had deemed not yet old enough to watch themselves, while she and Ned headed off to Torrhen’s Square to rescue Arya and her broken-down car, and they’d amused themselves with a few rounds of hide-and-seek when the boys’ PlayStation had short-circuited. Theon had opened the cupboard looking for Rickon, who’d been just small enough to fit in it, but had found the mistletoe instead. Every year since then, he’d helped himself to a sprig when the mood had taken him to kiss a beautiful girl. Robb and Sansa probably didn’t even know it was there.
Theon opened the cupboard door, smirking. Amateurs.
He snuck back into the game room just in time to watch Sansa and Arya kick Margaery and Shae to all get-out on the foosball table. Sansa giggled and did that funny little skip on one foot that she’d always done when beating one of her siblings at a game, and her red hair danced in the shimmer of the overhead lights.
Across the room, Jon Snow froze with his beer bottle halfway to his mouth. His eyes were glazed over, and a very stupid grin was painted on his normally dour face. Theon could sympathize with him, although this was hardly the time for it. He had mistletoe to wrangle and some bloke other than Joffrey Baratheon to find as a boyfriend for Sansa.
Now that his mission was clearer, Theon discovered, he needed fewer glasses of punch than usual. After all, he was no longer trying to snag Sansa for himself. He, Theon Greyjoy, was sacrificing some of his happiness to help her find her own.
He grinned as he made his way over to Sansa, but the grin faded when she pulled away a mere second after their lips had touched.
“You’re drunk again, Theon,” she sighed, and then Theon’s grin vanished altogether, because Jon Snow had grabbed him by the arm, dragged him halfway across the room, and deposited him briskly into a chair. It was an old recliner, and Jon bumped the faulty side lever as he pushed Theon down into the cushions. Both the footrest and Theon’s feet flew into the air, and Theon yelped. Ouch. Jon, however, did not miss a beat.
“Leave off her, Greyjoy,” he growled. “Stop bloody pawing like that. It’s not funny.” He slapped the sprig of mistletoe, which judging by the torn duct tape hanging off it he had just ripped from its position in the doorway.
“’M not drunk,” Theon protested. Buzzed, after all, was not the same thing as drunk. He hadn’t even been drunk since last Christmas. “And I wasn’t pawing.”
Jon Snow, however, did not hear that, for Sansa had walked up to him to lay her hand on his shoulder. The anger melted off his face as he did so, and his eyes and voice gentled at the speed of light.
“You all right?” he murmured, and Sansa nodded. She threw a blanket over Theon, who was still gaping at Jon.
“Get some rest, Theon,” she said. Theon shook his head.
“It’s the mistletoe,” he insisted. He picked up the spring and held it out to Sansa, who only shook her head.
“Rest, Theon,” she repeated, and turned to speak to Jon.
Theon bumped his head back against the chair’s headrest. “Mistletoe,” he groaned again, but nobody paid any attention to him.
At least his pain had not been for nothing, he reflected the following year when Sansa showed up at the party with a Ken-doll lookalike called Harry Hardyng. He didn’t snap at her, or anyone else for that matter, and Theon sighed with relief as he poured a third of the contents of his rum bottle – he couldn’t quite hold his liquor as well now as he’d done in the past – into the punch bowl. Sansa was brimming with smiles, and, as was her wont, her mirth infected everyone she spoke to. The only exception was Jon Snow, who looked even more dour than usual. He spent most of the night playing pool and foosball with Pyp, Grenn, Sam Tarly, and their girlfriends, and spoke to Sansa hardly at all. That was the only time, however, that the dour look left his face.
Huh. Theon was so absorbed in Snow’s altered demeanor that he completely forgot to refill the punch bowl with rum.
He also forgot to kiss a girl.
When he returned to the Starks’ house the following Christmas, Sansa was once again single. Hardyng, it turned out, was as lousy a wanker as Joffrey Baratheon, for he’d spent nearly the entire relationship cheating on Sansa. She’d cried her eyes out, quit her job in King’s Landing, and moved back to Wintertown. Theon had taken to hanging out with her now and again, which also usually meant hanging out with Arya, Gendry, and Jon. Sometimes Theon would bring a girl and make it a double (or triple) date. Not that Sansa was dating Jon or anything, but they acted an awful lot like it sometimes. Theon Greyjoy, after all, had eyes and ears. He saw the way Sansa squealed and huddled against Jon’s shoulder when whatever movie they’d gone out to got freaky or intense, as well as how quickly Jon wrapped his arm around her in response. He heard them finish each other’s sentences while thrashing Theon’s ass at Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit. He heard the low growl rumbling in Jon’s throat when they were out at a restaurant and Sansa went to the bar to get a round of drinks, only to get hit on by a couple of random guys. He saw Jon’s eyes light up when they picked Sansa up for Margaery Tyrell’s grandmother’s midsummer ball and she dashed down the stairs apologizing for being late in a shiny golden gown that made her look like a goddess. He saw Jon’s jaw drop, and he saw the weird, hazy look on the other man’s face. It was a look Jon displayed more and more often as the months wore on, and he started to wonder whether it wasn’t even more annoying than the broody scowl Jon used to favor.
Then he heard Jon crack a joke one day. Well, it was more an actual pun than a joke, but in any case, Jon Snow had displayed humor – humor – and there was Sansa, laughing like she hadn’t a care in the world. She put a hand on Jon’s shoulder, and Theon saw the flush coloring the back of the other man’s neck, and he heard Jon mumbling something about not being a comedian or a bleeding poet. Sansa just smiled and said, “You underestimate a lot of things about yourself, Jon Snow,” and then Margaery Tyrell came over to talk to her, and when Sansa looked back over her shoulder at Jon, she bit her lip and got one of those weird, hazy looks on her face that Jon only got around her.
Aw, man.
Theon wanted to kiss Sansa for a third time at the Starks’ Christmas party that year. He really did. Maybe then Snow would actually grow the balls to ask her out.
Or maybe she’d end up with somebody as bad as Baratheon or Hardyng.
He couldn’t risk it.
But then Jon plodded down the stairs into the Starks’ family room, and Sansa’s face lit up with another of her gorgeous, hazy smiles, and Jon gave her one of his dopey grins, and Theon suddenly knew what he had to do.
Oh, shit.
He really was getting to be a lightweight, because he started to go fuzzy on just his fourth beer – he’d skipped spiking the punch, because it was way too important that both Jon and Sansa be sober for this. If either of them got even the slightest buzz, they might read way too much into things, and tomorrow they’d be back to pussyfooting around everything, and Theon would be damned if he let all his hard work and sacrifice go to waste.
So he screwed up his courage, hung up another sprig of mistletoe, dropped his plate and let the chips and popcorn on it spill to the floor, and loudly hailed Jon to come over and help him. As soon as Jon bent down, Theon wrinkled his face, planted his lips smack on the latter’s mouth for as short a moment as his reflexes would allow, and spat onto his empty plate. Jon whirled around as though Theon had just set him on fire. Theon, startled, lost his balance and sat smack on the floor.
“There you are,” he hiccupped, still gagging. “Gods, you taste bloody awful. Now go – ” he gestured wildly in Sansa’s direction – “go ask her to be your girlfriend. I’ve given you the lucky charm, mate.”
He waved his hand in the direction of the mistletoe, which was hanging forlornly in the doorway. Jon stared at him as though unable to decide whether to punch Theon or ask him what the bloody hell he meant. Then his gaze turned to Sansa, who was blushing furiously and biting her lip and looking at Jon with the same googly, silly looks as he was giving her. Theon opened his mouth to yell at them to just kiss already, but all that came out was a loud belch.
“’Bout bloody time,” said several voices behind him. Theon turned to see Gendry, Arya, and Margaery directing identical Cheshire-cat grins at a red-faced Jon, who was scratching his ear and listening with rapt attention to something an equally red-faced Sansa was saying. She took his arm and led him into the hallway, out of Theon’s sight.
“Huh.” Theon turned again to see Arya Stark regarding him curiously. “Not sure which one’ll give Mum the bigger heart attack – those idiots seeing the bloody light or you being useful for once, Greyjoy.” Theon opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand.
“Take that shit down,” she said, nodding up at the sprig of mistletoe. “I don’t need my eyes burned any more tonight.”
It took a few heaves and wobbles, but Theon finally managed to stand up and remove the mistletoe, tape and all, from the game room doorway. He regarded it for a long moment and then shrugged. Maybe he really shouldn’t push his luck any further, especially after the lengths to which he’d had to go tonight. He turned around and headed for the laundry room. When he reached the doorway, he lurched and nearly fell over again.
Jon and Sansa were standing just underneath the cabinet where Catelyn Stark kept her mistletoe, wrapped around each other like paper around Christmas presents and kissing like there was no tomorrow. Jon had one hand cupped at the nape of Sansa’s neck, his fingers threaded through her hair, and she was caressing his curls with one of hers. At one point Jon drew back long enough to nuzzle her cheek gently and whisper something in her ear. Sansa blushed and grinned at him, and Theon expected cartoon hearts to come flying out of her eyes at any moment.
Huh. Jon Snow was a hell of a lot better with girls than he’d ever thought.
Theon grinned and pocketed the mistletoe. He could always save it for later – like at their wedding, where he could threaten to hold it over their heads through the whole bloody dinner if they didn’t name their firstborn son Theon in his honor. Or, come to think of it, name him best man. He grinned again as he turned away from the couple, whose lips were getting more fused together by the second.
Gods knew they’d given him more than enough material to make one hell of a toast.
Fandom: Baldur's Gate
Relationships: The Dark Urge/Gale, Gale/Tav
Words: 9,499 | Rating: Mature
Tags: Major Character Death!!, grief & healing, moments of levity, sexual references, angst with a hopeful ending
Summary:
40 years after the defeat of the Netherbrain, Gale and Tav have continued their heroics in Waterdeep. Until one day, there's only one way left to win, and Gale is lost forever. Tav struggles to cope with the death of her husband...but Gale's words from beyond the grave help her heal in his absence.
I was blasted across the room with a firehose by @tociminna thank you pls do it again anytime : D
SO funny enough I actually just finished the first draft of a smutty little one-shot based on the text message meme I did the other day. I'll edit and post it tomorrow, but here's a preview.
For context, Tavrin may be a card shark, but she has not mastered Lanceboard (at all) so she's getting "creative" with her strategies (cheating lol) to try and beat Gale. But he has a few tricks up his own sleeve~
Takes place vaguely some time after game events and marriage lol. (this snippet is not explicit and also not edited yet xD)
Flirty lil tags for @aerin67 @fireflyeyes @optimisticgrey @asorceresswrites @toomanyfamiliars and @gortashsrighthand !
Rating: Explicit 18+
Category: M/F
Pairing: Gale/Tav, Gale/The Dark Urge
Chapters: 1/1
Word Count: 4,688
Additional Tags: Smut, Lanceboard, Banter, Teasing, Soft Dom Gale, semi-appropriate use of mage hand, Gale's Practiced Tongue, Counter Sex, Switch Tav/Durge, Scratching, Orgasm Denial, Orgasm Edging, Cunnilingus, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Body Worship, Service Top Gale
Author's Note: A one-shot? From me? Wild, I know. This is based on a fun text-post I did the other day xD
Summary:
Despite having taught her the rules of Lanceboard, Tav still struggles to defeat Gale at the game. So, she decides it's time to try more devious tactics—aka, cheating. However, Gale has a few tricks up his own sleeve...and in the end, there are no losers in this new game of their making.
Preview:
“You realized your impending defeat and used your wiles to distract me, claiming we could ‘finish the game tomorrow’, and then you moved my Rook.” His building grin rings clear in his voice. “Menace~”
A low laugh rumbles in her throat, backside pressed against him with salacious intent. “The best strategy is the one that works,” she counters in that poison-honey timbre, fingernails drumming across the countertop. Tav’s head turns, fierce eyes peering at him over her shoulder. “Cheating is just another strategy.”
He’s seen her cheat everything from cards to death itself. The one thing she has never cheated, however, is Gale. Even now, it hardly counts—
—Because she knew he’d notice. This was a game of her own making, one with her own rules stacked in her favor. An attempt to rile him up, and he’s playing right into her hands.
Or so she thinks.
“Not a legal one,” he chides in playful accord. “Have you no regard for the sanctity of Lanceboard?”
“I have no regard for sanctity in any form,” she muses as she runs her hand along his forearm. “You know this.”
“And you knew you could not defeat me without sabotaging me,” he teases as he slips his hand beneath the lapel of her robe, the silk sliding off her shoulders with the slightest motion. His fingers trace low along her taut stomach, lean muscle clenching under his touch. “Complimentary as that is, there will be consequences.”
Read the full fic on AO3
Tags: @aerin67 @fireflyeyes @optimisticgrey @asorceresswrites @dr4gonwriter
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My gift to @allisonswan for the “Milestones” round of the Jonsa Gift Exchange hosted by the wonderful ladies over at @jonsaexchange. I hope you like it! :-)
Jon Snow married Sansa Stark on her one-and-twentieth name day.
He had groused and growled when his aunt, the newly-minted Queen of the Six Kingdoms, had announced the date. The Queen in the North, he had pointed out, deserved some happiness for once on her name day, and not yet another unwanted marriage to another unwanted bridegroom – and a bridegroom who had been raised as her half-brother, at that.
But Daenerys Targaryen would yield to no one, not even her nephew and heir, and she had not hesitated to tell him so. Jon had opened his mouth to shout back at her, but he had felt the gentle pressure of Sansa’s hand on his arm and heard her calmly agree with Daenerys, and, as was increasingly the case with his fair cousin, he found himself speechless.
As soon as Daenerys had left the room, he had begun to growl again about how much better Sansa deserved. Sansa had blushed, but only a bit, and her voice had remained steady as she had assured Jon she had no objections to being married on her name day. It was such a silly thing to fuss about, she had said, what with a kingdom full of half-starved people to care for, and a keep full of refugees, and the possibility of yet another blizzard howling over Winterfell and making the Kingsroad utterly impassable any day. And Daenerys, anxious to head south and officially claim the Iron Throne now that Cersei Lannister had been slain by her own twin brother, could not be kept waiting. Nor could the Northern lords, who were growing more eager by the day to see the new alliance between North and South cemented with a true marriage before the Old Gods.
“But – ” Sansa’s voice had lowered then, and she had stretched out her hand until it hovered just over his arm. Jon had stilled at once, and even then it had taken a few moments for Sansa to lower her hand enough to touch him and thank him quietly for thinking of her just the same. He had felt the faint tremors in her fingers, and a wave of shame had washed over him. He had been snapping at his aunt over the date of a wedding when he should have been reassuring his bride that, aunt and lords be damned, he would treat her in every way as the queen she was and as a man should treat his wife; and he would show her that she need never tremble to touch him – not on the wedding night or any night after.
So the following day, when Jon had accompanied Sansa on her inspection of the glass gardens, he had noticed how she had lingered and smiled over the blue winter roses nestled in the corner of the smallest garden. After they had returned to the keep to meet with his aunt, he had observed Sansa’s eyes widening just a bit when Daenerys had asked her if she intended to carry a bouquet of flowers into the godswood when she wed Jon. After all, it was the latest fashion among new brides, Northern and Southern alike, to adorn themselves with a sign of spring now that the Battle for the Dawn had been won and the winter was nearly over. Sansa had replied that the flowers of Winterfell were better used to decorate the castle and lift the spirits of its residents. Jon had not voiced his disagreement at the time, but a few days before the wedding, he had swallowed his pride long enough to ask his aunt just how this new bridal ornament should be arranged. She had surprised him by accompanying him to the glass gardens, and he had spent the better part of an hour there learning how to pluck and prune winter roses. By the end of the session, his hands were covered with scratches and the gardeners in tears from laughing at his clumsy first attempts; but Jon had successfully plucked his first rose, and that made the wounds and the laughter alike well earned.
On the morning of Sansa’s name day, Jon greeted her in her solar bearing a fine bouquet of winter roses interlaced with white snowbells. It was bound with a thick silver bracelet carved in the form of a chain of direwolves with sapphire eyes, and from the bracelet dangled a wooden direwolf ornament that Jon had carved himself. Sansa’s eyes lit up like candles, and she threw her arms around him and whispered that he should not have gone to so much trouble. Jon felt her shoulders trembling, but he rubbed soothing circles upon her back, and eventually she stopped shaking. When she drew back, her eyes were shining, and for once she seemed as speechless as he. “They’re so pretty,” she whispered at length, nodding toward the flowers and caressing their petals as her eight-year-old self would have done.
“Not as pretty as you,” Jon murmured; and they were both blushing when Sansa’s handmaiden came to fetch her for the wedding preparations.
When Sansa swept into the godswood that evening, the petals on the bouquet Jon had so carefully arranged for her glowed like the sapphires on her new bracelet in the combined light of the candles, moon, and stars. But Jon noticed none of them. He was far too awestruck by the loveliness of his bride and her glowing red hair and her shining eyes and her trembling smile. It was not until he heard Arya snickering behind him that he realized Maester Wolkan had just asked, “Who claims her?” for the third time in a row.
Sansa’s hands trembled through most of the ceremony; but Jon rubbed the backs gently with his thumbs until they stopped shaking. Later that night, she trembled again, even as she insisted they do their duty and get an heir for the North. He asked twice if she was sure, and for a moment he thought she would decline. Then her eyes swept to the bedside table, where her wedding bouquet stood in a lovely fluted glass dish that had belonged to Lady Catelyn; and she nodded firmly and began to undo her laces. She managed to knot them instead, so Jon untied them as carefully as he had tied her wedding bouquet. When she let her shift fall away to expose her bare body to him, he stroked her cheeks and peppered her lips and forehead and neck with petal-soft kisses. When he finally laid her on the bed, he caressed her hair and her body with the same bumbling tenderness he had used to pluck the notoriously delicate blue roses in the glass gardens. Gradually, Sansa stopped trembling and began kissing and stroking him back and emitting the most delightful little moans. When she finally opened her body to him, he was moaning in turn and whispering Sansa and perfect and so beautiful, and she hummed with joy to hear it. And as he held her and kissed her afterward, she whispered her thanks for the very best name day gift he could possibly have given her.
“Which one, sweet girl?” he whispered back.
Sansa’s eyes shone in the candlelight. “The gift of a kind and wonderful husband,” she murmured, and Jon found himself speechless once again.
So he was puzzled one day three months later, when Sansa apologized for having neglected to thank him for the other name day gift he had given her.
“Which other one?” asked Jon, his brow furrowing. His wife merely grinned in response, reached for his hand, and drew it down to lie flat across her belly.
“This one,” she replied, looking like the cat that had swallowed the canary. Jon’s eyes nearly left their sockets when the meaning of her actions sank in.
“On our – your name day? For true?” he whispered once he was able to draw breath, and Sansa nodded and beamed at him. Jon swept her up into his arms and drowned her in kisses again, just as he had on their wedding night.
Six months later, their screaming, red-headed gift arrived in the midst of a mighty late winter blizzard. Jon stared into his son’s gray eyes and realized how much he should have thanked his wife for her gift to him, rather than the other way around, and he murmured as much as he planted kiss after kiss on her forehead and the babe’s. She beamed up at him.
“Robb is our gift to each other, my love,” she whispered. She had never called Jon that before. He could not speak, or think, or do anything other than lean down to kiss her lips tenderly and feel his tears melding with her own.
On Sansa’s two-and-twentieth name day, Jon presented her with a garland of winter roses to wear on her head; for, he said after she had finished kissing him in thanks, even if she would not wear her usual gold and sapphire crown except on important occasions or when visiting their bannermen, she must always know she was his queen today and every day. His cheeks flushed as he said it; but Sansa’s renewed kisses were anything but shy, and in between them she announced she was quite ready to try for another name day gift. Jon returned her kisses most enthusiastically and swept her off to bed at once.
Sansa did not conceive another gift that day; but she spent the afternoon of her third-and-twentieth name day picnicking in the godswood with her husband and son. She cheerfully rearranged the garland of blue roses on her head every time Robb knocked it askew, and every time he ran off and Jon jumped up yet again to chase him, she laughed along with her son and rubbed her burgeoning belly. The babe was kicking ferociously, and Sansa told Jon that he or she must be laughing too.
Every name day after that, Jon gifted Sansa with yet another crown of blue roses and another round of kisses. The more name days that passed, the more he had to share his kisses with their growing number of children, but neither of them minded one whit. Sansa, in fact, seemed to prefer it that way, for her happiness grew with her belly every time Jon gave her another babe. And no matter how many children they had to tuck into bed at the end of one of Sansa’s name days, they always managed to carve out a precious hour or two alone.
On Sansa’s six-and-twentieth name day, Jon spent the evening bathing and rubbing her feet, which had swollen nearly to the degree her belly had reached now that she was nine moons’ turn into her pregnancy with their next babe. They drank ale and laughed over Robb’s escapades that day with young Timon Lannister, the son of Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth. The candles burned low, the laughter gave way to deep kisses, and Jon and Sansa ended the evening tangled blissfully in each other’s arms.
On Sansa’s thirtieth name day, he and Jon visited the crypts to place blue roses on the grave of their daughter Lyra, who had been taken by the spring fever a few months prior, just before her second name day. Sansa’s tears flowed freely into Jon’s jerkin as he rocked her back and forth in front of Lyra’s grave. When she gathered herself enough to look up at him, she saw the candlelight glance off the tear tracks that littered his cheeks; and she took him back into her arms and ran her fingers through his hair and kissed his cheek and shoulder. When they finally bid their daughter good night, Jon used one strong arm to draw her to his side and the other to hold her face as brushed his lips against her forehead; and they left the crypts in each other’s arms, as they did every year after that on what would have been little Lyra’s next name day.
On Sansa’s four-and-thirtieth name day, Jon’s left leg was broken from the fall he had taken from his horse, when he had swerved to avoid eight-year-old Rickard and five-year-old Lyanna. They had been out playing in the godswood after sunset against their parents’ command, and both had cried uncontrollably when they heard their papa cry out in pain and saw his men flock around him with faces white as snow. Nearly a month later, they had recovered from the shock, but they had both taken ill, along with all of Jon and Sansa’s other children except Robb and baby Ned. Sansa spent her name day flitting from bedchamber to bedchamber, holding glasses of water to her children’s lips and replacing the cold cloths on their foreheads and exchanging clean bowls for bowls full of vomit with the harried servants. Jon hobbled about and helped her as best he could within the limits imposed by his injury and his crutches. Sansa reprimanded him for moving about far more than Maester Samwell Tarly felt proper, and indeed Jon’s winces of pain became more frequent as the day passed. Still, he managed to limp all the way to the glass gardens and back after dinner, and when Sansa retired to their bedchamber, she found her usual wreath of blue roses sitting on the bedside table. Shortly afterward, Jon shuffled into the room very slowly and flinching much of the way; and when he spoke it was not to complain about his injury but to apologize for not having the wreath ready that morning instead. Sansa, whose mouth had opened to scold him silly, threw her arms around him instead, and Jon embraced her back. They were too exhausted even to commence one of their usual arguments about how Jon either did far too much for her (as she always said) or only half what she deserved (as he averred). Instead they exchanged a few weary, gentle kisses and collapsed on the bed in each other’s arms.
On Sansa’s seven-and-thirtieth name day, Robb and their eldest daughter, Anya, were old enough to look after four-year-old Ned and baby Miera, and Rickard, Lyanna, and Sara were of age to watch themselves. Sansa and Jon repeated the picnic they had had fourteen years prior. It was a cool day on the cusp of autumn, and they drew their cloaks tightly about them as they feasted on bread and cheese and sweetmeats and even two lemon cakes Jon had snuck from the kitchens, where the bakers had been up with the sun to churn out the dozens Jon had ordered for that evening’s dinner. Afterward, they raced to the hot springs, giggling like children. The giggles, though, quickly turned to kisses, and then to moans and gasps and panting as the two undressed each other and spent the next hour making love in the middle of the steaming water. Sansa managed to keep her garland of blue roses atop her head the entire time, and when she pointed it out with her sauciest smirk to Jon, he wasted no time bearing his giggling wife to the side of the pool and making her gasp his name all over again.
On Sansa’s one-and-fortieth name day, Jon and the children – including two-year-old twins Alysanne and Jaeherys, the last of their brood – showered her with gifts, and even their bannermen’s families contributed to the hoard, for they wished to celebrate their king and queen’s marking twenty years of marriage. Sansa grinned merrily throughout it all, but most of her smiles did not quite reach her eyes, and that afternoon, when Sansa retreated to her solar for a few quiet moments of sewing, Jon found her with tears glittering on her cheeks. He rushed to her at once, and her face reddened when she saw him, and it took a few minutes for her to admit that her monthly bleeding had become thinner and come at less regular intervals of late, and sometimes she felt spasms of heat run through her body. Her life change was upon her, she said, and now she would approach her old age and be unable to bear Jon any more dear babes; and she burst into tears, and Jon rocked her gently in his arms.
“Do you remember what I said to you when you told me your wedding bouquet was beautiful?” he murmured when she had calmed, and he brushed the tears from her cheeks.
Sansa blushed. “You said I was prettier than the roses,” she whispered, smiling; and Jon beamed back at her.
“And you are, my love,” he assured her. “You were then, and you are now, and you will be twenty years from now, when I am an old, bald, wrinkled man and still the luckiest on earth, still wondering how it was that you, my beautiful – ” he reached over to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead – “strong – ” he kissed her left cheek – “brave – ” and the other – “brilliant – ” his lips lowered to her chin – “sweet – ” and her neck – “incredible wife saw fit to wind herself into my heart so completely.”
He reached for her lips then, and Sansa opened them eagerly underneath his, even as she stood and turned to lead him to their bed; and when she next cried out, it was from pleasure, and not the least bit of sorrow remained.
One evening three months later, when they lay bare under the furs and curled up in each other’s arms, Sansa confessed that she had forgotten once again to thank Jon for his best gift to her from her prior name day. The light from the candles was strong enough both for her to see the confusion on his face and for him to see the cat-like grin on hers as she drew her hand down to her bare stomach. Jon’s eyes went wide as ale horns; and Sansa, blushing, confessed that she had not bled since her name day, but must have been wrong about her change being quite complete.
“I am sorry, my love,” she began, but Jon stopped her lips and kissed her breathless.
“Well, I am not,” he declared; and Sansa kissed him back, and neither of them said anything more for quite some time.
Six months later, when Sansa brought forth a raven-haired, silver-eyed son on a warm spring day, Jon curled his arms around his wife and little Brandon and silently thanked the gods his wife had been wrong. Still, he was not entirely surprised when Sansa looked at him with her weary, radiant eyes and said the very same thing out loud.
Jon dropped a tender kiss to her brow. “I’m still not sorry,” he whispered, and Sansa beamed at him.
“Neither am I, my love,” she replied, and reached up to bring his lips to her own.
