this one got a little m-rated whoops

Alina is not beautiful in a way that Zoya is used to.

At first she’s not beautiful at all, and even once they have overcome their differences, Zoya thinks she would have preferred that. A scrawny, sickly looking Grisha would have still been an unusual Grisha, but far less distracting. And Alina is distracting enough without adding anything physical on top of it.

But luck has not been on her side the past few years, and the physical does very much intrude on her relationship with the Sun Summoner. Zoya has been a Grisha in the Darkling’s palace, pampered and favoured above most others; she knows lovely things. Gorgeous things, elegant, exquisite. She’s had to stare and Genya Safin for most of her life for god’s sake.

Alina is beautiful like a knife. Zoya can’t seem to resist testing her thumb on the edge.

Good food and the freedom of her power might have given her body curve and colour, but it’s the sharp pieces of her that Zoya can’t keep her hands off. Thumbs sweep over the pitch of her cheekbones, mouth tracing the line of her jaw, tongue licking salt and sweat off the jut of her hip. Alina isn’t scared to tangle hands in her hair and clutch until it hurts, thighs soft over her shoulders, heels digging hard into a notch between muscle and bone.

She gives as good as she gets.

“You’re staring,” a muffled voice informs her from beneath a pale mop of hair.

Zoya snorts, giving into the urge to trace a line down Alina’s back now she knows the other girl is awake. She thinks she might have worried, once, about being perceived as too affectionate. She’d never admit it out loud, but she thinks that once-Zoya was probably an idiot.

They could die any day. She’s grabbing what she wants with both hands and not looking back.

“I thought you were asleep,” she admits. “I was contemplating how to tell you that you have a rat’s nest perched on your head.”

Well, mostly.

An arm flails loosely out to smack her; Zoya catches it easily, smirking at the single eye that glares out from under the hair. Not breaking eye contact she lowers her head, pressing a wet kiss to the defined edge of Alina’s bicep. Strong, she thinks, a little dizzy, and then has to roll her eyes at herself. She’s no blushing maiden, to fall over herself at the first flash of muscle, but there’s just something about Alina and the way she wears her strength these days.

Maybe it’s just knowing how hard the other girl worked for it. Maybe it’s nothing at all. Zoya kisses her elbow, and spots a second eye, both of them softer now as Alina looks down at her. Zoya drags her tongue down the tendon of her inner arm, watches heat flare in her gaze, brushes her lips chastely over the palm of her hand before slowly closing her lips around Alina’s forefinger.

Her whole body jerks as if struck by lightning and Zoya can’t help but grin at the way she curses. She tugs her hand from her mouth and Zoya doesn’t hesitate in letting her teeth scrape against the pad of her finger before Alina is cupping her face in both hands, drawing her up, hard and messy and hot enough to chase any thoughts at all right out of Zoya’s head.

“You’re a nightmare,” Alina huffs, tugging at her bottom lip with her teeth, hooking her leg over Zoya’s hip, pressing closer, closer, closer.

Zoya slides her knee between Alina’s thighs, drinking in the stuttered breath that puffs out against her. “For you? Anything.”

It’s supposed to be teasing. But Alina hums, pleased, and Zoya thinks they both know it’s uncomfortably close to the truth.

“When did you become a Healer, again?” Tamar snorts, and then immediately has to wince at the pain the motion causes. Her ribs have been knitted back together but the bruising is deep and the internal damage had been worse.

Still. Tamar likes to eat. And she likes being strong in front of her girlfriend as well. Which she’s willing to admit is a little absurd when she nearly had her chest caved in two days ago, but a woman has her pride.

She expects a fond eyeroll, Nadia’s usual response to anything that might be termed ‘stoic’. And the other woman makes an attempt, sure, but it’s not hard to catch the strain in her expression, the tremble to the wry pull of her mouth.

“Hey.” Tamar softens herself as best she knows how, which is not great, but always better around Nadia. She reaches out, catches her hand. “I’m here.”

Nadia’s fingers tighten around hers, although she’s careful not to hurt. Her smile turns even more wobbly. “You nearly weren’t.”

“I’ll take a nearly.” She brings Nadia’s hand to her mouth, presses a kiss to her wrist. “Nearly means I’m here with you now. But I’ll stick to eating soup if it makes you feel better.”

“It does.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Ah, yes.” And there’s that smile, quiet and brilliant all at once. “Me and my looking after you. When will I ever stop such madness?”

I have you shoved against the wall but now I can’t stop looking at your mouth

Zoya keeps the parem in the top drawer of her desk. Alina can just barely see the mahogany wood over the deep blue forearm pushed into her throat.

“You really are as stupid as you look if you think I’m letting you get your hands on that stuff,” the older woman snarls.

They’re flush together, Alina caught between the hard stone of her office wall and the hard planes of Zoya’s body. Her ribs ache with the memory of the damage she can do; she bucks anyway, heaving with all her strength to throw the other girl off.

She’s not the sick, sad girl she once was. She may be less than useless in this current crisis, but she at least has the power and muscle of her own body behind her. Zoya refuses to give way so she rears back as far as she can and headbutts her, the sharp crack and blinding pain reverberating through her simultaneously.

But Alina breaks free. And for one brief, breathless moment, her goal is in reach. She shoves off wall and runs for the desk, fingers just barely brushing the wood as her legs prepare to vault her over–

The surge of wind comes up from nowhere and pays no heed to comfort as it slams into Alina. She’s flying for half a second and then the ground punches all of the air out of her lungs. A second crack shoots through her head and the world explodes in white as the back of her skull collides with the floor seconds after her back. A low cry splits Alina’s lips, and she’s not sure if it’s pain or desperation.

Zoya stands over her, beautiful face twisted in something that looks like it’s trying to be anger, that feels like something else entirely. The weight of wind pushes down on her so hard that Alina thinks she might just pass out, which honestly sounds like the preferable option right now. Anything not to see the expression on Zoya’s face.

“You are not a Grisha.”

The truth of those words beats through her skull words than any pain. She can feel her body attempting to curl in on itself, as though she can be protected from the raw honesty in Zoya’s voice, but she’s pinned. Exposed and vulnerable to whatever Zoya chooses to throw at her.

“You are not a Grisha,” and her voice trembles on the repetition. “It is not your job to save us anymore.”  

It’s definitely not anger living there, but that truth is so much worse. She doesn’t want to hurt anyone. She especially doesn’t want to hurt Zoya.

“But I can,” she croaks. “You know I can.”

“I know that stuff will kill you.”

“It’s killing everyone else! It’s just doing it slower, and I can put a stop to this Zoya. I can protect all of you.”

One perfectly manicured hand bunches in the fabric of her shirt, and the wind relents. Alina struggles to get her feet under her as Zoya drags her up until they’re face to face, but the world is spinning too fast and her body feels too heavy. She can barely hold her own weight up, let alone deal with Zoya.

“We do not need an otkazat’sya to protect us.”

Each syllable is picked out in perfect cruelty, but Zoya has made a terrible misjudgement. It’s not that the words don’t carve a chunk out of Alina’s soul, but that her friend holds the knife with such care.

The true depths of cruelty are born from love, and that’s what trembles behind the angry front of Zoya’s voice. Love, and the terror of losing it. If she didn’t care, if she really believed Alina was worthless, she’d just let her do it. Hell, this was Zoya; she’d probably hand the parem herself. She wasn’t above making sacrifices to achieve a goal, not when that goal was the defense of Ravka and all the Grisha in her borders.

Alina sags. And Zoya is there to catch her, fingers unwind from her shirt and pulling her close. The wary tension doesn’t disappear from Zoya’s form, but the fight has run out of Alina. She presses her forehead into the other woman’s shoulder, breathing in the cinnamon scent of her.

“Let me help.” She’s begging, and she hates it. The last person she wants to be weak in front of is this woman.

“Impossible,” Zoya sniffs. “No one would believe it.”

Alina isn’t exactly on board with an extended trip to Ketterdam with Zoya either, but she still has an ego. She crosses her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zoya smirks, because she’s Zoya and therefore terrible, shaking her hair back over her shoulders. “I’m out of your league, Starkov.”

Alina think about pointing out that three very attractive men have wanted to marry her at one point or another, but any argument that involves ‘the Darkling was totally hot for me’ as a concept is one that she. Really doesn’t want to get into.

“Who said I wanted to be in it?” she shoots back. “I like all of my limbs attached, thanks.”

“Oh, so you’re afraid of being eaten?”

“This got very disturbing a lot faster than I anticipated,” Nikolai mutters to Genya, who isn’t bothering to hide her amusement as Alina turns bright red. “Are we entirely sure that was innuendo?”

“Some ladies man you are,” Genya mutters back, as Alina shoves Zoya in the shoulder. “Can’t you tell they’re flirting?”

The sudden wind that rises in the war-room is enough to set the windows rattling.

Zoya hates Ketterdam. It’s a disgusting hole of a city, filled with disgusting people, with disgusting attitudes. She has never been so aware of being Grisha, not even at her most smug and - all right, she can admit it - egotistical.

There had been war in Ravka, but it had been her war. If she is in danger because of her abilities here, it is because of weak minds afraid of what they don’t know and greedy for it at the same time.

“We might have better luck if you stopped sneering at everyone here,” Alina hisses from behind a smile. She’s laced into a dress all midnight blue and gold that makes it easy for Zoya to pretend to be the rich socialite stirring up gossip at a Ketterdam ball.

Alina’s a better actress than Zoya would have given her credit for, once. After you play at being a saint, she supposes anything must seem simple. But it’s not Grisha beauty or any attempt to emphasise it that keeps pulling Zoya’s gaze in.

It’s power. She wears it like she wears that dress, and any snide comments she might have made about Alina being out of her league are made a lie in a single sweep of her eyelashes.

(She’s better at a lot of things than Zoya would have given her credit for, once. And there is a warmth in Zoya’s gut when she thinks the words that she doesn’t trust. It feels too much like weakness).

“Isn’t that what otkazat’sya wealthy are supposed to do?” Zoya murmurs back, leaning in. If her mouth caresses the shell of the other girl’s ear, isn’t that all a part of the act? “Sneer and look down on those they know to be lesser than them?”

Alina snorts, covering a shiver. Is that a part of the act? Zoya must be losing her touch. She can’t tell. “You can’t be better than everyone in the room when you’re undercover, Zoya.”

She pulls back, scanning the room with a single lazy flick of her eyes before she glances sidelong back at Alina. Zoya prides herself on being cool under pressure, but there’s a strange flutter in her gut when she says, “Not everyone.”

Alina’s lips part, the cover of easy arrogance gone, blatant shock lighting dark eyes.

“What. Is. That.”

‘Clipped’, Alina thinks absently, is probably not quite intense enough to describe Zoya’s tone right now. You’d think ‘chopped’ was the appropriate expansion of the concept, but it doesn’t really have the right feel.

She considers her options.

“A puppy,” she settles on finally, biting back a grin. Nestled in her arms, the puppy huffs a quiet snore. “A pitbull, specifically. They think it’s crossed with a labrador, to be really specific.”

‘Red’ probably isn’t the right word to describe Zoya’s face right now, either.

“Why is it here.”

“I’m fostering it.”

“We didn’t discuss this.”

“You don’t actually live here, remember?” Alina raises her eyebrows at the other woman. “We’re keeping it casual.”

That’s a lie, and they both know it. Alina didn’t actually decide to foster a dog because it would force her not-girlfriend to make a decision, because a) that would be messed up and b) she’s not the world’s biggest lover of commitment either. Hence the fostering, actually.

But she’d gone with Mal to look at the puppies, and one of the puppies had licked her hand, and - she couldn’t not foster one. It would be inhumane. Alina is a grumpy person, but she’s not inhumane.

And Zoya is a picky person (again, with the not-quite-enough words), but she’s not inhumane either. So before she can come up with something suitably cutting, Alina holds the puppy out towards her.

“Hold him.”

“I am not touching that thing.”

But she doesn’t stop Alina from awkwardly grabbing her hand, bending it into the appropriate shape for puppy holding. Zoya is, she notices, still completely beautiful, even when she scrunches up her nose.

The puppy yawns, a high-pitched sound that’s enough to make Alina want to snatch him back and spend the rest of her life cuddling him. Zoya’s eyes flicker to her for a moment, and Alina doesn’t bother to bite back this smile as she watches her not-girlfriend struggle and fail to maintain her haughty demeanour.

“If it pees on me, it’s gone,” Zoya sniffs, cradling him closer to her chest. The puppy licks her chin.

“You still don’t live here.”

“Are you kidding me? You can’t be trusted to look after a pet rock on your own.” One perfectly manicured thumb lightly strokes over the puppy’s head. Alina knows from experience just how soft it is.

She steps in close, presses a kiss to the corner of Zoya’s mouth. “You’re a soft touch, Nazyalensky.”

“You take that back.”

“Give me the dog, then.”

There’s a scar on her cheek.

The cheek itself is creased with a smile large enough to punch Nina in the face, and she feels her own mouth twitch up in response. But when she hugs Inej, it’s one armed - tight around her waist, holding her close, but her other hand is cupping her cheek, thumb skimming the new mark.

“I got cocky,” Inej admits.

Nina raises her eyebrows, trying to stuff her worry back down. Inej is skilled, deadly. “You?”

“It’s always the fourteenth man that gets you,” one of her crew comments dryly from behind them, a golden-eyed Shu woman with two axes hooked into her belt.

“Inej.”

Inej tips her chin up, defiant. There’s a dangerous pleasure behind her eyes that sends a wisp of heat curling through Nina’s gut. Her fingers twitch slightly against the other girl’s skin. “They caught us by surprise. It didn’t happen again.”

The pleasure, Nina thinks, is with a job well done. They’ve both been lost in different ways for so long, and she can’t begrudge Inej finding her purpose.

She leans down, brushes a kiss over the sharp line of Inej’s cheekbone. “I hope you ruined them.”

Inej turns her head, and Nina’s mouth traces the mark until it skips over clear skin, meets her lips. “They’ve definitely got more to worry about than a scar.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re amazing.” It’s not a question. Right now, it feels like the most obvious thing in existence.

The other girls laughs, the sound soft and low. Nina supposes the rest of the world is out there somewhere, but she definitely doesn’t care. She swallows the sound down, an almost-kiss.

“I’m just a person, Nina.”

“An amazing person.” And it’s a proper kiss this time, slow and sweet as apple syrup. Somewhere out with the rest of the world, the gold-eyed girl whistles. Nina gestures at them, not stopping until her need for oxygen starts to become obnoxious. “I’m glad you’re back. I’m glad you’re here.”

Not home, because Nina isn’t sure where home is anymore, and she’s not sure Inej is either. The other girl rocks back on her feet, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. She reaches up, brushes a wave of brunette hair back off Nina’s face.

This isn’t destiny.

It isn’t meant-to-be, made-for-each-other. Genya’s not even sure it’s love. Zoya, she’s sure, would deny it’s anything other than physical at all, a safe and sensible release of tension between two women who have, if not the weight of the world on their shoulders, the heft of a nation.

She doesn’t ask. At first, she thinks it’s because she doesn’t want to know.

11. “I almost lost you” kiss 

“I hope you weren’t expecting pity from me.”

Genya lifts one golden eye from her embroidery, scrapes it over Zoya. The other girl bristles with...something. Genya can’t remember having done anything in particular that would have been the cause for irritating her, but then, Zoya seldom needs a reason.

“I wasn’t expecting anything from you,” she replies lightly. “I wasn’t even expecting you to be here.”

There’s satisfaction in that, in watching the words needle their way under Zoya’s skin. The two of them have spent a lifetime trading barbs, and for a moment, that doesn’t feel like a lifetime ago.

The scars on her face throb. She returns to her embroidery and thinks, just for a moment. She waits for Zoya to go.

“It would have made more sense,” the Squaller says, “if we had swapped places.”

“You never struck me as especially sensible.”

“Says the girl with half her face clawed off,” Zoya retorts, and kisses her.

This is not the first time. There is a particular vein of hatred reserved for girls who know their jagged edges would fit perfectly together in other circumstances; Genya and Zoya both have tapped into it over the years, and for more than just a kiss.

There’s no ‘just’ to this kiss. Genya wants to shove her away. She wants to drag her closer, dig her nails into all that pretty white flesh and--

“You idiot,” Zoya mutters, gentle against her mouth. More gentle than Genya ever would have given her credit for. “You absolute fool.”