Tiny Raven

Odrian had Dionys pinned against a stack of grain sacks, his lips tracing the shell of his ear with wicked intent.

“Say it again,” he murmured, his voice rough.

Dionys arched into the touch—just slightly—before scoffing.

“No.”

Odrian clamped his teeth down on Dionys’ earlobe in retaliation—just lightly, just enough for the other man to stifle a grunt of surprise. “Say. It. Again.”

He didn’t specify what. They both knew.

Dionys tilted his head back with a growl—all bared throat and barely leashed frustration—but when he spoke, it was nearly a whisper.

“…Yours.”

A beat, then—worse—

“Always.”

His voice cracked on the word, his hands fisting in Odrian’s tunic like he was half-terrified the other man would vanish.

Odrian’s breath hitched—stuttered—against Dionys’ throat, his fingers twisting tighter in the fabric of his tunic like a man clinging to a lifeline. For a moment, he just breathed him in—salt and steel and finally—before his lips found the hollow beneath Dionys’ jaw, pressing a searing, claiming kiss there.

“Say it once more,” he demanded—but his voice shook, betraying the raw, desperate need beneath the command. “Once more, Dio.”

He still couldn’t quite believe it. The words felt like a spell that would unravel if he stopped hearing them.

His teeth scraped against skin—just enough to mark—before he pulled back to meet Dionys’ eyes, his own dark with something suspiciously like worship.

“…Mine.” He tasted the word, savoring it. Devouring it. “Gods, I’ve missed you.”

Then, because he couldn’t not—because the moment was too big, too raw—he kissed Dionys again, deep and consuming, his hands sliding down to grip Dionys’ hips to haul him flush against his own, as if they were made for each other.

Dionys arched into him with a low, involuntary groan—his hands fisting in Odrian’s hair, yanking him closer, punishing him for the demand even as he gave in.

“Always,” he repeated—his voice scraped raw, stripped of the stoicism he wore like a second armor. “Yours. Always.”

His own teeth found Odrian’s shoulder in retaliation—biting down hard enough to bruise, to mark, to claim in turn.

“Don’t make me say it again,” he growled, but his grip was desperate. “You’ll get spoiled.”

The lie was thin as parchment. They both knew he’d repeat it as many times as Odrian demanded—as many times as he needed to hear it himself.

Dionys dragged his mouth up the column of Odrian’s throat, kissing him again—hard—before pulling back just enough to breathe, their foreheads pressed together, his voice dropping to a whisper that was nearly a plea.

“…Stay.”

Not just tonight.

Not just this war.

Always.

Odrian’s lips brushed against Dionys’ jaw, his voice a low, teasing murmur that couldn’t quite hide the raw truth beneath.

“Only if you keep saying it, Stratiótis.“

Then he kissed him again—deep and desperate, his hands sliding up to cradle Dionys’ face like it was the most precious thing in Odrian’s world. Because he was, had always been.

“Mine,” Odrian whispered against his mouth, the word a vow and a prayer. “Always.”

He didn’t let go.

Neither of them did.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

The next morning, Dionys found a very official-looking “contract” tucked beside his bedroll. It began legibly, but the handwriting changed to Stella’s scrawl partway through.

Official Honee Cake Agreement

By Order of Stella, First of Her Name, Princess of Rocks and Crabs, Slayer of Olives, and Bestest Climber in All the Land

Terms and Conditions

1. Unkl Dio give me 5 honeecakes. NO TAK BAKS

2. I DO NOT tel Mama about the SEEKRIT KISSES I saw. (Ever.)

3. If Unkl Dio tries to CHEET, the price goes up to 10 honycakes AND a SHINY ROCK.

Signed,

(A wobbly “S” with a star doodled next to it.)

Witnessed By:

General Crunchbutt

Additional Notes:

– ples no burnig this or i find Unkl Pel and TELL HIM TOO

– Unkl Ody lousee at hiddin.

A suspiciously honey-like rock-print was beside the name General Crunchbutt, and the entire thing was smeared with jam. The letters grew increasingly desperate near the bottom as Stella ran out of room and patience.

Dionys stared at the parchment—crumpled, childishly scrawled, nearly impossible to read (but impressive, given Stella was still learning her letters), and suspiciously sticky—before he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Fuck.”

Then with grudging admiration, “…She’d make a decent Formicari.”

Alessia paused halfway through the tent flap with a quirk of her brow, somehow knowing the ‘she’ Dionys was talking about was Stella.

“And why would my daughter make a decent warrior? I thought I was raising a sneak thief.”

She entered the tent before offering a bowl of porridge and dried fruit to Dionys and sitting down beside him, as if she belonged there.

He took the bowl—still scowling at the honey-stained ransom note—before thrusting the very official missive toward Alessia.

“She clearly learned blackmail before she could spell.”

Alessia squinted at the parchment.

“So that’s why she wanted me to write her ‘official title’,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t know who taught her the concept of contracts, but I can guarantee it wasn’t me.”

She rolled her head to stare toward Odrian’s laughter with a pointed glance, clarifying exactly who she suspected.

She propped a hand on her hip, scanning Stella’s scrawl with reluctant admiration.

“It’s legible, and I can make out most of the words. She’s been practicing. Honestly, if she were going to blackmail anyone in this camp, I’d have expected Patrian. The fact that she extorted you is impressive. Not good, but impressive.”

Then, setting the bowl firmly in front of Dionys before he could protest, she said, “Also, you’re eating. No arguments. Warlords require food, just like everybody else.”

She hesitated a moment before sitting next to him and adding softly, “And don’t worry. She won’t tell. That kid has been keeping my secrets her whole life.” She glanced again at the tent flap, beyond which Stella’s distant laughter rang out like bells—joyful and free.

“…She knows the stakes.”

Then, before the moment could get too serious, she winked at Dionys. “Besides, I already knew about the ‘secret kisses.’”

Dionys’ fingers flexed around the bowl, just once, before he exhaled sharply through his nose. “…Hn.”

It’s an acknowledgment. Gratitude, even. For the food, for the understanding. For the way Alessia sat there, watching him expectantly until he took his first, very pointed bite.

Then—grudgingly, carefully—he met her gaze.

“She does—know the stakes.”

A pause. His grip tightens on the honey-smudged contract, his expression flickering between exasperation and something dangerously close to pride.

“But she also capitalized ‘KISSES.’ Twice.”

Alessia grinned as she slid the note into the pouch at her waist.

“She has opinions about capital letters. And kisses, apparently,” Alessia said with a wave of her hand. She looked at Dionys before reassuring him, “I’ll explain to her that grown-ups are weird about kisses. She won’t tell anyone.”

Dionys snorted—equal parts exasperated and charmed—before shoveling another bite of porridge into his mouth.

“Tch. She’s already plotting her next move.”

His gaze flicked to the pouch where the evidence now resided, then back to Alessia.

“…But you don’t care.” It wasn’t a question, more a quiet realization. “That we’re like this.”

He gestured jerkily toward Odrian’s general direction, where the man was no doubt still preening about crab-based political maneuvering.

“Of course I don’t,” Alessia said. She considered Dionys for a long moment, her expression softening. “You make him happy. He makes you happy. You both make me happy—crab diplomacy and all.” Her fingers brushed over his where they gripped the bowl—brief, fleeting, there.

“Why would I ever care about that?”

Dionys stilled beneath her touch—just for a heartbeat—before he exhaled in a slow, controlled breath. Then, with aching deliberateness, he turned his hand up, catching her fingers in his and squeezing—once, tight.

“…Hn.”

It wasn’t a yes. It wasn’t a thank you.

But the way his thumb stroked the ridge of her knuckles—the way his eyes dipped to her mouth before flicking back up to her eyes—that said everything.

“You know,” she mused after a moment. “If you really think she’d make a good Formicari … I’m not opposed to her learning how to use a knife or a sword.”

Dionys’ fingers squeezed hers again—tighter this time—before releasing her to flick the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

“Already started.”

Then softer, “…If you want to learn, too. Archery, knives. Whatever.”

He met her gaze—steadier now, no longer bracing for refusal or judgment—before jerking his chin toward the tent flap where Stella’s laughter still echoed.

“She’ll be safer if you’re dangerous.”

And he would sleep more easily knowing they could both fight back.

“I can already do archery,” Alessia said with a smile. “The only reason I haven’t done it is because my shoulder is still messed up … “ She placed her hand over her collarbone, over the still-healing injury. “At least, I hope I can still do archery once this heals.”

Dionys’ gaze flicked to the wound, assessing—not as a warrior, but as a man who had seen too many fighters lost to poorly healed injuries. He reached out, fingers hovering just above the bandages before hesitating.

“You will.”

A pause. His hand dropped back to his bowl, but his voice was firm.

“I’ll make sure of it.”

No platitudes or empty reassurances. Just fact. If Alessia’s shoulder needed meticulous retraining, strengthening, and protection, he would do it himself.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself—

“But first—” His thumb brushed the hilt of his dagger meaningfully. “—we teach you how to stab someone without getting stabbed back.”

Alessia barked a laugh—bright and startled, as if the sound surprised her, too.

“Please. I’ve been stabbing men since before I had all my teeth.” Her smirk faltered just briefly—long enough to betray the truth beneath her bravado. “But I wouldn’t say no to learning how to do it better.”

She’d spent too long surviving on scraps, with stolen skills and desperation as her only teachers. The offer—real training, real strength—it was almost too much to hope for.

Then, because she couldn’t let him have the last word, she leaned in, her voice dropping conspiratorially.

“Besides, if we’re lucky, Stella will be too busy learning how to throw knives to notice she never got payment for her honey cake extortion.”

She winked, stealing a piece of dried fruit from his bowl as she straightened.

Dionys snatched her wrist before she could retreat—lightning quick—and hauled her back into his space, their faces inches apart.

“Tch.”

His breath was warm against her lips, his grip unyielding.

“Practice starts now.”

He popped the stolen fruit into his mouth—infuriatingly deliberate—and released her with a look that promised this was just the beginning.

His other hand lingered at the small of her back—steadying and possessive—for just a moment longer than necessary.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Stella crept into the command tent shortly afterward—dressed in her tiny, self-proclaimed “negotiation outfit” (a length of fabric tied around her shoulders like a cloak, because it made her look official).

She cleared her throat with all the gravitas a five-year-old could muster.

“…Well?”

Alessia, pretending not to be aware of Stella’s presence—mostly to see how long the little girl could keep up the Serious Negotiator act—continued to “read” the papers on the table.

“Well, what, Stell?”

Stella marched over and tugged on Dionys’ sleeve.

“…You,” she announced, “owe me five honey cakes.”

Then—gleefully—she turned to Alessia and patted the pouch that held the incriminating contract. “And Mama broke the deal by lookin’ at the rules!”

Her grin was pure, unfiltered triumph.

“So now it’s ten—AND a rock—OR I tell everyone about the—” her voice dropped to a  stage whisper, which might as well have been a shout coming from the five-year-old—“seeeeeeecret kisses.”

Stella folded her arms, nodding solemnly like a judge delivering a verdict.

“Your move, Uncle Dio.”

Alessia raised an eyebrow before slowly pulling the contract from her pocket and unfolding it.

“The rules don’t say anything about your uncles keeping secrets from me—just that you won’t tell me about the ‘secret kisses’. It also specifies that you’ll only tell Pelys, not everyone.”

Alessia met her daughter’s eyes with grave sincerity.

“You aren’t going back on your word, are you? We’re thieves, Stell, not liars.”

She said the word as if it were the worst thing a person could be, while still sounding absolutely playful.

She pointedly ignored the way Dionys hid his laughter behind an unconvincing cough.

Stella blinked—her mouth opening before snapping shut, and her features contorting into pure outrage. Alessia had outmaneuvered her, and she knew it.

With a dramatic gasp, she stomped a foot. “That—that’s—!”

Then her shoulders slumped in agonized defeat. “…FINE.”

She sniffled before perking back up like a conspiratorial sunflower. “But! Next time, my contract will also say ‘NO LOOKIN’ unless you wanna pay extra!”

Then, she immediately whirled on Dionys and stuck out her palm.

“FIVE.”

She could have tried to argue. Could have doubled down, renegotiated, won. But she didn’t. Because Mama was right—they didn’t lie.

And because Dionys had already pulled a honey cake from his belt pouch.

He wordlessly handed over the honey cake—his almost blank expression ruined by the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth when Stella immediately attempted to cram the entire thing into her mouth all at once.

“Chew,” he grunted.

Stella paused, then took a single, comically small nibble before beaming up at him.

“Thank you!” she chirped—sticky-fingered and victorious—before darting back out of the tent, her cloak flapping behind her like the banner of a conquering warlord.

Alessia watched her go with a mix of pride and exhausted fondness before she turned back to Dionys.

“That could’ve gone so much worse.”

Dionys exhaled through his nose—long-suffering—but with a glint of something perilously close to pride in his eyes.

“She’s your daughter.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward as he turned back to his porridge.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Later that night, after a day spent extorting kings and ordering around soldiers, Alessia tucked Stella into her blankets, smoothing the wild curls from her forehead as the little girl finally succumbed to the weight of the day.

“Did y’have fun today?” she whispered, unable to contain her smile even as she pretended to scold. “Robbing kings and corrupting my allies?”

“Mmhmm!” The agreement was sleep-slurred but emphatic, her tiny fingers clutching the edge of the blanket as she fought to stay awake just a little longer.

“…Uncle Ody says the ocean is our friend now.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, then snapped open again with sudden, albeit drowsy, clarity.

“…Mama?” a pause. “You’re happy here, right?”

The question was small. Fragile. The kind Stella had never asked before—because until now, happiness hadn’t been something they could count on.

Alessia froze—just for a heartbeat—before forcing herself to exhale.

“Yeah, Starlight,” she murmured, her thumb brushing Stella’s cheek. “I really am.”

Stella blinked up at her—once, twice—before nodding, satisfied. Then, with the solemnity only a half-asleep child could muster, she whispered, “Good. ‘Cause I already told the crab we’re stayin’ forever.”

Her fingers loosened around the blanket as sleep finally claimed her, leaving Alessia to stare down at her—breathless—in the firelight.

The words hovered in the quiet air of the tent—staying forever—soft as a secret, heavy as a vow.

Alessia brushed stray strands of hair from Stella’s face, her own chest tight with an emotion she couldn’t name. Then she pressed a kiss to the girl’s forehead—lingering and reverent—before whispering back.

“Yeah, forever sounds perfect.”

The word settled into the quiet like roots digging into rich soil.

Permanent.

Outside, the waves crashed against the shore—endlessly, relentlessly—but there, in the small circle of warmth, everything was still.

She exhaled, smiling to herself, and turned to blow out the lamp—content.

For once, the future didn’t feel like a storm on the horizon.

Dionys lingered just beyond the tent flap—unseen and unheard—his silhouette stark against the moonlight as he turned away.

Forever.

The word echoed in his chest long after he’d left, settling like a stone thrown into the depths of him—rippling outward, inevitable.

Permanent.

He’d hold them to it.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Odrian found him at the training grounds just before dawn—already moving through forms with slightly more force than necessary—and didn’t hesitate before stepping into his space, matching him strike-for-strike.

No words, just the familiar rhythm of them—the push and pull, the give and take, the silent language they’d built over years of war and want and waiting.

Finally, as the sun crested the horizon, Odrian caught his wrist—holding, just for a moment—before murmuring,

“…You heard her, then.”

It wasn’t a question.

Dionys didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, he reached out—slow and deliberate—to curl his fingers around the back of Odrian’s neck, dragging him in until their foreheads pressed together. His breath was warm against Odrian’s lips as he murmured.

“Mine.”

A pause, and then—softer,

“Hers.”

It wasn’t just possession. It was a promise—a vow, bloody-knuckled and binding in its honesty.

Then Dionys kissed him—deep and unforgiving—like he was carving the truth into Odrian’s skin where no one could steal it away.

When he finally pulled back, his fingers lingered at Odrian’s pulse point—wild beneath his touch.

“Stay,” he growled.

A command.

A plea.

Odrian exhaled—sharp and shattered—before pressing his smile against Dionys’ lips with a whisper of:

“Try and stop me.”

They stayed like that until dawn—tangled together in the shadowed quiet, wordless and each other’s.

In the morning, Alessia found them against the training dummies—Odrian’s head pillowed on Dionys’ shoulder, their fingers still laced together.

She stopped when she saw them—Dionys slumped against a post, Odrian sprawled half over his lap, both of them still asleep in the warmth of the morning sun.

For a long moment, she just looked.

They were a mess. Dionys still had his fingers curled possessively around Odrian’s wrist. Odrian had somehow managed to tangle one hand in Dionys’ tunic, clinging even in sleep.

And Alessia—

(She had spent her life running from chains. From belonging to anyone. But this—this wasn’t chains.)

(This was something else entirely.)

She exhaled—soft and shaking—before crouching down beside them, her hand hovering over their tangled fingers.

She didn’t wake them. She just smiled before murmuring, “Stay.”

Like she’d given them permission.

Like she’d finally given it to herself.

Then she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Odrian’s forehead and Dionys’ knuckles.

Dionys didn’t open his eyes, but when Alessia turned to leave, his hand shot out—lightning fast—and caught her wrist.

“Stay,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough with sleep as he tugged her down between them.

No more running

No more secrets.

Odrian, still half asleep, blindly tucked her against his chest with a contented sigh.

“Mmph. No escaping now.”

Dionys’ fingers tangled in her hair.

Odrian’s arm curled possessively around her waist.

And Alessia realized—Some thieves were meant to be kept.

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