#he never speaks of her brother and she detests him for it; she is - he makes clear - a mild but thorough disappointment

[avastrasposts]

The Guard Dog

Written for @studioghibelli Writing Challenge themed around History and Art History.

Plot: Sent to your uncle's bleak castle in the north of England, you expect only a dreary existence until you meet his groundskeeper, a scarred, frightening Spaniard. But love in the Victorian era is not easy and life doesn't follow straight paths.

Groundskeeper!Pero x Reader

Warnings: this is mainly all fluff with a bit of angst. Some of that casual racism and predjucde of the period rears its ugly head though. I've tried to keep the reader as blank as possible, but it's Victorian England and she's a lady so I have to presume she doesn't speak Spanish and has fair skin. No use of y/n.

Word count: 18k (yeah, I know....)

The ancestral home of your uncle’s family, Yotes Castle, was not a place that made people feel comfortable or welcome. Built on the ruins of an old thirteenth century castle, some of the old rooms still part of the house, it cast a forlorn gloom on the surrounding landscape. The long drive up to the house, the ancient portcullis cutting visitors off from the outside world, and the dark granite stone, it all made the place look as bleak as something out of a penny dreadful. The one forgiving feature was the big park surrounding the house, sprawling and wild with endless pathways curving through the trees and shrubs to small hidden glens and meadows. This is where you’d often taken refuge when you were allowed, and it was where you’d first met him, the groundskeeper.  

You’d arrived at the house the previous autumn, just as the weather turned cold; heavy rains and thick fog rolling in from the nearby Irish Sea. Your father had passed away long before you could remember him, and for most of your life, your mother had raised you with the help of a governess and her maid in the London house. But your mother’s health was never what it should be, and when she too passed, her brother became your legal guardian. And rather than let you stay in London, he gave you a choice; to come and work as his children’s governess at Yotes, or stay in London and be cut off once your mother’s meagre fortune ran out. You had no choice but to pack your bags and make the long journey north.  

You’d never been to Yotes Castle, only heard your mother’s stories about it and how much she’d detested it growing up; dark, lonely, stifling. She’d married your father and left for London as soon as she could, and she’d never returned to the north.

Your own first impression of the castle was not promising either. The place had been shrouded by heavy mist, the whole place damp, inside as well as out. Long, dark corridors and staircases confused you as the butler led you to your uncle’s study when you first arrived, his nose turned up at your carpet bag luggage. Your uncle had greeted you like you were a new servant, not his departed sister’s daughter, and dismissed you after letting you know he expected you to take full responsibility for his two children. You were assigned a room next to the children, but at least you were allowed to eat with the family and not the servants. Although, after a few days, you thought it might be nicer to eat with the servants than suffer the stilted conversation and heavy silence in the family dining room. 

The housekeeper, Mrs Pluck, might think otherwise though. She viewed you as a servant, and would ignore any requests you made, sending up lunch only for the children, and not you, when your aunt and uncle were out. Making sure you weren’t served dinner in the dining room, instead making you go downstairs and explain to the cook why you hadn’t eaten. Until one day, Amelia, your ten year old cousin, told your aunt about this, and Mrs Pluck was told to make lunch for you too. After that, Mrs Pluck seemed to view you as her mortal enemy, doing anything she could to trip you up. 

Amelia, on her hand, had not told her mother out of the goodness of her heart, rather the opposite. She wanted you gone, as did her eight year old brother Albert. In the interim between their old governess leaving and you arriving to take her place, the children had run wild. Your attempt at making them learn at least the basics were met with protests and complaints. To say that your first winter was trying was an understatement. 

Spring was slow to arrive in these parts, but as the weather dried up, you could at least escape the house while the children had other lessons. The days were still chilly, you’d grown accustomed to breaking the ice on your wash basin in the mornings as your uncle refused to heat the house properly. But despite the cold, you wrapped yourself in layers of wool and escaped into the park, leaving the bleak house behind. 

You had a favourite spot, right at the end of the wooded area and well out of sight from the house. The path led through a thicket of rhododendrons and curved around a small lake, more like a pond really. On the far side of the pond sat a small cottage where no one seemed to live, covered in dark green ivy and climbing roses, all devoid of leaves this early in the spring. Where the path ended was a bench with a view across the lake and to the cottage. Even on the dreariest of days, the spot seemed bright, the weak sunlight of early spring reflecting in the lake’s mirrored surface. 

The first time you saw him, the sound of the cottage front door closing made you jump. The thump echoed across the small lake and you looked up, startled. On the other side a man had just come out of the cottage, a heavy looking axe in one hand. He stopped as he saw you, your eyes meeting briefly before he turned, a deep scowl on his dark face as he stalked away, disappearing from view behind the trees. You lifted your hand to shield your eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of his retreating back, but his long legs took him into the woods and he vanished in moments. Instead you looked at the cottage, it still seemed abandoned but now you saw the thin tendril of smoke rising from the chimney. Whomever he was, it seemed as if he was now living there.  

You returned to your book, but the man had disturbed your peace, his look at you had been so troubling. It was almost as if he disliked you on sight, while you didn’t even know who he was. What could have made him regard you with such aversion? 

With a sigh you closed your book and stood up, your favourite spot suddenly seemed less welcoming. 

It was a few days before you saw him again in the park. The weather had turned milder after two days of rain, and you’d left the children with their riding master. Slowly strolling through the copse of beeches at the far end of the park, reading your book, you didn’t notice the man leaning on his spade, or the ditch he’d dug. 

“Watch where you’re going!” 

The warning came too late as the ground disappeared from underneath your feet, and with a gasp you stumbled forward, just as a hand closed around your arm, pulling you back. 

“Cuidado!” he snapped, his fingers digging into your flesh as he all but shoved you back from the edge of the ditch, “Keep your eyes on where you are going, girl. I won’t explain a broken neck to your uncle.” 

You staggered back, his hand letting go of your arm as the book fell to the ground. 

“Th-thank you,” you stuttered, finding your balance again as the man shook his head with a scowl. 

“If you fall and break your neck or your leg, I’m without a job, so don’t get in my way,” he snarled, snatching the book from the ground and shoving it into your hands, “Now get away from here, go back to your books and keep them indoors.” 

Without a backwards glance he turned and grabbed the spade again and jumped into the ditch. You hesitated for a second, but the man stabbed the dirt with the spade with aggression, and began digging without another word. 

Holding tight to your book, you hurried away. The man’s fingers had left painful imprints on your upper arm, and you rubbed them as you made your way back towards the house, your heart still beating hard in your chest. He had scared you as much as almost falling into the ditch had. The scowl he’d given you had been amplified by dark eyes under his dishevelled mop of black hair and unkempt beard. It made him look foreboding and very dangerous. But what had really frightened you was the scar that marred his face, a wicked looking gash across his left eye. Even to your inexperienced eyes he looked like a man who had fought many battles and lived a hard life. What he did here, working for your uncle, you couldn’t even begin to imagine. His accent had been foreign, and he’d used a word you didn’t recognise when he first shouted at you. With a shudder you tried to calm yourself as you pulled open the heavy back door to the big house. 

The kitchen of the house was the only welcoming room in the place, much thanks to the elderly cook, Mrs Robertson, who ran it with a scullion to help her. Now Mrs Robertson greeted you with a smile, looking up from the dough she was kneading. 

“Hello, dear, you look frozen solid, is it still cold outside?” 

“Hello, Mrs Robertson. No, it’s not too bad, it’s just still cold in the shade,” you replied, unbuttoning your wool coat and hanging it over a chair in the corner. 

“Well, put the kettle on anyway, it’s time for some tea and you do look as if you could do with some warming up.”

She tucked the dough into a clean bowl and washed her hands while you filled the kettle and put it on the hob, stoking the coals to get it going. 

“I ran into a man in the park,” you said, taking down the teapot and cups from the cupboard, “did my uncle take on someone new?” 

“Tall, dark haired fellow with a nasty looking scar?” Mrs Robertson asked and you nodded. “That’s Mr Pero Tovar, he’s the groundskeeper. He’s been away for a bit, he usually is during the winter when there’s less to do. He must’ve returned recently, I haven’t seen him in a bit.” 

“I almost fell into a ditch he was digging but he caught me just in time, gave me a terrible fright.” 

“He will do that to you, poor man,” Mrs Robertson replied, “I met him once coming back late from the train, I was just coming up to the main gate, and he stepped out from the small path there. Nearly gave me a heart attack with the way he looked. But he apologised for scaring me and carried my luggage all the way up to the house,” she sat down at the table as you poured the boiling water into the teapot. 

“He’s not a wholly disagreeable man, even though he’s foreign,” she added as an afterthought, as she made sure you heated up the pot. 

“Do you know where he’s from?” you asked, “He had an accent I couldn’t place.” 

“Spain, I think. He mentioned it once when I asked why he didn’t drink tea. Apparently they prefer coffee there,” she shook her head as if the madness of not drinking tea was too much to imagine. 

You didn’t give the man any more thought, except to keep an eye out to avoid him when you were wandering the park, not wishing to be on the receiving end of one of his scowls again. The weather turned mild and soon daffodils and snowdrops were cropping up and you took the children outside to give them some lessons in botany. They were less than interested, and you soon gave up, letting them play in the stream flowing down towards the small lake while you brought out your sketchbook and began drawing the scene in front of you. The sun was warm, filtering down through the branches that were just starting to show the first hint of green again and you relished being out of doors, away from the house. The weather even felt warm, and you removed your heavy coat, before picking up the sketchbook again. 

The sound of footsteps crunching on last year’s dry leaves made you look up towards the path, only to be met by Mr Tovar’s dark eyes. He was all but marching towards you, a heavy looking tool bag in one hand and several long planks over his shoulder. Just as you thought he was about to scold you for some unknown trespass, he marched right by you with barely a nod, and made his way to the small wooden bridge crossing the stream. 

The bridge was really just a simple row of flat planks attached to logs long since hammered into the mud. The planks were beginning to rot and warp, and you’d kept the children away from it, it didn’t look safe. And Tovar proved you right when he knelt down and ripped the first plank away, the wood coming away in pieces in his hands. Soon he’d measured out the right length, and replaced the first plank with a fresh one, moving on to the next. 

You tried to return to your drawing or keep an eye on the children who were still playing further down the stream, but you kept glancing back at Tovar. Despite his intimidating appearance, or maybe because of it, you were drawn back to watching him as he worked. You weren’t unfamiliar with men, even though you’d grown up only with your mother. But this wasn’t the curious attraction you’d felt as a stable hand smiled at you. This was something else, something that made your eyes drift back to him, leaving your drawing unfinished as you watched him work. 

He had his back to you, a well worn black workman’s shirt stretching tight across his shoulders after he’d shed his jacket. It was mesmerising watching the broad back move and shift as he worked at the stubborn planks, the odd grunt reaching your ears. Hunched down as he was, he seemed to possess immense strength in his large hands, the planks groaning and protesting as he planted his feet wide and pulled. He always won the fight, tossing them behind himself in a careless pile. With an impatient movement he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve and straightened up. As you watched, he unbuttoned the cuff of his left hand and began rolling the shirt up over his forearms, exposing tanned skin dusted with dark hair. Done with one, he rolled up the other one before bending and grabbing the nearest loose plank, throwing it over his shoulder. 

As he turned he suddenly caught your eyes on him, and for a few seconds you were caught in his dark stare, unable to move. Slowly the scowl transformed into a smirk, and you dropped your gaze. From the corner of your eye you could see how he kept staring at you, his mouth pulled into a crooked grin as he seemed to study you in return. You felt your cheeks heat up and you turned away, looking down towards the children. From behind you, you heard him attack the planks again, another one tossed to the pile. 

Needing to remove yourself from the temptation to glance back at him again, you stood up and made your way down to the children. Albert was busy building a dam while Amelia threw rocks at it, he protested loudly while she laughed. 

“Amelia, don’t do that, let him build his dam,” you told her, knowing full well she would ignore you. She only sniggered and picked up another rock from the bottom of the stream, the hem of her dress soaked through. 

“Amelia! Stop that!” you snapped at her as she let the rock fly, narrowly missing her brother’s head as it went over him. 

“No!” she laughed, while Albert yelled at her, “I want to make him wet!”

“You’re ruining it! Albert hollered, as Amelia’s next rock hit the sticks and splintered his carefully constructed dam. With an angry roar he leaped for her but she easily jumped out of the way, laughing as she took off up the stream towards the bridge with Albert behind her. With a sigh you followed. You at least had to try to make them not kill each other. 

Pero stood up as the children came racing up the bank, Amelia laughing loudly as Albert yelled at her. When they spotted the tall man scowling at them, they both stumbled to a stop, looking up at him while you caught up behind them. Pero glanced over at you and then back at the children. 

“You should listen to your governess,” he said and gave Amelia a stern look, “And do not throw rocks at your brother.” 

But Amelia was not about to listen to the groundskeeper either. With an arrogant look on her face she put a hand on her hips and sniggered. 

“My father says you got that scar in prison. I think it makes you look like Quasimodo,” she smirked, pointing at Mr Tovar’s face as Albert started laughing. 

“Amelia!” you snapped, horrified at her behaviour. Mr Tovar’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline for a second before returning into a deep scowl. 

“Little girl,” he said, his voice low and serious, “you should not mock strangers.” 

“You’re not a stranger,” Amelia replied as Albert continued to giggle next to her, “you’re father’s groundskeeper, and you have to do as we say or he’ll send you back to prison with that ugly scar.” 

She was puffing her chest out as much as her scrawny ten year old frame would allow, and you could already see her mother’s haughty manners in the look she was giving Mr Tovar. He looked at her with a furrowed brow, his dark eyes almost hidden under his eyebrows, a dangerous sneer on his lips.  

“Amelia, that is enough,” you said, grabbing her arm and pulling her around, “you should be ashamed of yourself, apologise to Mr Tovar right now.” 

“No!” she yelled at you, struggling to pull free from your grip on her arm. 

“Amelia, you will apologise to Mr Tovar or I will tell your father how you have misbehaved.” 

“No!” she yelled again, and Albert joined in, yelling “No!” at the top of his lungs as Amelia continued to fight against your grip. Suddenly she lashed out and slapped you right across your cheek, and in shock you let go of her arm. The two children took off at a run, back towards the house, while you stood rooted to the spot, your left cheek stinging. 

Pero scoffed and came up to you, dropping the plank he’d been holding. 

“Delightful creatures,” he said, the sarcasm dripping from his voice as he looked down at you. With a surprisingly gentle touch, he took hold of your chin and tilted it to the light, examining the place where the slap had landed. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked and you nodded. 

“It stings,” you replied and he let go of your chin, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. 

“Come here,” he said, walking over to the stream and pointing at a flat rock just by the edge. He dipped the kerchief in the water and wrung it out as you sat down on the rock. His touch was gentle when he pressed the folded cloth to your cheek, the cool fabric soothing your skin. He held it to your face while he looked at you, and you realised his dark eyes weren’t really black, but a rich brown colour, much warmer than you’d first thought. And when he looked at you now, they even held some sympathy. 

“Why do you let them treat you like that?” he asked, the lilting accent in his voice less harsh now as he carefully refolded the kerchief, pressing another cool side to your skin.

“I have no power over them, and they know it. My aunt and uncle detest that I’m here, that they had to take me in. But I have nowhere else to go, so I put up with them until I can find some other family to work for.” 

“They will grow up into nasty adults,” he replied, “I hope you find a new family soon.” 

Pero dipped the kerchief in the water again and placed it back on your cheek, his hand still holding it in place and he was very close, closer than you’d ever been to any man that wasn’t in your family. You found you had to drop your eyes from his face, it was too intimidating to have him look at you like that. 

“Thank you, I can hold it myself,” you said, lifting your hand to take the kerchief. But he shook his head. 

“I’m keeping pressure on it so that it won’t swell up too much, although it will be tender for a few days.” 

He continued to keep his hand on your cheek, folding the cloth again and placing the cool side to your cheek. You glanced up at him, his face still close to yours, and found that he looked less scary now. The scar still added a grim element to his face, but despite the serious set of his mouth, his scowl had disappeared. 

“How do you know my name?” he asked, dipping the kerchief in the stream again. 

“Mrs Robertson told me, she told me you’ve recently returned as my uncle’s groundskeeper,” you replied, and his lips curled up in a small smile. 

“She is a good woman,” he said, “and she’s right. I returned a few weeks ago. I was away for the winter.” 

You wanted to ask where he’d been, if Amelia was right about him being in prison, but you didn’t want to break the spell of the moment. Instead you glanced down at your lap, unable to meet his eyes any longer. Tovar was crouched in front of you, and you saw how his trousers were worn and patched not only over the knees. His boots were mended and patched too, and the collar of his shirt was frayed. You realised as you took in the details of the man, that it looked as if he was living, or at least had lived, a hard and poor life. 

Pero dipped the cloth again, but this time he handed it to you. 

“Here, keep it pressed to your cheek while you go back to the house. And see if Mrs Robertson can give you some ice.” 

He stood up as you took the cloth, and then he held out his hand for you, to help you to your feet. You hesitated for a moment, looking up at him as he stood towering above you, with his hand out. He raised his eyebrows in question, and you found yourself again, putting your hand in his and letting him pull you up. He let go as soon as you were steady, but the warmth of his hand lingered in yours, the rough calluses of his palm imprinted on your skin and you realised it was not an unpleasant feeling. 

“Thank you, Mr Tovar,” you said, giving him a small smile, “I’ll make sure you get your kerchief back soon.” 

Tovar gave you a small nod, his dark eyes burning your cheeks as the corner of his mouth pulled up in smirk. 

“My pleasure, señorita.” 

You felt his hand in yours the whole way back to the house, it was a strange feeling. He was a coarse and angry man, he frightened you a little, although not as much as before. But yet the way his hand had felt on your chin, the way his eyes had been such a warm, brown colour up close, it seemed to linger in your mind. 

Mrs Robertson only rolled her eyes when you told her what had happened, giving you ice from the cold storage for your cheek. 

“And there’s no use telling your uncle about Miss Amelia’s behaviour,” she added, shaking her head, “She has him wrapped around her little finger.” 

You agreed with her, and said nothing to your aunt or uncle. But you didn’t take the children out into the garden any more. Instead you took refuge there yourself when you had time. More often than not, you went down to the bench by the small lake opposite his cottage. You hoped you’d see Mr Tovar, but he never seemed to be there. Instead you saw him from a distance as he went about various jobs in the park, always too far away to say something and he never looked in your direction. 

Until one day. 

Weeks had passed and summer had arrived and you had more time on your hands than what you knew what to do with. The family had left the house and travelled to the south of France for the summer. You had been told you would not be allowed to go, something that suited you well, even though your aunt expected you to be deeply upset by this. Both she and Amelia had hinted that you would be missing out on a world of amusements, but you didn’t have it in you to care. To be away from the family, to not have to deal with the children, that would be your holiday. 

Mrs Pluck had made it her mission to make your life in the house as miserable as possible and to escape her, you disappeared into the gardens for hours. On rainy days you asked Mrs Robinson to enlist you in the kitchen so that Mrs Pluck couldn’t accuse you of shying away from work. But it was a fine summer and most days you found a nook in the garden and read or drew. 

He found you down by the stream one day. The air was warm, especially for England, and you’d unlaced your boots and sat down on the bridge he’d repaired. With your feet in the cool, peaty, water you’d disappeared into your book, Mr Darcy declaring his love to Elisabeth for probably the twentieth time. 

Unbeknownst to you, Pero paused at the edge of the clearing as he spotted you, stopping in his stride to take in the peaceful scene you’d created in one of his favourite spots. The dappled sunlight danced across the stream, the gentle babble of the flowing water disguising the sound of his footsteps and he paused by the last tree of woods, the scene too tranquil to disturb. As he watched, you turned a page in the heavy book and pushed a strand of hair behind your ear, smiling at whatever you were reading. 

Pero would be the last person to admit it, even to himself, but he’d spent too much time thinking about your smile in the past few weeks. He was a man used to being on his own and didn’t pay much attention to the world around him unless it was threatening him or presenting an opportunity. The smiles of pretty women was not something he lingered on, mainly because the only women who smiled at him were the kind he had to pay to get. He knew his appearance, not just the scar, but his darker skin and guarded face, put off the women he met, and not just the women. So he’d arranged his features into a scowl that kept them all at bay, unless they needed him for a job. 

And this governess, he’d seen how you’d been frightened by him when you nearly stumbled into the ditch, and he’d dismissed you as one of the many women who took one look at him and baulked. But then he’d sensed your eyes on him as he worked on the bridge, seen your shy, awkward gaze when he caught you looking at him, no fear in your eyes. And the children were as cruel to you as to him, but you had to put up with them to keep your place in the house, to keep a roof over your head. You were a better person then he was, he would’ve struck the girl and thrown her into the stream. Instead, you’d stood there in shock as the children ran off, your hand on your stinging cheek. And he’d suddenly found himself pitying you, a creature too gentle to fit into the family of vipers that ruled the house. 

Before he’d even really considered it, he’d taken out his handkerchief and taken upon himself to soothe your swollen cheek. Your eyes had looked up at him with surprise and trepidation, but like the lamb, you’d followed him to the edge of the stream and sat down when he told you to. You really were too gentle and trusting for this world he thought, too innocent. He would’ve, should’ve, dismissed you easily, you were not his responsibility, not someone he needed to consider at all.  

But then you’d taken his hand and smiled as you thanked him, and he found, painfully, that you were not easy to dismiss, no matter how hard he tried. Instead your smile lingered in his mind, the spark it brought to your eyes, and how soft it made your features, matched only by the way your hand felt in his for the brief moment you held it. He’d never felt the urge to protect anyone else but himself before, but like a wolf turned guard dog, he suddenly felt the need to shield you, stay by your side and keep you safe. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and he’d pushed it aside, burying it deep inside. 

The next day he’d found his kerchief wrapped in a brown paper package on his doorstep. Clean and ironed, with a small sprig of lavender tucked between its folds. It was somehow now the prettiest thing he owned, and he couldn’t bring himself to use it again. Instead it stayed on his dresser, the lavender spreading its delicate scent around the room where it rested on the neatly folded fabric. Whenever he walked past the lavender shrubs in the garden, he thought of you, your smile seemed to live on at the forefront of his mind. 

He didn’t like how you made him feel, he didn’t want to feel like he needed to protect anyone but himself. If you were that weak and feeble, let you fend for yourself like he always had. It had made him strong and hard, he had no need for anyone and no one would treat him like those children had treated you. He avoided the lavender shrubs, and the spots where you often sat, making sure to never acknowledge you when he saw you in the distance. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself from glancing across the pond every morning when he left the cottage, only to find the bench empty. You never seemed to return to that spot.  

But now he stood at the edge of the woods, watching you turn another page, and smile again. He didn’t want to disturb you, didn’t want to see you smile at him again, didn’t want to see the softness of your eyes as they locked on to him and made his heart rage against anyone who hurt you. And at the same time, he knew he wanted you to notice him, to turn your head and smile at him instead of that book, to bring him to his knees and make him feel needed by you. He would be your guard dog for the rest of his miserable life if you only smiled at him. 

He felt it all battle inside him as he stood by the sturdy tree, a hand on its rough bark, one foot twitching to move forward, the jerk of the other to turn back. And maybe he made a twig snap, loud enough to make you lift your head from the book and turn, meeting his eyes as he tried to decide what to do. 

“Mr Tovar,” you said, and you’d made the decision for him. He felt his feet move, towards the bridge, before he’d decide anything. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I left the kerchief by your door,” you said, looking at him as he stopped by the edge of the bridge. 

“I found it,” Pero replied, his large hands twitching by his side, “You didn’t need to clean it, but thank you.” 

He shifted his weight, testing the new planks he’d laid down, pretending to inspect them while you continued to look up at him. 

“How’s the-” he started just as you spoke. 

“Thank you again fo-” 

“Sorry,” you immediately apologised, “you first, Mr Tovar.” 

“You don’t need to thank me,” he replied, “How is your cheek?” 

His voice was gruff, but his scowl was less this morning as he looked at your cheek. The skin had bruised but the swelling had disappeared after just a day. You put your hand on your cheek as if to feel the texture of the skin. 

“It’s fine, the bruise has disappeared and there is no pain, probably thanks to your quick thinking.” 

“I bet the little lady had no punishment for her actions,” he growled, bending his knees and dropping onto his haunches. He gently took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, just like had the day it happened, and tilted your head to the side, inspecting the flawless skin. 

“No, I never told her uncle anything,” you replied, “What would be the point? It would probably only get me into trouble instead.” 

Pero dropped his hand from your chin, your eyes weren’t on him anymore and he chided himself for acting on the impulse to touch you again. He could feel the guard dog in him bristle at your words, at the way you’d so easily let Miss Amelia get away with her actions. He would not have let her even speak to you the way she did, let alone strike you. 

You dropped your gaze back to the open book in your hands, your feet still dangling in the cool water. Pero knew he should stand up, go back to his cottage, and continue to stay away, to push any thought of you to the back of his mind. Tell the guard dog in his chest to ignore the woman in front of him, you were not his to protect. 

But instead he found his voice and spoke. 

“What are you reading, señorita?” 

You looked at him in surprise, why was he interested in your book? But the gaze that met yours was curious, despite the serious set his jaw still held. 

“Pride & Prejudice, by Jane Austen,” you replied, showing him the spine of the book. It was a well worn copy, a gift from your mother many years ago, “Have you read it?” 

“No,” came his swift reply, almost as if he was scoffing at the thought of reading such a book. 

“Well, it’s very good, it’s probably my favourite,” you said, looking back down at the book, stroking the front cover with a gentle touch, “I’ve read it many times."

“Why?” he asked and as you looked up at him, his eyebrows pulled together in a questioning look, incredulous even. 

“Why not?” you retorted, “It’s a good story, I enjoy the characters, and every time I read it I discover something new, a detail I hadn’t thought about. Have you never re-read a good book?” 

“Never,” he said, and this time he did scoff and you wrinkled your nose at him, looking back at your book and opening it up to the page you’d been on. 

“Well, maybe you should try it sometime, it’s a good experience to revisit things you like.” 

Pero could sense he’d offended you in some way, and yet again he was drawn in two directions by his mind, he should stand up, leave you to your book. 

“I never learnt how to read,” he said instead, regretting the words the second they came out of his treacherous mouth. He felt heat rise up his neck as he cursed himself. He’d never admitted to anyone that he couldn’t read, even though he’d learned a whole new language as an adult. Just repeat what others said, it was easy. Interpreting the little symbols on pages, whether in Spanish or in English, proved impossible in both languages. But so desperate was his mind to stay connected to you, that not even his deepest secrets seemed safe when he was in your presence. 

Now it was your turn to look surprised as you closed the book again. The scowl on his face was back, like he was expecting your mockery as his neck flushed a deep crimson. 

“That’s a shame,” you said, your voice small. You felt as if he would be very angry with you if you pitied him or accidentally made him feel inferior, his deep scowl still frightened you as he waited for your reaction to his confession. 

“Reading makes me very happy, and it opens up new worlds,” you continued carefully, “There are some great stories by incredible writers, they really make me see what they are describing and make me feel so much. I hope you can experience that some day, if you learn to read.” 

Pero dropped his gaze, down to his hands, and sank down onto the bridge, sitting down next to you as he shook his head. He saw the softness in you again, that gentleness that made the guard dog in him spring to life. He wanted to protect you, even against himself, didn’t want to frighten you. So he looked at his large hands, dirty from the soil and rough with callouses and tried to make his voice less harsh, his features less abrasive.

“I’m too old to learn how to read now, I was never able to do it in Spanish or English, what use is it to try now? Just tell me what your incredible book is about.” 

“I’m sure you could learn if you had a good teacher, Mr Tovar,” you said, but he just rubbed at the dirt on his hands and furrowed his brow as he shook his head in response. 

“Better you tell me what your book is about, then I don’t have to learn how to read,” he replied, keeping his voice low. What was he doing? He should not talk to you, he could already feel his heart pounding in an unfamiliar way, small tendrils reaching out towards you. 

“It’s…it’s about a woman called Elizabeth Bennet. Her family wants her to marry a man for his money, but she wants to marry only for love. But to her, all the men she meets are fools, none are worthy of her. Then she meets Mr Darcy, and she’s too prejudiced against men to see that he would be a good match for her. And he, on his end, is too proud to admit that a woman of a lower class than him could provide him with the kind of marriage that would make him happy. Both of them are bound by social expectations and restraints. But it has a happy ending,” you smiled at Mr Tovar who was watching you speak with curiosity, “I know it has a happy ending but I’m still nervous every time I read it.” 

“Do you wish to marry for love?” he asked, “Is that why it’s your favourite story?” 

His gaze made your cheeks heat up, it wasn’t the question you’d expected, and his deep brown eyes seemed to see through to your soul and see the true answer that lay there. 

You shrugged, looking down at the water rushing over your feet, to hide yourself from his eyes. 

“I very much doubt I’ll ever marry, for love or not. I’m a governess, I have no money and won’t inherit any either. If someone would want to marry me, they’d get nothing for it anyway. And what’s to say that he is someone I want to marry? Then I’d rather be like Lizzy and not marry at all, because I doubt there is a Mrd Darcy waiting for me.” 

Pero watched you, as you watched the water slip around your bare feet, the guard dog growling in his chest. 

“Any man would be fortunate to marry you, señorita,” he said, “just make sure you love him before you say yes to him.” 

He stood up suddenly, it almost made you jump it was so sudden, and was halfway across the small bridge before you had the sense to speak up. 

“Mr Tovar, will you let me teach you how to read?” 

He stopped in his tracks, turning back to you with a look that confused you and almost made you regret your spur of the moment question. His jaw ticked to the side, he glanced back down the path where he was heading, and his fingers twitched. But his eyes looked almost hopeful, like a light had been lit inside him. But then he sighed and closed his eyes, his head dropping down on his chest with a muttered string of words you didn’t understand, you knew he’d say no to your offer. 

“Señorita, if you want to waste your time on a hopeless case, who am I to say no?” 

“Really?” 

His reply surprised you so much that the book almost slipped from your hand, and you quickly placed it on the bridge behind you as he took a few steps back to you and nodded. 

“Who else is going to offer to teach me? I’d be a fool to turn you down, even though I doubt you can even teach this dog to read.” 

“Don’t say that about yourself, Mr Tovar,” you gently scolded him, “I’m sure we’ll get you reading in no time.” 

“Pero,” he said, a small smile softening his features as he held out his hand to you. “Don’t call me ‘Mr Tovar’ if you’re to teach me, señorita.” 

“Pero,” you replied, trying to roll the name around your tongue the way he did. It felt nice, unfamiliar in the way it sounded, but it suited him, and the way his harsh features changed when he smiled, was reward enough for your attempt. 

“Maybe I’ll teach you Spanish while you teach me to read,” he chuckled, a warm sound from him as you took his outstretched hand and shook it.

“Tomorrow at ten, at the bench by your cottage?” you asked and he nodded in agreement. 

“Tomorrow at ten.” 

Meeting Mr Tovar, no, Pero, you corrected yourself, quickly became the favourite part of your day. The summer was fine and most days dry, so you brought your books to the bench every morning at ten, and remained with him until you had to go back to the house for lunch and he had to take care of his groundskeeper duties. 

It quickly became clear to you that Pero’s biggest obstacle was his own belief that he wasn’t able to learn how to read. Once he’d cracked the code, he seemed to rehearse the alphabet every chance he got and soon he made his way through your easiest book. He read out loud, his finger following along in the text and he sounded out every letter before he put them into words, but he was reading for the first time. It was also the first time you saw him smile properly, a wide grin on his face as he correctly sounded out and deciphered his first word on the page without your help. 

Seeing Pero slowly gain confidence in his new found skill made you happy and satisfied and for a while you pretended that was the only reason you enjoyed your lessons with him. But you knew, because of the way your heart felt when you saw him, that that wasn’t the only reason you enjoyed teaching him. Far from it you had to admit. The lessons had been only an hour at first, you knew that it became hard for any pupil to focus after an hour. And at first you’d said your goodbyes and left when that hour was up. But then Pero offered to teach you some Spanish, and soon your hour had stretched into three while he asked you about your life, and he slowly told you about his. The man who had seemed so frightening at first, so angry and intimidating, was now the one thing that made your life at Yotes Castle bearable, even enjoyable. 

Little by little you saw more of the man behind the facade he’d held in place for so long. Carefully you asked questions about the things that seemed to shape the way he was now, and his eyes would go black, painful memories forcing themselves to the surface. But he always seemed to overcome it, choosing to share even the more grim parts of his life with you when it didn’t make you pull back from him in revulsion. 

“I was a good soldier,” he said, “but the only reward for a good soldier is to stay alive and be sent into battle again. I made as little money as the man driving carriages in the streets and less than the man who sold groceries to the army. So when I could, I left the army and sought work as a mercenary. There is no honour in it, but at least it kept my belly full and I could choose my own master and make a bit of money.” 

Pero shrugged, hunched over with his arms on his knees, his shoulders by his ears and looking out over the small lake in front of the bench, while you looked at his strong profile, the light hitting the scar across his face. It used to look nasty and mean to you, now it seemed to be a part of him as much as his dark brown eyes, just a mark of the hard life he’d lived before coming here. 

“I did things as a mercenary that I’m not proud of,” he said, his eyes still on the lake, “I’ve killed more men than I can remember. Most of them I just forget in the heat of the battle, others…they stay with me and I can see their faces sometimes. But I did it to stay alive, it was me or them, and someone was going to make that gold and it might as well be me. Better I kill the men who needed killing and let some poor boy from London keep his sanity and his life while I make the gold.” 

He turned his head and looked up at your face, half expecting you to be grimacing in distaste at his greed, but you just met his eyes with a concerned look. 

“You’ve seen so many terrible things, Pero. It makes me worry for you.” 

“Worry for how I sleep at night?” he asked, quirking his eyebrows at you with a slightly mocking tone. But you shook your head. 

“Maybe, but I worry about how you think the world always sees you. Those you meet here don’t know about your background, and don’t judge you for what they don’t know, yet you assume they do, and scowl at us all even when we-” 

“Even when you’re just a lonely governess trying to be polite?” Pero interrupted and you had to smile at him. 

“Yes, even when that. I was frightened of you after our first meeting, you looked so menacing and seemed very angry with me.” 

“Querida, I was never angry with you,” he said, his voice low and smiling as he sat up straight again and turned to you. 

“I know that now,” you smiled back at him, “but that’s what worries me about you. Maybe you are missing out on friendship when your past always makes you think that the world will judge you harshly.” 

“You became friends with me,” he replied, “maybe that’s all I need?” 

“You need only me as a friend? You’re settling for very little, Pero,” you scoffed, but still smiling at him. 

Pero shook his head, “Querida, you’re selling yourself for very little if you think that your friendship isn’t worth everything.” 

His words made your cheeks heat up, and for a few long moments you felt lost in the way he was still looking at you, his face serious and his dark eyes locked on yours. When you finally managed to pull yourself away, you looked down at your hands, rubbing at an ink stain on your thumb. Beside you Pero shifted, suddenly leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to your temple before he stood up. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, mi amorcita.” 

The kiss lingered long after he’d disappeared, your fingers finding the spot as you walked back to the house. You wished he’d continued, but you weren’t sure with what. 

“I was never in prison,” he told you one day, “well, not a real prison anyway,” he added with a smirk. “I was in China, working as a mercenary, and there was a misunderstanding. They put me in a cell but another mercenary got me out, he was good friends with the General, luckily.” 

“You’ve seen so much of the world, Pero, I’ve only ever been to London and here,” you replied, “What was China like?” 

“Interesting, and very different. Their language is very different from both English and Spanish. With English, I can recognise some of the words, with Chinese, nothing made sense,” he took the pencil from your hand and drew a strange symbol in the notebook. 

“That is the sign for gunpowder, I learnt it while I was there, important to know so that you don’t accidentally light a pipe next to it.” 

“That says ‘gunpowder’?” you asked incredulously as you looked at the seemingly disorganised lines he’d jotted on the page and Pero nodded. 

“They write words with pictures instead of letters, one of them explained it to me. And even I could tell the difference between our letters and their symbols. And my friend, who could read, couldn't interpret it at all, he said it looked nothing like anything he could read.” 

“I can see why,” you said, tracing the lines with your finger, “I see no similarity with our letters at all.” 

“I hope you get the opportunity to see more of the world one day, señorita, there is a lot more to it than just London and this miserable castle,” Pero huffed. The more you’d told him about your life, the more his anger had grown at the way your uncle was treating you, and letting his children and wife treat you. It made no difference of course, Pero was just the groundskeeper, and a foreigner at that. But it was nice to have someone on your side, someone as strong and intimidating looking as Pero, to tell you that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

“Maybe you can show me some day, Pero,” you said, the words slipping out before you’d fully considered them and you felt your cheeks heat up in a flash. Pero gave you a quick grin. 

“You wish to travel with the ill-famed Spaniard, a mercenary and dirty foreigner?” he laughed, “What would your uncle say?” 

“To hell with my uncle,” you giggled, it felt deliciously reckless to say it out loud, “To hell with him!”

Pero smiled at your glee, it was good to see you happy and dreaming of something other than your life at Yotes Castle. 

Two fat drops of water suddenly splashed down onto the page and you both looked up at the sky. Dark clouds had gathered above and now it was starting to come down hard, the first two drops quickly joined by many others. With a groan you realised you’d be soaked by the time you got back to the house, you had no umbrella with you, and your thin summer coat would not withstand this downpour. But Pero had already sprung into action with other plans, with a few quick movements he gathered up the books and notes from your lesson and held his hand out to you. 

“Come, quickly, we’ll run to my cottage until this is over.”

Without thinking, you took his warm hand and it closed around yours as he pulled you along at a brisk pace around the small lake. He kicked the door open and ushered you inside just as the downpour really started. Standing together at the entrance of his cottage, you watched the world turn liquid and grey in seconds. 

“Well, I guess that’s the end of summer then,” you said, peering into the gloom. 

“It will clear soon,” Pero replied, “but it will be wet for a while. Let me hang your coat up to dry, querida.” 

You’d told Pero your name, but he rarely used it, instead he’d continued to call you ‘señorita’ and explained what it meant. But as your lessons continued, he’d slipped into calling you ‘querida’ instead and you hadn’t yet had the bravery to ask him what it meant. It felt more intimate than miss, his choice to use it seemed to correlate with the deepening of your friendship, when reading lessons turned into longer conversations about your lives. Just giving him lessons, spending time alone with an unmarried man in secluded corners of the park, felt exhilaratingly dangerous. You hadn’t even told Mrs Robertson about it. But to acknowledge that you had more than just cordial feelings towards him, or that he might even have them too, that was an even more frightening thought that you shoved to the back of your mind and refused to entertain. It was an impossible scenario, your uncle would never allow his groundskeeper to court his niece.  

It was hard to keep that thought at bay here though. When he helped you shrug out of your coat, his fingertips brushed over the back of your neck as he took your scarf too, the gentle touch burning your skin. His touch seemed to linger a few more moments than needed, but you thought you’d happily stand still in his small hallway for days, if it meant you could continue to feel the warmth from his hands on your skin.

And Pero felt it too, the velvety smoothness of your skin, the warmth of your body as he stood just a little bit too close for just a little bit too long. He inhaled quietly, catching the scent of your soap, and took a reluctant step back, taking the coat with him. 

He hadn’t lit the fire this morning, but now he hung your coat over a rack and busied himself with the kindling while you looked around the modest house. The cottage was old, the stone walls thick, and you could tell not many of the items here belonged to Pero. You moved among the few items as the fire came to life, its crackling filling the room. You let your fingers brush over the sprig of lavender that lay on top of the still neatly folded handkerchief, a comb lying next to it along with a small sharp knife that you guessed he used to trim his hair and beard. 

A photograph caught your attention and you moved to stand in front of it. It stood propped up against the wall on the dresser, a simple portrait of two men. They were dressed in uniforms and looked with serious faces into the camera. You recognised a much younger Pero, his face smooth but still covered by his patchy beard, and no scar across his eye. The other man looked older and was light haired and as tall as Pero. 

“My friend William,” Pero said, coming up behind you and seeing what had caught your attention, “We were friends and mercenaries together, he’s the one who saved me in China.” 

“Where is he now?” you asked, picking up the photograph and studying the fair haired man.

“He met a woman and settled down, took a job with her father, helping them run the farm,” Pero replied, and yet again he was standing so close behind you that you felt the heat from his body through the layers of your own clothes. 

“It’s a good job for an old mercenary, he seemed very happy when I last saw him.” 

“Would you rather be a farmer than a groundskeeper?” you asked and Pero nodded. 

“Yes, if I found a woman who had a farm I could help run. But like your Elizabeth Bennett, I wouldn’t want to marry just for convenience.” 

“You want to marry for love?” you turned around surprised, looking up at him. He’d never struck you as a romantic. His demeanour towards you may have softened slightly, but his outer layer was still very much that of the scowling, dark minded man who’d rather the world just left him alone. Seeing him as someone who wished to marry a woman for love made you see him in a new light, maybe another crack in the facade he was slowly letting you through. 

Pero gave you a shrug and shook his head. 

“I don’t know, I don’t think I’d ever be fortunate to marry for love so I never considered marrying at all.” 

“But if you fell in love, you’d want to marry?” you asked and Pero gave you a humourless laugh. 

“Señorita, does it even matter if I’d want to marry at all? For love or for convenience, no one will marry an old mercenary, a piss poor old soldier, who thoroughly dislikes and distrusts the world.”

His face pulled up in a twisted grimace of a smile as he turned away from you and picked up the kettle on the clean scrubbed table. 

“Do you dislike me too?” you asked, placing the photo of Pero and his friend back on the dresser and moving over to the fire, “And distrust me?”

“Querida, no, of course not,” he replied, his eyebrows shooting up in concern, “I didn’t mean you, I’m sorry if you thought that.” 

He came to stand next to you by the fire, his dark eyes suddenly more concerned than you’d seen them before, searching yours to make sure he hadn’t inadvertently made you regret the friendship that the two of you had built up over the past few weeks. 

“I’d hate for you to think that I don’t trust you,” he said, “I’m glad you’re my friend and I hope you don’t regret the time you’ve spent teaching this old soldier to read.” 

You shook your head and without thinking, put your hand out and took his, stroking your thumb over the rough knuckles. 

“I don’t regret it at all, and I’m glad you trust me. You’re the first friend I’ve made since I came here and you’ve made this summer much better than I could ever have hoped. How could I regret the time I’ve spent with you?” 

Relief seemed to flood his features, his dark eyes turning warm in the glow of the fire light as he smiled and wrapped his fingers around yours. 

“I’m pleased to hear it, querida, our lessons are the best part of my day.” 

You smiled back at him, his hand, calloused and rough as it was, sent a delighted shiver through your limbs, fighting back the urge to step closer to him, to envelop more of yourself in the warmth that seemed to radiate from him. 

“Can I confess something, Pero?” you asked with a small smile and Pero nodded in reply, one eyebrow lifted in question, “My favourite part isn’t the lesson, but the time we spend talking about everything else afterwards. All your stories make me feel like I’ve seen more of the world because of you.” 

“I wish I could show you all of it,” he smiled in response, “maybe one day I’ll come back with a fortune and be able to take you with me on my travels,” he was smiling and he didn’t let go of your hand, still holding on, and now he was the one stroking your fingers, letting his thumb trace your knuckles, gliding up so that he felt the faint thrum of your pulse under the thin skin of your wrist. 

But you felt your heart twist at his words, you hadn’t even considered that he would leave. 

“You’re leaving?” you asked, the small moment of standing close to him, alone in his cottage shattered, and you pulled your hand from his. He had no obligation to you, no commitment, but it suddenly felt like he was breaking a promise. 

“After the summer, yes,” he said, the smile falling from his face when you let go of his hand, he reached out for yours for a split second, as if he wanted to stop you from pulling away, but thought better of it, “There’s not enough work for me through the winter so your uncle won’t pay to keep me on. I go south and find what work I can.” 

“Do you always come back in the spring?” you asked, the very thought of spending winter here without Pero making your heart sink into the pit of your stomach. Last winter had been torturous, the only thing making you not dread the coming winter was the thought of Pero and continuing to meet him. 

“I come back if I have to,” Pero replied, regret lacing his voice, “If I can’t find better work over the warm season, I come up here. Your uncle prefers hiring someone he already knows, and he’s prepared to pay a bit extra for it, so the wage is decent.” 

“But you might not come back next spring? And you’ll be away all winter?” 

Pero felt his treasonous heart clench when he saw the disappointment in your eyes. He’d tried very hard to see you as the teacher, a teacher who’d become his friend. Convincing himself that the guard dog that growled in his chest was only raising its hackles because a friend was being treated badly by the family that employed you both. Not because he had any deeper feelings for you, any feeling of love, he did not fall in love he told himself, he kept his heart from feeling anything more than friendship. 

But now his heart ached at the dismay he saw in your eyes, and he clenched his fists, digging his broken, dirty, nails in to his palms to stop himself from pulling you back to him, pulling you into his arms and telling you he wouldn’t leave, not without taking you with him. 

“Querida…” he mumbled, “I simply don’t know if I’ll be back next spring. But I promise, if you’re still here, I will do my best to return.” 

“I’ll miss you,” you said quietly as Pero carefully reached out and took your hand in his again, a small gesture of consolation, “Last winter was dreary and miserable but it will be worse now when this summer has been so nice.” 

You looked down at your hand in his, his golden, tanned fingers wrapping around yours, the back of his hand criss crossed by small scars. You’d seen them before and asked him about them, he’d let you trace your fingertips over them, seeing the evidence of the hard life he’d lived as a mercenary, while he’d kept his eyes on you. Now you did the same again, memorising each line, committing to memory how his skin felt under your fingers, the warmth, the sparse dark hairs that made his hands look so different to your own. 

Pero watched how you caressed his rough hands, hands he knew had been covered by more blood and grime that he wished to remember. So many lives ended by the movements they could perform. You knew about it all, you’d made him speak openly about the darkest memories his mind held, you knew these hands were capable of unimaginable violence. Yet you ran your soft fingers over the scars again, not pulling back from the man he was, no longer frightened by his violence, his scowl, the facade he knew he kept between himself and everyone. The way you looked at him, open, smiling, it made his heart do things he didn’t think were possible, feel light and buoyant, a small crack opening up. 

His hand moved without his consent, carefully coming up to your face, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing across it as you lifted your head and looked at him. 

“I’ll miss you too,” he whispered, barely recognising his own voice, his hand still softly caressing your cheek as you leaned your head against his palm, your eyes closing with a soft exhale. 

His heart soared in his chest.  

He thinks he moved first, but the warmth of your body was pressed against him before the thought had crossed his mind, your mouth so close and turned up towards him. When his lips touched yours, a small sigh escaped you, the warm air brushing over his bristly moustache. Your hand closed tight around his, holding onto him as if to stop him from leaving, but Pero knew nothing could make him step back now. He pulled you closer instead and pressed himself to you, a low, satisfied growl coming from deep inside his tight chest.

His lips were warm and tender against yours, the sensation so much softer than you’d ever imagined. He gently caressed your cheek, moving his lips against yours as you took in the sensation of being pressed so close to him. With your eyes closed, every movement and sound seemed heightened to your senses; the light scratch of Pero’s moustache, the calluses on his hand rough against your cheek, his other hand moving, wrapping around your waist, warm and firm against the small of your back as he held you close, the small gasp of breath from you when he left your lips for a moment to angle his head and capture them again, deepening the kiss.

You’d never been kissed like this, only experiencing chaste, dry kisses pressed to your cheek by your mother. Now Pero moved his lips against yours, gentle and firm, in ways you’d never felt before. He held you close, your whole body pressed against him as he took your bottom lip between his, giving it a gentle tug. It pulled a whimper from you, heat shooting through your body, and you felt your knees buckle as the sensation overwhelmed your senses. Pero tightened his grip on you, but pulled back a little, looking down at your closed eyes, your lips parted as you caught your breath. 

“Mi vida…” he breathed softly, “open your eyes.” 

You looked up at him, his dark brown gaze so permissive, more tender and open than you’d ever seen him before. 

“The rain has stopped,” he said, his voice still low, “you should go before they send someone to find you.” He didn’t think anyone would come looking for you for hours yet, but his grip on propriety was weakening.

You nodded, but neither of you made a move to break apart, Pero’s arm was still holding you firmly pressed to his solid body, his hand on your cheek. Your hands had entwined in his shirt, holding it as if it kept you from falling. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” you murmured, your eyes slipping to his lips, wanting to feel him on you again. 

“I’m not leaving for many weeks yet, querida,” he  replied, his hand leaving your cheek to push a strand of hair away from your face, “And many things can happen between now and next spring.” 

“Please kiss me again,” you asked, “Just in case,” and your cheeks heated up at your boldness, as he smiled at you, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a grin. 

“Anytime, mi amorcita.” 

He sent you on your way after another long, lingering kiss. He’d parted his lips, let his tongue come out to carefully taste you, his hand on your jaw prompting you to slowly open your mouth and taste him in return. The sensation was strange, almost too intimate, your already burning cheeks heated up even more and it made you shy, stilling your kiss. Pero had pulled back, pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth and smiled at you again. 

“Your kisses are like the sweetest wine, querida,” he said, slowly letting you go, “and a hundred times more addictive.”  

Your heart beat a new rhythm as you walked back to the house, thrumming in your chest, as your lips felt hot and tender, still imprinted by Pero’s kisses. Whatever measures you’d taken to protect your heart had proven worthless, the man who only a few weeks ago had seemed so intimidating and frightening, had become your friend through the lessons. After the afternoon’s events...your heart seemed to both ache and soar when you thought of him. This was an impossible situation, an impossible man to fall for, yet you knew it was too late to pretend, to hide the truth from yourself. 

You were hopelessly in love with Pero. 

But Pero felt fear grip his heart as he watched you walk away from his cottage. The guard dog in his chest growled and clawed at his innards, making them sting with guilt and dread. This was foolish, the most foolish idea, why had he let it go this far? Why had he kissed you, not once, but twice? Why had he not tempered his heart to this weeks ago? But your presence in his cottage, your upset when realised he’d be leaving and may not return, confessing that you’d miss him, it had broken down all of his carefully laid plans to only be your friend. It was reckless to kiss you, a severe lapse in judgement. To let himself taste your lips, feel you so close to him, the softness under his hands, to feel for just a few minutes how it would be if you were his. But he had nothing to offer, and even if he did, you were impossibly out of his reach. This would only end with heartbreak if he let it continue. And he knew his heart would recover and harden when told you it couldn’t continue, but he might break yours for good. 

Pero was already by the bench when you came there the next day, but he wasn’t sitting on it as he usually did. Instead he stood next to it, his large hands twitching with nerves as they hung by his thighs. 

You smiled at him, but it faded when you saw the serious set of his face, and he didn’t return your smile. 

“Señorita,” he said, his voice low and heavy as he nodded to you, “I apologise for my behaviour yesterday, I shouldn’t have kissed you. I wish to remain your friend and continue our lessons, but no more, I will not let myself go any further.” 

Your heart plummeted into the pit of your stomach, the fantasy you’d been nursing since yesterday afternoon shattering as Pero kept his eyes off you, looking at a spot on the ground between the two of you. You knew it was a silly dream, imagining a life where you and Pero could marry, be together and create a life for the two of you. But you’d held on to it, bolstered by Pero’s words that a lot could happen between now and next spring. 

But now here he stood, not meeting your eyes, his hands seemingly trying to keep something at bay with the way they kept moving, never stilling. He must know what he was doing to you, the pain his words caused, and you could see the struggle in him. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark under his deeply furrowed brows and you felt yourself breaking. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and quickly you turned and sat down on the bench, opening your bag to take out the books while you shook your head. 

“It was nothing, Mr Tovar, and you’re right, we shouldn’t have done it. Let’s continue our lessons as friends.” 

You didn’t look at him, but you felt the bench shift as he sat down at the other end, and you handed him the book he’d been reading from. 

“From page ten, Mr Tovar, please.” 

“Señorita…” he replied, his voice doing a bad job at hiding the pain he felt at your cold demeanour, even though he’d been the one to break your heart, he knows it, he can see it in the way your eyes are filled to the brim with tears, “please call me Pero, you are still my friend.” 

“I think it might be best if we continue with titles, Mr Tovar. Please, page ten if you wish to continue our lessons.” 

He opened the book to the page, biting back all the things he would rather say, but he’s made a decision. He knew he’d hurt you, he knew this would hurt, but what he was foolish enough to start yesterday, has to end as quickly as possible. So he focused on the first word of the page, and tried to remember how to interpret the illegible markings that face him. 

He read from the book, you corrected him and helped him when he got stuck, just as you’ve done through all the lessons. But you don’t smile at him, and you don’t sit close to him. When the hour is up, you told him to practise a passage tonight, and then gathered your things and stood up. 

“Same time tomorrow, Mr Tovar,” you said, a statement rather than a question, and he can only nod in agreement. You gave him a short nod too, and walked away, quickly disappearing into the woods. 

The tears began to flow as soon as your back was turned to him, silently, holding back the sob that had been lodged in your throat for the past hour. You rushed through the small woods, not towards the house, but towards the winding maze of rhododendrons that offered a thicket of sheltered pathways under their heavy boughs. There, in the centre of the labyrinth, you sank down on the worn stone bench under the thickest trunks. Their season was long gone, a reminder how late the summer was getting, their bright petals turning brown on the forest floor. Covering your face with your hands, you gave into the grief that was squeezing your heart, whimpering as tears began to flow in earnest. It was so much worse than if he simply didn’t love you in return, you know he does, he couldn’t hide the pain on his own face as he told you it could go no further. But he pushed you away anyway because he realised it was a hopeless dream and it crushed you under the weight of how bleak it was. 

“I wish I’d never met him,” you whimpered, gripping the cool stone, digging your nails into the unyielding surface, “I wish I’d never met him.” 

Pero held onto the branch of the rhododendron bush so hard it might break under his iron grip. The guard dog in his chest was threatening to spring forward, to wrap itself around your broken form on the stone bench, to hold you, tell you it would all be fine, he’d find a way, protect you from everything, even himself. It was a mistake to follow you when you left, but his determination to not let the love between you go any further did not stand a chance against the urge in his chest to protect you from the world. Even if he would not let himself come close to you again, the guard dog still pushed him to follow you, the despondent shape of your shoulders, the quiet sobs pulling him just as much. 

When you whimpered, your wish to never have met him, he felt as if you’d slid a blade into his heart, and he only deserved it. He deserved as much pain as what he could hear in your voice, more even, he’d take it all from you if it wasn’t for the fact that he was the one causing it. 

You didn’t hear the careful crunch of his boots as he turned and walked away. 

Even though your heart was breaking, and sat in the pit of your stomach like a heavy weight every morning when you woke up, you still continued to see Pero almost every day. You both knew it probably would’ve been wisest to not continue the lessons, that it would make it all that much harder, keeping the pain fresh every day. But it wasn’t something either of you were prepared to give up, so you met on the bench by his cottage and you kept Pero at a distance, and he did the same with you. Always sitting at the far end of the bench, reading the passage you assigned him diligently, but never moving closer. 

Your one concession, the thing you found you couldn’t be without, was to extend the hour and stay even though the lesson was over. Listening to Pero’s stories of his life before he came to England, his childhood in Spain, his adventures as he travelled the world as a mercenary. But he kept his facade up, never letting it fall the way it had before, never letting you in again like he had.

He does teach you some Spanish though, teaching you how to pronounce his name the way he does and smiling when you greet him in Spanish every morning, telling him what a beautiful day it is, no matter how dreary the weather is. He tells himself he can live like this, have you as a friend in this place, someone who will make him come back next spring. He might even believe it. 

You count down the days to the end of the summer with growing dread, the ache in your heart doesn’t lessen. Rather it grows, rips through you when he smiles at your successful attempt at asking him how old he is. The Spanish he’s teaching you becomes your link to him, the one thing you’ll have left when he leaves, and you hoard the words in your mind, asking him to translate every word you can think of. 

But he never calls you mi amorcita again, and you never ask what it means. 

No summer is endless, and one day you returned from the lesson to find the house in uproar. Rooms being opened up, aired out, sheets pulled from the furniture as Yotes Castle was prepared for the return of the family. 

You saw their carriage coming up the drive as you left the house the next morning, and you hurried away, ducking out of sight. The horrid day of the children returning to their lessons is already here, and you wish to keep it at bay as long as possible. 

When you arrived at the bench by the cottage, Pero wasn't there yet. He’s usually first, he only walks over from his cottage, but now you sit and wait for him for what feels like an age. Finally he arrived, coming down the path from the big house, not his cottage.

“Buenas días, Señor Tovar, qué lindo día,” you greeted him and he nodded but didn’t smile. 

“The family is back at the house,” he said, stopping by the bench, but didn't sit down as usual. 

“I know, the house was turned upside down for their return yesterday and I saw their carriage as I walked down here,” you replied, taking in his face, a deep scowl pulling at his eyebrows, “Did something happen?” 

“I spoke with your uncle, my contract will run out in four weeks, I’m to leave at the end of the month.” 

“Oh.” 

It was all you could say, a small puff of air escaping you as you looked at each other, so much unspoken over the past few weeks, the events of the afternoon in the cottage suddenly sitting between you as if it had just happened.  

“I…I’ll miss you,” Pero said eventually, the silence stretching out for too long, “I’ll come back next spring, I promise.” 

You didn't reply, dropping your gaze to your hands, a lump in your throat had formed at his words. The very thought of him leaving, of spending the long dark winter without him…it clawed at your heart, forced tears into your eyes as the reality that you’d been trying to push back made itself known. 

“Querida…” he said, his voice low, pleading, “I’ll come back. But we still can’t…” he trailed off as you inhaled deeply, your shoulders shaking as you bit your lip. 

“Querida…” he tried again, stepping closer to you, his hand hovering over your shoulder, but pulling back before his hand reached you, “If things were different, but a man like me shouldn’t court a woman like you, it’s not right. I’m…I’m not….” 

He didn’t finish his sentence, instead he just stood next to you, his fingers trembling as he watched your shoulders heave in another deep inhale. 

“Pero…” you mumbled, your voice watery and his heart ached, you hadn’t called him Pero since the day you kissed and he’d never gotten used to you calling him Mr Tovar again. 

“Don’t come back next year if that’s all you see for us,” you forced out, your jaw clenched tight to hold back tears, “Don’t tell me who I should let court me. If I didn’t want it to be you, do you think I would’ve continued our lessons?” 

You looked up at him, your lashes heavy with tears and Pero sighed, dropping his head rather than to see the pain so clear on your face. 

“Querida…” he breathed out, a third time, and you let out a hollow laugh, a wretched snort with no mirth at all. 

“Is that all you have to say, Pero? ‘Querida’? What does that even mean, just an empty word when you’re too much of a coward to actually mean it?” 

You didn’t see the frustration that flashed across Pero’s face as you stood up, rubbing your hands over your face to wipe at the hot, angry tears that were slipping over your cheeks, turning to leave him. But Pero growled, a low noise coming from him as his hand shot out to grab your arm, closing tight around the fabric of your coat. When you looked back at him, his face was set in hard lines, his dark eyes boring into you under the sharp demarcation of his eyebrows pulled tight together.

“I’m no coward, I mean it when I call you ‘querida”, he scowled,  “But I know what I am, and that I have nothing to offer you but a life fighting to keep poverty at bay as I drift from job to job. Don’t call me a coward when you have seen nothing of the life outside of this house and your mother’s household. I’ve slept in hedgerows, I’ve gone hungry for days, walked my shoes to threads. It is not the life I want for you.” 

“I didn’t realise we were already married,” you spat out, your eyes as dark as his, as anger coursed through you at his presumption, “You’re not my husband, you do not decide over my life. Unfortunately, that privilege still lies with my uncle. And I never thought you and him would like to lock me up in the same cage.” 

“I don’t want you locked up, I hate seeing the way you’re treated by them!” Pero raised his voice, stepping closer to you, his hand tight around your arm as he pulled you in, “I would pull down every brick in this place to set you free if I could. Do you really think I don’t know how painful it will be to spend this winter apart? Away from you? All I want is to take you away from here and protect you from them, from anyone who’s not as good to you as you deserve. Hay un puto perro guardián dentro de mí! Carajo, cómo te amo!”

He shouted the last words, rage flaring up inside him as frustration burned through his body, your eyes wide as he gripped both your arms and almost pushed you away from him, but not letting go. 

“Don’t you understand? If I loved you less, I might be able to speak about it more, but I love you too much and I can’t let you live the way I do!”  

His face suddenly fell, the air seeming to escape him as he deflated, his fingers digging into your flesh loosened their grip and he sighed deeply as the rage that had flared in him died down.

“I…We…have no choice. Stay here this winter, only one winter, and I will come for you next spring and we’ll leave together,” he moved his hand, cupping your cheek gently, his face pleading, begging you to understand. It was ripping his heart in two, the very thought of leaving you here to suffer through another winter of the children’s abuse, your uncle’s neglect and your aunt’s disdain. But the option was to risk everything if he couldn’t find a job for the winter down south, “Please, mi querida, I promise I’ll come back and I’ll have money for us to leave and be together.” 

His face was pained as he looked at you, waiting for your answer, his hand still cupping your cheek as his thumb softly wiped at the tears that still trickled down from your eyes. 

“I…I love you too, Pero…” you stammered, the words sinking in as his tirade of words ebbed out, “I was scared you didn’t.” 

“Mi amorcita,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours, “my little love, I tried not to, but it’s impossible not to love you.” 

You closed the last small gap between you, kissing him without hesitation, his warm mouth opening in surprise as you pressed your lips to his. His hand left your arm and wrapped around your back as you moved together, your body pressed against his, his strong arm holding you very close to him just like he had the last time. A whimper escaped you as you felt him deepen the kiss, curling himself around you, caressing your cheek as all the pieces seemed to slot into place. Your hips against his, your arms around his body, the tickle of his moustache against your lips and his fingers tugging on the back of your coat, lifting you to your toes as he pulled you impossibly closer. 

The lack of oxygen at length made you both pull back just a little, Pero mumbling softly under his breath as he caressed your cheeks, cupping your face in both his hands and kissing your lips, the tip of your nose, and then your forehead before he looked down at you. 

“I promise, just one winter, mi vida. Can we survive that if we spend the next four weeks just like this?” 

“You’ll really come back?” you whispered into his neck, the steady thrum of his pulse just under your lips as he gently caressed the back of your neck, you could feel his fingers in the strands of hair that had slipped from your bun. 

“I promise, I promise,” he assured you, his lips pressing against your head between each word, ”I was always going to come back, no matter what you said.” 

“I should’ve taught you how to write too,” you said, “a whole winter with no word from you will be torture, but if I know you’re coming back, I can bear it. But I’ll miss you every minute.” 

“We have four weeks, teach me how to write too, la maestra,” he chuckled, leaning back a little so that he could see your face, still tear streaked and red eyed, his thumbs coming back to stroke your cheeks, “Mi amorcita, don’t cry any more. It won’t be easy, but if you really want this old soldier with no prospects, you can have him.” 

“I really do, Pero,” you said, closing the short distance between you again and finding his warm lips.

There wasn’t much of a lesson that day, Pero pulled you down onto his lap, sitting on the bench, making up for lost weeks. Your lips were swollen and red by the time you had to pull yourself away and return to the house, Pero to the duties he still had left as groundskeeper. Your heart was still heavy with the knowledge that he would soon leave, but you held on to the light that was his love, his promise to return so that you could leave together next spring. 

So wrapped up in your thoughts of Pero were you, that you didn’t notice the smug smile of Mrs Pluck, the housekeeper, as you approached the kitchen door. 

“There you are,” she greeted you, her self satisfied smirk stretching her jowls as she grinned like a cat that had caught a particularly juicy mouse. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs Pluck,” you replied, moving to the side to pass her, but she held up her hand and grabbed your jaw, pinching it painfully as she pulled your face around to peer at your lips. You yelped in surprise at her harsh treatment.

“Enjoyed your time with the groundskeeper did you?” she asked, malice dripping from her question, “I can see he did his best to bruise those rosy lips, making you look like a whore with a lip stain on.” 

Nausea forced its way up through your throat, almost making you choke as you tried to pull away from her sharp grip, panic gripping your heart as you saw her glee. The fear in your eyes was showing and her face pulled into an even wider grin as she let go of your jaw, only to grip your arm, her fingers closing like a vice around you. 

“You think you’re so clever, sneaking around with him every day, thinking no one would notice? Well, you’re a fool, girl. I’ve known for weeks and now I’m going to tell your uncle and have you thrown out. I’ve been waiting for this day, I only hope that swarthy tinkerer got you up the pole while he was at it, would serve you just right.”   

“Please, Mrs Pluck, don’t tell my uncle, we haven’t done anything, we’ve just kissed!” you pleaded, “He’s leaving in four weeks either way.” 

“And have a hussy like you stay on and teach Miss Amelia?” the housekeeper spat out, now dragging you past Mrs Robinson’s kitchen. She poked her head out from the pantry and watched in concern as the two of you passed. “You’re a fool if you think I would allow that while I’m housekeeper here, maybe that’s the kind of behaviour your mother allowed you to get away with, the Lord alone knows what goes on in those London houses.” 

Your heart was beating out of your chest as Mrs Pluck continued to pull you up the stairs towards your uncle's study. You could feel your legs shaking as the panic at what was about to happen to you, and to Pero, when your uncle found out. Pero would lose his job, there was no doubt about it. You might too, or he would lock you up, keep you from ever seeing Pero again. The very thought forced a sob up through your tight throat, the sound making Mrs Pluck snort again and dig her bony fingers deeper into your arm. 

The rap of Mrs Pluck’s knuckles on the study door felt like the bells of doom to your reeling mind. You had no excuse, no explanation, no way to plead for his mercy, and you stumbled as the doors opened and the housekeeper pushed you through them. 

“M’lord, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have discovered something that needs your immediate attention,” Mrs Pluck simpered, her countenance suddenly all meek and apologetic. The change would be laughable to you if not for the panic that’s still coursed through you. 

“What is it?” your uncle asked, looking up from his large dark wood desk. 

“Your niece and the groundskeeper, Mr Tovar. I’ve discovered that they’ve been having an affair. It seems they’ve been meeting in secret all summer. And only just this morning I saw them together, they were very…intimate.” 

Mrs Pluck clasped her hands in front of her and looked the very image of piety as she pursed her lips in disapproval. 

“Is this true?” your uncle directed the question to you, but he didn’t seem to feel the need to meet your eye. Instead his gaze dropped back down to the letter he was composing, continuing to scrape his pen over the paper. 

“Yes, but we only-” you replied, your voice unsteady with nerves and panic, and your uncle cut you off. 

“Mrs Pluck, you saw them being intimate? How?” 

“I saw her sneak away from the house most mornings, so I followed. They met by the bench down by the groundskeeper’s cottage. I couldn’t tell you how many times they met but this morning they were kissing, and I saw her sitting on his lap for quite some time.” 

“This is unacceptable behaviour for anyone living under my roof, I do not care that you are my sister’s daughter. I know she raised you to be a lady but she clearly failed,” your uncle said, looking up at you and placing his pen next to the inkwell, “You are dismissed immediately, I cannot have you tarnish the reputation of this family with this kind of loose behaviour. You will pack your bags and leave first thing in the morning, you will have no reference. You’ll be paid what you’re owed.” 

It felt as if the ground opened up underneath you, your breath caught in your throat, and from the corner of your eye you saw Mrs Pluck smirk while she studied your reaction. Without a reference you would not be able to find a new position as a governess, not even as a house maid, finding any kind of work would be all but impossible. 

“Please, uncle, I accept that I have to leave, but at least give me a reference, we did nothing wrong, I just love him. And I’m not with child!”

Your uncle sneered as he returned to his letter, “Love? Foolish child, what other nonsense has he filled your brain with? No, this harsh lesson will be good for you. I'm sure you can find some occupation once you’re back in London where you can’t corrupt any young ladies, and certainly not my daughter.” 

“And the groundskeeper, sir?” Mrs Pluck asked, clearly keen to make sure he wasn’t forgotten. 

“Send one of the footmen for him, I’ll dismiss him immediately. He’s broken my trust and defiled my family, he cannot stay on another day.” 

He looked up at you and Mrs Pluck and waved his hand. 

“That will be all, and make sure she is confined to her room, Mrs Pluck. We don’t want her running off to that Spaniard.” 

Mrs Pluck had a lot to say as she escorted you to your room, her fingers once again digging into your arm. It seemed to be a steady stream of gleeful insults that buzzed in your ears like wasps, your mind too numb to take in what she was saying. The door of your room snapped shut and you heard the key turn as the lock clicked, leaving you standing frozen just inside. Your insides felt like hot lead, the buzzing in your ears was still deafening and it was starting to cloud your brain. Stumbling to the bed, you sank to your knees, grabbing the bed frame before you toppled over onto the scratchy rug. 

You weren’t sure how long you remained on the floor, your head reeling. It felt like you fainted, but you could still see the lurid Persian pattern on the rug in front of your eyes when you pried them open. The room was dark though, hours must’ve passed and you hadn’t even noticed. The buzzing had subsided, replaced by a tight knot of fear and worry in your stomach, your heart still racing. Pushing yourself up, carefully sitting down on the edge of the bed, you managed to light the candle on the bedside table, casting a faint light around the room. There was a tray just inside the door, and the two carpet bags you’d arrived with. Someone, probably Mrs Pluck, had left dinner on the floor, but clearly not cared enough to make sure your still form on the floor was alright. The sight of the congealed stew made your stomach turn and you scrambled for the chamber pot. 

On shaky legs, moving slowly, you made your way around the room to light the rest of the candles, coming to a stop in front of the small closet that held your clothes. You had no way of contacting Pero until morning, your only hope was that once you’d left the house, you could make your way to the cottage and find him, if he was still there. Your uncle seemed intent on throwing him out immediately, what if he had already left? 

The thought made panic rise in you again, bile forcing its way up, making you bend double with a whimper. A few hours ago the prospect of spending the winter here without Pero seemed like torture, now you wished that was all you had to face. At least he’d promised to come back next spring. Now he’d been forced to leave and you had no way of finding him if he wasn’t at the cottage. And you’d soon be out in the world on your own with no means and no other plan than getting back to London. How you’d survive, you had no idea. 

The next morning, after a night of very little sleep, you waited sitting on the bed with your two packed bags. You refused to be sad about leaving this house, but you were trembling with nerves at the prospect of soon being outed from the only family you’d known and left to your own devices. Pero was right, you knew nothing of the world outside of this house and your mother’s household. When the lock in the door clicked, you forced your head up high, at least you wouldn’t give Mrs Pluck the satisfaction of seeing you broken. 

The smug smile on the housekeeper’s face made you grit your teeth and straighten your back even more, gripping the handles of your two bags tightly. 

“Time to go,” Mrs Pluck smirked, opening the door wide and ushering you out. She didn’t grab your arm this time, but she followed close behind you, making sure to lead you through the crowded servant’s hall downstairs so that all could see you leave in disgrace. Mrs Robinson gave you a sympathetic smile, and you gave her a weak one in return. 

Out in the courtyard one of the stable hands was waiting with the wagon. Not looking back, you climbed onto the seat next to him and put your bags in the back. You had no intention of saying goodbye to Mrs Pluck, so you turned your back on her while she instructed the driver. 

“Drop her at the station, and make sure the groundskeeper isn’t anywhere around. He’s not allowed back here, do you understand?” 

“Yes, Mrs Pluck,” he replied, gathering the reins and preparing to leave. 

“He was sent off yesterday afternoon, he’s halfway to London by now, good riddance,” she huffed. You could hear the contempt in her voice and you were glad you couldn’t see her face, evil, vicious woman. 

With a jerk the wagon began moving, the driver clicking his tongue at the horse. You held on to the side of the seat as the wagon left the big house behind, rolling out onto the long drive down towards the main gate. The young stable hand said nothing as you stared straight ahead, but from the corner of your eye you could see him cast curious glances at you. 

“Whatcha do?” he asked eventually, “Get knocked up?” 

“No,” you said between tight lips, “Not at all.” 

“Steal summit then?” 

“Absolutely not!” you exclaimed and he shook his head. 

“No, you don’t look like the thieving kind, too fancy for that.” 

The wagon rolled down between the trees of the drive in silence for a while before he spoke up again, his curiosity getting the better of him. 

“So what did you do?” 

“Not that it’s any of your business, but you might as well tell the rest of the servants as they’ll be gossiping either way; I fell in love with the groundskeeper, we kissed, and Mrs Pluck saw us and ratted us out to the lord.” 

“You kissed?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise, “That’s it and you got booted? Mean ol’ bitch,” he shook his head, “Only ‘cause she’s an ugly old bat who no one wanted to marry. She’s always making life miserable for the housemaids, she had one of ‘em dismissed for just looking at the delivery boy from the village. Said she knew they’d been sneaking off together when everyone knew Jenny never would never do anything like that. And believe me, I tried with her and got nuttin’!” 

He suddenly went beet red and cleared his throat, “Sorry, probably shouldn’t have said that.” 

The end of the drive was near and you could see grand pillars on either side of the open gate. 

“Do you think you could drop me just outside the gate? I’ll walk the rest of the way, you can have a bit of free time before you go back to the house,” you said, Pero’s cottage was near the wall of the estate and not far from the gate. 

“You sure? It’s a fair way down to the station, take you an hour to walk with those bags,” the stable hand said, but you could see he was already eager at the prospect of some free time. 

“I’m certain, I’d rather be on my own for a bit too, got a lot of thinking to do,” you said and he pulled on the reins, the horse coming to a halt just outside the gate. 

“Alright, this is your stop then.” 

You thanked him and climbed down, retrieving your bags from the back, and then watched him disappear down the road. There was a pub in the nearby village and odds were he’d head there for a pint before returning to the house. As soon as he was out of sight, you doubled back, finding the small path that followed the wall towards the groundskeeper's cottage. Tucking your bags out of sight behind a shrub, you hurried down the small lane. After a few minutes, you came to the cottage from the back, the small lake on the other side. 

There was no smoke coming from the chimney and the shutters were closed, making your heart sink. The cottage looked closed and empty without any sign of life. As you stepped into the small garden at the front, you knew he was already gone and a sob forced its way up your throat as you saw what he’d left on the doorstep. Weighed down by a rock, was Pero’s handkerchief, the one he’d used to soothe your stinging cheek after Miss Amelia slapped you. Slowly you walked up to the door and picked it up, the soft fabric smelling of soap and faintly of lavender. The sight of the carefully folded kerchief in your hands brought tears to your eyes, welling up and falling down your cheeks as you realised Pero was gone, and with no means to leave you a message except the kerchief on the doorstep. You never had the time to teach him how to write, and now he’d been forced to leave while you were locked up in your room. Where would he have gone? He only ever said he went south, and found whatever work he could over the winter, but where? You had no idea, and even if he went to London, how would you find him there? The city was made to get lost and hide in. But you had to try, somehow you had to try and find him. 

Squaring your shoulders you wiped your cheeks and tucked Pero’s kerchief into your coat pocket. The cottage held nothing for you now, and you didn’t look back as you retraced your steps back to your bags, and then out through the big gate. You’d take the train to London, find a cheap, but respectable place to live, maybe you’d be able to find the housekeeper who had worked in your mother’s household, you knew where she’d moved to and she was always nice. 

With the big house behind you, you set out to walk the long road down to the station. Pero had said you knew nothing of the world, but you’d need to be a quick learner if you were to survive so that you could find him again. 

After what felt like an age, your feet swollen and aching, you reached the small town that was serviced by the train to London. It was a relief to put down the bags on a bench inside the station house and stretch your back. The station clerk regarded you with curiosity but was friendly enough when you brought out your small purse and counted the coins needed to purchase a one way ticket. 

“The next train to London is in forty minutes, miss,” he told you, “and there are no delays on the line.” 

“Thank you, I’ll wait on the platform,” you replied, turning to pick up your bags. 

“I’d wait in here if I were you, miss,” he said, a concerned look on his face, “there’s a vagrant hanging around the station house. He’s been here since yesterday evening and I think he’s sleeping on the benches. I was just about to send my boy for the constable so you best wait here until he’s gone.” 

“A vagrant?” you asked, a small burst of hope going off in your chest, “What does he look like?” 

“Frightful! Nasty scar right across his face,” the station clerk said, “Dark too and - miss!” 

The clerk called after you but you didn’t hear, you were out through the door in a flash, turning on the spot, searching up and down the platform. 

“Pero!” you called, spotting the sleeping man on a bench at one end, “Pero!” 

He jerked awake, on his feet in an instance before he’d even spotted you. You were already running towards him as his eyes widened, and with a few long strides, he was scooping you up, crushing you to him. 

“Mi amorcita,” he mumbled as you threw your arms around his neck, finding his lips, giving no thought to who might see. 

His arms were lifting you up, one hand cupping the back of your head, holding you tight to his warm mouth and you felt tears begin to stream down your cheeks. You sobbed against him and he pulled back, mumbling a stream of soft words in Spanish that you didn’t understand, his hand coming to wipe away the tears, caressing your cheek between kisses. 

“Don’t cry, mi vida, don’t cry,” he mumbled, placing another soft kiss on your mouth, “You found me, you found me.” 

“I-I went to the cottage, I found your handkerchief,” you stuttered, “I was going to look for you in London but I was so scared I wouldn’t find you.” 

“I’ve been waiting, I was hoping they’d put you on the train, I couldn’t leave without being sure,” he said, loosening his grip on your waist so that he could cup your face with both his hands, his brown eyes dark as he stroked your cheeks and pressed another long kiss to your lips. 

“Being sure of what?” you asked as the kiss ended and Pero shook his head. 

“Another plan of Mrs Pluck to ruin things for us,” he scowled, rage flashing across his face, “She told me she was the one that found us out and that she’d taken you to your uncle. She said you were locked up in your room and that you’d been allowed to stay at Yotes because you’d sworn to your uncle that you didn’t love me. That it had only been a foolish crush, that’s what she called it.” 

“Oh, Pero….” you breathed out, fear gripping your heart as you realised how Mrs Pluck had tried to make Pero leave you behind, “You know that was never true!”

“I know, amor, I know, of course. You’d only just left with my heart in your hands, I knew she was a lying witch,” he pressed another kiss to your lips, a soft moan escaping you as you felt his strong body wrap around you. 

“But what do we do now, Pero?” you asked, putting a hand on his shoulder and looking up at him, “We’re both out of work and I guess you got no reference from my uncle either?” 

“No, he didn’t, but I have plenty of references from the work I’ve done over the winters, I’ll find work there. But…” he hesitated as he frowned, lines of worry across his forehead, “I had a plan for next summer, when I came back for you. A plan for how we would start a life away from your uncle and Yotes Castle, but now…I might ask you already even though it is soon.” 

“What did you plan,” you asked as he let his hands slip from your cheeks, down to hold your hands in his. He paused, looking at his fingers as he entwined them with yours, so large and rough compared to your soft, ink stained ones, before he looked up at you, a small, nervous smile, a rare thing from him, on his face.  

“To ask you to marry me, to go to that place in Scotland, and jus-”

“Yes!” you cried, louder than you intended, “Yes, yes, yes, Pero!” 

You pulled your hands from his and wound them around his neck, making him stumble back as you kissed him hard. A surprised grunt came from him as he grabbed your waist to stop you from knocking him to the ground. The grunt soon turned to laughter as he tried to speak between your kisses, you hugged him tight, your body filling with light as you pressed your lips to his. 

“Cálmaté, mi amor,” he chuckled, taking your hands from around his neck and holding them between his own again, “It won’t be easy, we don’t even belong to the same church, but if you’ll have me, that is my plan.” 

“Yes, Pero,” you said, your voice suddenly unsteady as you felt tears starting to run down your cheeks, your emotions overflowing as you looked into the eyes of the man you thought you’d lost until only a few minutes ago, “I want to marry you, everything else, we’ll figure it out.” 

“I don’t even have a ring for you, mi amorcita,” he said, leaning forward to kiss first one tear stained cheek, and then the other, “I want to promise you everything, but I can’t give you anything.” 

“Pero, you’ve given me hope,” you whispered, “and love. That’s all I ever wanted, to marry for love. And then everything else will be easier.” 

“I can give you that at least, and I will keep you safe, no one will ever treat you the way they did again,” he said, his brow furrowing, the scowl creeping back onto his face as he shook his head, “Never again, amor.” 

You let your fingers caress his forehead, smoothing out the frown and tracing the line of the scar across his eye. You touched your lips to it as he closed his eyes, a feather light kiss to the feature so many feared him for. 

“My guard dog,” you smiled, “ ‘mi perro guardián’, wasn’t that what you called yourself yesterday?” 

He nodded, his eyes still closed as you continued to kiss his face, touching your lips to every mark as if to map it with your mouth. 

“Tú perro guardián,” he mumbled, “I will protect you, amor.” 

[jifanjiang0710]

platonic yandere father x fem reader A/n: this is a prequel drabble

“I said don’t touch her.” While uttering those words the first prince smiled amicably, corners of his lips quirking up into a good-natured expression. Concurrently his little girl wiggled out of the stranger’s arms, tugging at her father’s silken robes and gesturing into the courtyard. Ye Heqing turned his gaze down to you, looking as tender as always. “Yes, you may play in the garden. Be careful.” Only when you had scurried off does his gaze turn piercing, honey-brown eyes squinting crudely at the offending man. The faux kindness peeled away to reveal a scathing detestation for the man who had dared carry his daughter, pet her hair and pick her up in a nauseating show of affection. The imperial scholar quickly realised his mistake, scrambling to apologise and make a show of his regret. “Please, I beg diànxià for his forgiveness-! This foolish subject was out of line-” “I gave you a warning.” “!” “I already said once before the cohort, that she is not to be approached by anyone other than me, or her handmaidens.”

The scholar daren’t raise his head, nails digging into his already sweaty palms but he could taste the bloodlust regardless, emanating like dense fog around him. Before he could react or notice, Ye Heqing was stood immediately before him, eyes widened manically. “I was going to stop at simply removing a few fingers, perhaps an eye. But this is not your first offense, is it?” The father continued speaking, forefinger brushing over the scholar’s neck and digging into his pulse point. “Slinking around the palace, strutting about like you have a right to be in her presence… You must know that once I am emperor, she will succeed as our nation’s first empress. Are you trying to endear yourself to my daughter?”

The fingers around his neck began to curl, eliciting a sputter and gurgle from the other man.

“Or worse,” Ye Heqing appeared wholly enraged, face twisted into a caricature of insanity. In this moment, the scholar understood a statement he had never taken seriously before.

The first prince was a complete, utter madman.

“Or worse,” he said again, “trying to harm her? Use her as leverage against me? Did my brother set you up to this?” That word in particular was spat out, bitter and crammed with malice. The scholar was barely able to choke out a negative, his pathetic denial. Just as quickly as the aggression had come it faded, and he fell to the floor, desperately wheezing air in and out of his trachea. Instantly the reason for the kindness became clear.

“Papa!” you demanded, voice ringing loud and unmistakeable from a distance.

“Yes, princess?” Ye Heqing called back. “Papa will be right there.” Your father kneeled before the victim.

“If I have the misfortune of laying my eyes on you again, just your limbs are not enough. Everywhere you’ve touched her I will slash and cut. The skin that has touched her, I will slice off your chest.” And he stood back up, waving to the one he treasures the most in the world. The sole important thing in his life that was worth cherishing and loving.

“[Name]-er~ Wait for papa!”

[invertedheaven]

If You Really Love Nothing

chapter 14: both us beneath our love part. 1

chapter index | next chapter

“What about kids?” Your voice echoed in his mind

He remembers the day you asked that unanswered question, he’d simply replied ‘what about them?’ Before getting interrupted by your phone ringing, your co-worker asking if you could cover her shift and he’d never been more thankful for someone interrupting his time with you because that was the most terrifying question you could ask. He knows you knew that, which is why you never had the nerve to ask before.

It was a polarizing thought, he’d never particularly cared for the idea of having kids in fact if he really thought about it he detested it, he couldn’t imagine being around an ill mannered bratty kid that had no intellect-- he’d already dealt with yuji. Yet the mere lilt of your voice when you asked and the look in your eyes made whatever resolve he had melt, he remembers the way his eyes slightly widened in shock at the way that if the conversation continued he would’ve said yes to you. He would’ve said yes to anything you ask— only you. He didn’t want kids no but if it was with you? He thinks he understands why it’s something couples would aim for. He never considered himself one for such banal and mawkish thoughts in nature— this behavior was simply unbecoming of him.

Thinking his biggest threat would’ve been gojo when it was in fact himself. It’d been 2 days since he’d confronted you. The past two nights he barely slept, his dreams plagued with memories of you, moments he’d lived with you almost like watching an old home video. Yet, instead of the memories playing out in the way he remembers, it would end with you spewing out the words ‘im pregnant’ and then the memory switches as if someone changed the channel on a tv. It becomes too much and it feels like a merciless onslaught of his inescapable guilt— even in dreams he can’t get away from the fact that you had tried and he had failed you in that aspect. So his pathetic attempts at a good nights sleep were quickly laid to rest, instead opting to just count on caffeine and spite to function.

It was christmas today, he didn’t have work and he noticed as he sat on the living room couch, for the first time in years he was alone. After he’d broken up with you he’d gone back home and spent the holiday with yuji and his grandfather, not that it’d ever be anything important. It was barely a holiday in his eyes, in yujis eyes too probably. He’d merely drop by maybe grace them with presents (money) and eat whatever food was made.

The living room filled with a silence that swallowed him whole. He could feel the way it wrapped around him, he hadn’t even turned on the lights— no curtains open, he just sat in the dark cradled by the mind numbing solitude created from the consequences of his own actions. Instead of using this time to reflect he couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of anger pour over him.

Sukuna had barely seen yuji— the brat skillfully avoiding him (not that sukuna wanted to speak with him) but it was the idea that yuji was treating him like the bad guy.

Sukuna didn’t even have to check to know yuji was with you, and it made him seethe. Yuji hadn’t even bothered to ask or tell him that he wouldn’t be home. What was so great about being with you and gojo anyways? Yeah, the fushiguro kid was there but surely that wasn’t the only reason his brother was practically living with you. He thinks maybe its airi? The name still rattles around his head in a foreign way.

He still hasn’t wrapped his head around the fact that he has a daughter and maybe it makes it easier that he hasn’t seen her— that he knows nothing aside from her birthday and name. It’s easy to separate her from his life now and the weight of her importance. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious, he wanted to know what she looked like at the very least, surely you’d posted some pictures. Maybe that would be his attempt at getting his foot in the door. Sure it’d cost his pride but at this point did he even have anything left? He left it on the doorstep of your home the moment you closed the door in his face, the echoes of your hollow laugh ringing in his ears.

“Fuck it” he mumbles to no one but himself as he opens up his phone, navigating his way to your social media profile he’d unblocked weeks ago. He notes that now it shows that yuji follows you— not that hes surprised.

It was still private and before he could really think twice about whether it was a bad idea he requested, even if he regretted it he couldn’t un-request— you’d get the notification anyways. He sat anxiously for what felt like hours (but was merely 45 minutes) waiting for you to accept— you finally did but you didn’t follow him back. He’s not sure why he expected you would maybe because he hoped you’d have been just as desperate as him even if he didn’t have any posts— you’d still be nosy, right? He was dead wrong but he refused to linger on the thought for too long not when he’d been given a small glimpse into the life you’ve built without-- in spite of him.

The most recent picture is two hideous drawings he assumes his kid and some other talentless bum (probably gojo) drew but as he reads your caption he chokes back a laugh much to his dismay.

“airi and yuji’s submissions to the louvre” you’d tagged yuji in the picture and he commented that his didn’t look nearly as good airis. Sukuna thinks yuji should have some shame for having the art skills of an elementary aged student but thats neither here nor there. The humor and lightheartedness of you and yujis interaction brought him back down to earth, back to the position he was in.

The post after that is what makes sukunas heart sink to the pit of his stomach. He’d felt an uncomfortable feeling of… sadness? guilt? He didn’t know what he felt other than his heart clenching at the image in front of him. It seemed to be an older picture of you— pregnant, sleeping with your head on gojos shoulder. Gojo had taken a selfie from a higher angle so it was clear to see you were pregnant, the white haired idiot was smiling throwing up a peace sign as you remained blissfully unaware. Before the feeling of seeing you pregnant can even settle in his conscience he notices theres another picture to swipe to.

He doesn’t really process it.

He can’t recognize the emotion he feels in this exact moment.

A small child, with shoulder length pink hair laid her head on gojos arm, not tall enough to reach his shoulder, asleep quite similar to the pose in the picture of you and gojo. While gojo made the same exact face, sukuna swore if he’d eaten anything it surely would’ve risen up into his throat.

Jealousy, pure unadulterated jealousy seeps through every bone of his body but even more than that he feels heartbroken. Different than the state he was left in after he’d broken up with you— this was a pain he couldn’t place. It didn’t have a category in his mind he could rationalize it with, no past experience, no similar moments... nothing.

It took him quite a while to tear his eyes away from the image, still not thinking its real, to read your caption under the post

“happy birthday toru, we love you <3”

Yeah, that was the nail in the coffin for him he thinks, he doesn’t even want to open the comments. He doesn’t even want to accept the caption, he knows and understands he’s in no position to blame you for getting closer to gojo. He knows he led you to that but that doesn’t make reading it any easier.

He didn’t think he’d ever envied gojo as much as he did now, gojo had you something sukuna himself didn’t have. Gojo had airi, someone sukuna didn’t even know. The white haired idiot had simple moments like that— the ones that sukuna could never really imagine for himself anymore… not after the break up. The memories of it lingered in his mind anyways like the way whiskey lingers on your tongue.

He knows he’d follow you around your apartment, just to see you, just to hear you. How he’d have to hold you when he’d fall asleep at night just to feel the rhythm of your breathing to help lull him to sleep.

He liked to cook— it was something he found calming and he knows he was good at it but none of it mattered until he had your approval until he made you try the first bite and the gleam in your eyes as you looked back up at him had him making more each time. Anything to keep that look on your face, as if he’d held your entire world in his palms.

He needed to hear you humming to yourself as you did miscellaneous tasks— painting your nails or begging to pluck his eyebrows to ‘clean them up’ and he’d always pretend to hate it but there was nothing he desired more than to hear you humming above him as you straddled his lap at just the right angle to tilt his head slightly back as you plucked out the unruly hairs.

You’d always unknowingly pouted when they’d give you the toppings you don’t like on your burger, asking him with pleading eyes if he’d eat them. He’d always say yes, even if it didn’t go with what he ordered.

Yes, yes, yes. Over and over and over again he’d say it a million times in his mind no matter how much he’d deny it to you or told you no he knows without a doubt he did anything you asked. You knew that too after a certain point, that his terse “no’s” after you’d asked him for a favor always meant yes, you always found it funny how he couldn’t just say yes to begin with.

Sukunas thoughts come to a halt as he moves onto the next post and is met with his own eyes staring back at him.

Her eyes were red— he didn’t get a chance to see that in the picture where she was asleep, but they were his eyes, her hair really was his exact shade of pink, she even had his nose but her smile— she had your smile.

But everything about airi was him. He felt sick— actually nauseous.

It’s a picture of airi smiling wide holding a book with a white rabbit on it, her hair is down but she has two pink bunny shaped hair clips in her hair on each side of her head, she’s wearing a pink hoodie that has a small white rabbits on it. He thinks is this what parents usually feel? An overwhelming sense of protectiveness? He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a shift in his objectiveness. She finally had a face to her name and he feels whatever poor strings of apathy snap.

“airi is better off without you” yujis words played in his mind as he read the caption for the post

“airis current obsession is bunnies if you can’t tell”

Rabbits? Sukuna scrunches his nose. What did they even do? As far as he knows they don’t even make noise— you cant even take them for walks. What is so appealing about them? Do kids really find such mundane and weak things interesting? But he finds that he wont be able to say that to airis face (like any reasonable adult) 

He nearly laughs at how strange his thoughts are so vulnerable for a being he’s never even met— who hasn’t even been on this earth for 5 years. He feels his sanity grasping at straws. Sukuna can’t prove you right, he can’t be who you think he is, who you hid airi from. His pride would simply not allow that, he needed to prove you wrong— an even bigger part of him wants to make you regret even thinking so lowly of him.

But the idea of parenting is something beyond him. He thinks back to yujis toddler years with a grimace on his face, the kid was a handful… he still is. This is a door he can’t open and not enter. If he does this theres really no going back. He’s not even sure whats holding him back, its not like he’s living a life where he’d have anything to lose. He’s already lived the single life, he’s done the whole “carefree” thing and nearly the entire time he was miserable because he didn’t have you. Maybe its the idea that you’d hold it over his head if he came back around, maybe its that you’d be right somehow in the end, if he’d come crawling back to you it’d be you winning. Or if It ended up being too much for him the whole notion of ‘fatherhood’ and he chickens out. Either way you read him like a book and it made him sick.

What is the first step in parenting anyways? It’s not like he had any amazing examples in his life and its not like its something he studied. Sure, the pictures of airi may have chipped away at his selfish attempts at living freely but what is he supposed to do after that? She probably cant even hold a conversation its not like he’d be able to talk to her. And everyone must be out of their goddamned minds if they think he’s gonna stoop so low as to baby her, he surely wasn’t going to color or draw pictures with her like yuji did, it’s just not who he is, right?

Sukuna turned off his phone as the image of his daughter burned into his eyes, a small petty part of him feels some sort of satisfaction that she looks so much like him. It must’ve sucked for you, to see him every time you look at airi— he tells himself its the smallest win he’ll take. He threw his head back onto the couch staring at the barely visible ceiling. He hasn’t looked at the time, the past two days he’s been on autopilot, time being something that no longer had meaning as he knew no matter how much of it he had— it wouldn’t make him any less scared.

Scared?

Had he really just admitted that? He snaps his head up and rubs his face, that couldn’t be it. Not even when that asphyxiating feeling of failure filled his brain— the way smoke filled a house on fire. With no way out, consuming everything in its reach, ruining whatever he had left to cling to. His face felt hot as he realized he was fighting back tears, he can’t even remember the last time he cried, there was a stinging feeling building up in his dry eyes. Dry from the lack of sleep— he knew that, and yet the sting felt personal, like it came from the fact that everything he has known and lived by is slowly incinerated by airis existence.

If he accepts her, if he accepts that he’s a father, he will no longer know himself. He will no longer know the person he’s been, he’s built. Everything he did on his own without help from his useless parents.

If he accepts her, he has to be what he didn’t have— what he didn’t know. Its been easy to avoid the memory of his parents and his childhood— living life as a less than perfect brother and grandson. Its been effortless to go through the motions of his life with the rules and morals hes set for himself without having another being dependent on him.

If he accepts airi, he rejects himself.

And somehow if he rejects airi, he still rejects himself— the version of him that he swore he’d never be. He’d never be jin or kaori, thats what he’d told himself long ago.

His ideologies being compromised by such a small human life. A raging war between his mind and soul brought about by his own progeny.

Something only possible because of you— it was always going to be you.

-----

Your living room was filled with an oppresive silence as airi, gojo and megumis voices were muffled in the next room over. The three of them were in the kitchen attempting to make “dessert”, you wanted to smile as you heard megumi reading all the instructions while gojo and airi massacred whatever the recipe was supposed to be

“2 cups of flour” megumi deadpanned and instead of a response all you heard was airi squealing with laughter

“Oops” gojo said seconds after

Megumi did not necessarily want to watch gojo and airi pour more than 2 cups of flour into a bowl, and laugh it off as if it wouldn’t make the dish inedible but he knew you and yuji needed to talk, and free of distractions— the distraction in question being the three year old with endless energy.

He didn’t mind too much because the more megumi thought about it he did feel a sense of sorrow for yuji. Megumi knew his father, he remembered him albeit all of it a little fuzzy but even when he was alive Toji wasn’t the most present, work paired with never getting over the death of his wife— these were things megumi knew all too well about his father. So when he passed away, megumi didn’t know who to grieve, its not as though he was an amazing father that was meant to be grieved in such a sense yet megumi could remember the rare moments where he knew toji cared in his own capacity.

So when gojo adopted him and you came into the picture not too long after, he didnt think he could see you guys as parents especially considering how young you both were. He thinks adults are supposed to know what they’re doing as he recalls the times gojo burned their breakfast or would argue with him over board games and which board piece they would use.

You also had a playful dynamic with gojo that helped feed this sense of immaturity that megumi saw in the both of you. He didn’t necessarily view it as a bad thing but it helped frame what box he placed you guys in, much more akin to older siblings than parental figures. He knows in a sense the three of you grew up together, and it was bittersweet to look back on.

Looking at yuji, megumi has never been so thankful for his life now. No matter his bickering with gojo or your occasional prying of megumis emotions, he knew he could turn to the both of you for anything. Even if he might not want to admit he’d need help at any point, you and gojo showed nothing but endless bounds of support and care— Megumi quickly realized yuji didn’t have that.

Sukuna is clearly a mess if megumi could judge (and he did) he wasn’t exactly a “good” brother in traditional senses. Sukuna clearly did care for yuji just not in a way he needed. In a sense megumi understood how with the help of airis existence, yuji could turn to you in moments where he needed emotional support. As if he’d found a place of comfort within the walls of your home— your found family, yuji felt as if he belonged.

All of this to say he’s glad you still let yuji come over, even if it wasn’t easy for you. He knows the past two days have been a lot and he didn’t know how to help other than maybe spend more time with airi so she wouldn’t go to you. You clearly tried to act fine for airi but to Megumi and gojo it was clear your entire demeanor changed. The kindness in your smile when you talked with airi, the tone in your voice, and the patience you’d had were dulled enough that megumi wondered if airi realized too— that you were different. It was only two days but they felt so long and bleak when you held such impact with your presence, yet he couldn’t blame you because who would expect you to be okay?

And he cant even imagine what it was like for yuji having to deal with sukuna on top of his own emotions. It felt awkward to pry beyond a ‘you okay? ’and despite the fact that this is his home and you are family in this moment he cant help but feel like a spectator— he wonders if this is what yuji feels.

————

The past two days you’ve tried so hard not to sulk in your self deprecating thoughts, at the end of the day you knew it’d come down to this. The moment you’d decided not to tell him anything even after seeing him in person, you’d accepted this would be the outcome. You know you shouldn’t feel bad for yourself— for a situation you put yourself in but you can only rationalize so much. You don’t even think you're hurt about why Sukuna’s upset all the comments he’d thrown at you, you’re more hurt at the idea that he’s upset with you at all (no matter how immature that sounds because why wouldn’t he be upset) it just wasn’t something you were used to. You knew you were different than everyone else to him— you don’t know why the smallest part of you expected that now.

Every hour, minute and second ever since the night he found out has been dragging on as if you were stuck in an endless loop. You don’t know where you stand with sukuna anymore, you’d long since accepted he didn’t love you anymore— it took you a year after your break up to accept it. The night he came back had given you a small sense of hope that somehow he was going to stay

That he still loved you

That he wanted to be with you

That he regretted it

You awoke to the jarring reality that you’d never see him again. Crushing whatever small insignificant hope you’d held onto.

You resigned yourself to the restlessness your heart felt. Even if your days were busy, even if you were in pain from your pregnancy, even if you had Megumi and gojo to distract you— when the sun set, you could only do so much to stop the thoughts that raced around in your head. Your dreams plagued with him, you’d come to dread the nighttime.

And then your baby was born, and somehow every thought of him dissipated the moment you’d held her. Her warmth as you held her, hearing her finally cry after you struggled with your labor— you don’t think you’ve ever known a love like this. But that momentary bliss after your birth had burst when reality came crashing down again. You didn’t love airi any less— not in the slightest its just that moment made it so easy to forget him, it was just you and airi. The 9 months you’d carried her, all for that serene peace you’d never experience again— the peace that despite the pain and exhaustion, it was irreplaceable.

The months and years went by and you couldn’t look at her without seeing sukuna, and how for every milestone and all the restless nights of her newborn phase you’d wished he had been there. Her first steps, first words, her teeth finally growing in. All those moments you’d try to capture every second of, wanting more than anything to have him to share it with always thinking that maybe you could show him one day.

An eternal feeling of guilt gnawing at the back of your mind even in your happiest moments, it took its toll on you. So in some weird twisted way— even if sukuna chooses to never be around at least he knows and what happens next is in his hands.

Even now as you sat across from yuji, a relentless headache taking over your senses, a sharp stabbing pain in your temples and a throbbing pulse behind your eyes— it was exhausting. You were immensely grateful for gojo and megumi as they took every opportunity to lighten your load when it came to airi. You knew that being a parent meant no breaks, you understood that and tried to tell yourself that, but you just weren’t present. Whenever airis gaze would find you all you could see was her fathers eyes that you couldn’t bare to be in the line of sight of.

No matter how much you think you’ve changed and how much of a person you’ve become outside of sukuna, somehow everything always traces back to him, you mull over this as yuji sits on the couch next to you. You’re glad he still wanted to come, you told Megumi to make sure to let yuji know he was still welcome— a part of you knew he’d say yes, you don’t think yuji would miss an opportunity to be away from sukuna.

The moment yuji arrived he apologized profusely to you for not being able to give a heads up about sukuna, that he wasn’t the one that told his brother about airi, and that he tried to stop him. You reassured him as kindly as you could— no part of you wanted yuji to feel responsible for the turn of events that occurred. It was a mess he didn’t need on his plate, he was just a kid and you hoped that sukuna understood that too.

Now as you sat in the all too silent room trying to think of how to open up the conversation you could see the slight anxiousness written on yujis face.

“Is everything….” You struggled to finish the sentence because you knew the answer so asking if everything was ‘okay’ seemed futile

Yuji shrugged answering your unfinished question “I’ve been avoiding him”

You slowly nodded with a solemn look, which yuji noticed

“We kind of got into an argument when we got back home but its not just that— im really disappointed in him”

You feel the urge to take some blame it wasn’t just sukuna and you didn’t want yuji to feel that for his brother— if you could ease that you would try

“Im sorry yuji, I wish I would’ve handled it differently, I know that now and-“ you stopped talking as you watched yuji fervently shake his head

“Its not that” yuji mumbled, he cleared his throat before continuing the look on his face written in uncertainty as if he didn’t think he should say more “I had a feeling for a while… longer than I cared to admit that my grandfather was lying to me about my parents— but I didn’t want to think about it too long”

Your brows furrowed, as far as you could recall yuji said his parents had passed away, before that you knew very little about sukunas family situation he never talked about it and you quickly stopped trying to pry as you realized your persistence meant nothing.

“Sukuna told me that night, that my dad is still alive”

Your eyes widened, not missing the way yujis voice wavered

“My grandfather lied and said he died, I guess to make it easier” yuji sighed out as he ran his hand through his hair anxiously “y’know sukuna hates our dad”

You nodded your head slightly and you blinked away the tears that threatened to make their presence known, you heart ached at the idea that this is something yuji barely discovered but that this is something sukuna was sitting on and never shared, a version of him you didn’t know.

“I knew he didn’t like talking about them, but how evasive he got about the topic made me think it was rooted in some sort of anger” you mumbled “I tried to learn more but” you trailed off with a shrug

“He hates them both but I guess our dad a little more since he’s off being a deadbeat somewhere” yuji clarified

You nodded in understanding waiting for yuji to continue

“Long story short I compared him to our dad and I don’t think that sat well with him” yuji murmured

You let the silence hang heavy between the two of you for a moment, you cant imagine how hard that was for yuji to find out but even worse what sukuna must’ve felt to hear that. Even after everything theres always voice in the back of your mind that tells you to care about him, no matter how much you know he doesnt deserve it.

“Im so sorry yuji, I hope… you’re okay” you didnt know what to say in all honesty

“I don’t want that for airi” yuji spoke up with a hint of realization in his voice

You remained silent not entirely sure what he meant

“She deserves better than that so if my brother decides to not be in the picture… please don’t think I wish to be absent too”

You're speechless you’re not really sure what you expected but for yuji to so clearly draw a line between him and his brother, you hope for yujis sake sukuna gets his shit together.

“She should know that not everyone related to her dad sucks” yuji mumbled

You could hear the insecurity in his voice, as if he’s trying to convince himself of that, but you can understand his sentiment, in a way hes right. Worst case scenario is that sukuna really does choose to be a deadbeat, its easy for a child to blame themself for not being enough for the parent to stay and in turn they start to resent the blood relation to said parent, even if it isn’t inherently bad.

So maybe just maybe with yuji around she can see that her fathers side isn’t completely hopeless— you know he’d be an amazing uncle too. All of this of course being worst case scenario.

“You’re a great kid yuji” you reassured him “you’re not just your blood, I hope you know that”

Yuji looked at you with uncertainty

“I mean it!” You smiled “sure you’ll have some characteristics, some genetics” gesturing to his hair “but you’re still you’re own person outside of that, especially when you’re trying so hard to be different— to be better than what you know”

Beats of silence filled the space before you continued “and you know you’re always welcome” you know you’ve told him so many times before but you cant blame how doubtful he feels about it

You looked to yuji to find that he was staring straightforward with a glint of tears in his eyes, you wouldn’t comment on it though. Yuji fiddled with his fingers as he just nodded, as if the nodding would stop the tears from leaving his eyes

“I think he just needs time” you whispered “I cant blame him… its a lot and no matter how much I wish that he’d be more eager or that I handled it better, this is who he is” you shrugged “still sucks though” you added with a humorous tone

Yuji huffed out a laugh “tell me about it”

You opened your mouth to speak again but you were interrupted by a shrill laugh coming from airi and the sound of glass breaking

“Gojo” was all you could hear megumi say in a reprimanding tone

you and yuji snapped your heads to the direction of the kitchen then back at each other bursting out laughing

“I better go check on that” you said after calming down “are you okay though?”

Yuji nodded, feeling more at peace than when he arrived but the idea that at the end of the day it was all up to his brother left him feeling a sadness he couldn't shake

-----

You and gojo were sat on the living room floor building airis kitchen set (he was building you were reading the instructions) while airi watched her current favorite movie. The boys retired to megumis room to set up the new console as well as his headset, he looked as enthusiastic as he could get which means gojo had done good this year. Of course yuji got his gifts too, 2 new sweatshirts from some brand he really likes as well as some gift cards for a game him and megumi play, something about forts at night (you have no idea) you felt as if parenting aged you by 20 years, pop culture very quickly becoming unfamiliar as it was it easy to get lost in what your daughter most appealed to. Your life was no longer just what you liked, you had to adopt whatever interest airi had in the moment— no matter how many times the movie, show or song was repeated.

“You holding up okay?” Gojo asked quietly, noticing you’d been relatively quiet most of the night

You hummed “sukuna requested to follow me”

Gojo shot you a surprised look “when was this?”

“Earlier, when the kids were opening the gifts I didn’t want to say anything”

You were taking pictures of airi and her new toys when you got the notification, heart stuttering as you read it. A sense of sadness washed over you, the idea that he’d being seeing airi for the first time and it wasn’t even in person. You obviously had pictures of her up as well as pictures with gojo and megumi, family pictures were almost your entire feed. You doubt sukuna would take that well, but its also not his place to judge he hasn’t been there and you have to remind yourself of that when guilt threatens to swallow you whole. It feels as if you’ve gotten caught stealing something, the idea that he’s watching and you can almost see the look of disapproval in his eyes.

“Did you let him follow?”

You sighed “yes… only because I think he’s trying to find out more about her” you threw your head in airis direction as she sat distracted on the couch engrossed in the movie while brushing her new dolls hair “I don’t want to stop him from that”

“Makes sense” gojo spoke “did you follow him?”

“No, why would I?” You said dryly

“I don’t know, I just figured you would” gojo shrugged

You can understand how maybe past you would’ve wanted that, to know everything he’s been up to but now you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when you had much bigger things on your plate, you didn’t want to see the life he was choosing to live over his daughter, as petty as that sounded.

“A shame, I wanted to be nosey” gojo joked trying to lighten the mood

“Trust me i know you would” you mirrored his tone

Gojo thinks he could say he knows you better than anyone, sukuna included. Sukuna knew the past you, one that so very little of remains… you didn’t change in any negative way, you’ve just matured. Gojo likes to think he’s matured alongside with you, you’ve both navigated the preteen years of megumi (the most feared phase in gojos opinion). Airi was also something you’d learned to navigate together and maybe a small part in the back of his mind was scared that if sukuna came into the picture, it’d be easy for you and airi to forget about him. Even if thats absurd and simply not true, especially considering gojo isn’t in any place to feel that way, at least thats what he keeps telling himself. In many ways he knows everything he’s done and just from how much he loves your daughter, he could qualify as a stepparent. He knows he said he didn’t want that title, he still doesn’t want it, he knows it isn’t something you’d want either but its hard to pretend like a parental sense of care for airi wasn’t formed on gojos end.

Sure, he could be the uncle that spoils her or riles her up he didn’t hate that at all but maybe because so much of his life has been focused on you and airi for the past few years the idea that it could change at sukunas behest makes gojo more anxious than it should. Gojo wouldn’t come to regret everything he’s done but he would come to fear that he’d lose the family hes gained. It wasn’t traditional by any means but it was all he had and something he’s worked so hard to nourish.

Thats how he knows you were hurting more than you let on, usually the mood in the house flows around you, you don’t even know it but to him and the kids they’re just lucky enough to be in your presence. They subconsciously turn to you, like you always have the answer even when they know it. He doesn’t mean that you do everything for them and they never lift a finger, but more so to know you was to be loved. You had such a way of loving those you cared about, that it made people want to be better, to be what you thought of them. So when your mood isn’t what it usually is he finds every way possible to cheer you up, but in times like these where virtually nothing could help he’s left grasping at straws. It invokes this complex in him that he’s not enough to be there for the people he cares about most, a feeling he’s all too familiar with.

He knows your conscience is eating you alive, you keep thanking him and telling him that you dont say it enough (you do, he has since lost count) and in the back of his mind he knows your thanking him as a replacement for an apology because you know he wont accept one from you. There is nothing to apologize for in gojos eyes, everything he has done has been because he wanted to, and no matter how many times he reiterates this, you don’t accept it.

“Do you think he’ll reach out?” You voice appeared faintly in gojos mind as his thoughts were racing, he hadn’t realized you asked him a question

“I can’t say but” his voice trailed off trying to find the right wording “if he does, its better if he sorts it out whatever he’s feeling first”

You threw him a curious look, interested to know what he made him think that

“C’mon we’ve known the guy for ages, that look in his eye the night he came was something I’d never seen before” gojos voiced sounded almost stern “that kind of look wont go away overnight”

Gojo didn't want airi to be looked at with such anger, he didn't want you to be looked at that way either but he knows that in some sense sukuna would think he was entitled to that anger.

But airi didn’t deserve that at all, in any sense. You knew gojos words were true, as much as it shattered you. 

————

2 days turns into 5 and it’s almost been a week. Tomorrow was New Years eve and the new year was looking more and more bleak in your humble opinion. Starting out January like this wasnt something you particularly desired but if that was how it was until sukuna decided to speak then so be it.

You try to go about your days normally but you’re nearly jumping at any notification your phone gets, thinking at any moment it could be him. Airi becomes more clingy as she realizes you’re distracted, she doesn’t know by what but she certainly knows that whenever she rants in what she believes is full cohesive sentences (but whats most definitely a lot of toddler nonsense) she has to repeat what she said because you didn’t hear it the first time.

So she increases how much she follows you around the house, and even when megumi and gojo tried to distract her it wasn’t enough anymore. Sure, gojo was funny and megumi was patient but when she noticed that the second either one of them sat down to play with her, you’d leave the room or go quiet, she began to search you out.

It’s strange how it only took a few days for her to notice your strange behavior, in all honesty you thought all the attention everyone was giving her would’ve been enough.

And today was one of those days Airi trailed behind you as you enter your room

“what’re you doing?” She asked excitedly

“Im gonna look at some old pictures” you responded

“Mmmmm can I see?”

“Sure you can” you smiled as you picked her up, placing her on your bed, she began to look around your room as if looking for something, as if she hadn't been in here hundreds of times before. You watched her for a moment, intrigued by her behavior before grabbing the book from your closet and sat down next to her.

It wasn’t much just a simple black scrapbook with a few stickers on it, years ago you’d insisted on having physical pictures to look through especially of airis toddler years.

You were sure she’d lose interest after the 5th picture but she just kept asking “who’s that” every time you pulled out a new photo, even if it was clear who it was. They were old pictures of you and your friends in high school a couple of candid pictures of you and gojo, a ton of you and Shoko (you missed her so much and you try not to think about how proud but sad you are that she’s a successful doctor in a whole other city) and quite a few of you and geto.

Airi giggled when she saw a picture of you wearing gojos old sunglasses and gojo trying to take them off your face

“toru?” She asked as she pointed at the guy with white hair, she was finally recognizing he was the only one who looked like that

“Mhm he was megumis age here” you replied

She nodded but you’re not too sure she understood that concept of age, she understood a birthday because of the gifts but really thats the only indication of age in her mind, plus she only knew it existed when you told her about it 

Your smile dropped as you moved onto the next picture, you thought you had put it in the box of sukunas things he’d forgotten. You’d never gotten rid of, just in case airi were to ever become curious (is what you told yourself). The box remained unopened for years in the garage, you refused to acknowledge it so the picture in your hands was like getting a bucket of ice cold water dumped on you.

“Who is that” airi asked as she pointed at the man in the picture

You looked at the picture of you and sukuna on the day you both graduated from high school, you had a look of shock on your face as you looked up at him, you can still hear him and his question so clearly.

You didnt know what to tell her and your mouth felt dry and your eyes stung a bit, after a few seconds she asks the question again

“Thats my old friend” you replied, in a saddened tone Airi looked at you as she heard how you didn’t sound as excited as you did with the other pictures, but you moved on quickly. You distracted her with a younger picture of megumi holding her a few days after she was born

“Thats you and megumi” you pointed at the baby

“Thats me?” She asked happily

“It is” you giggled as you admired her smile

The moment was ruined as your phone started ringing, reading the caller ID your smile left as quickly as it came

next chapter

[dreamywriter143]

My Dearly Detested

Status: Part Three (7 part Mini-Series, 3/7)

Genre: Enemies to Lover troupe, Angst, Rude Neteyam, Comforting Lo’ak, some fluff, Romance, violence.

Warnings: Depictions of blood, Battles and cursing. Rude Neteyam😭. Reader is older then Neteyam by 1year.

Parings: Neteyam X Y/n (Reader)

Summary: Neteyam hates Y/n. He never liked how she always bested him in everything and never once sought the praises he was accustomed to. She had no one, yet she had everyone in the palm of her hand. He despised her, and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. The but happens when the RDA threat comes and Jake tasks her with watching his sons? Neteyam can’t help but grow a newfound hatred.

Word count: 4.5k

A/N: Sorry it took so long! I hope ya'll enjoy!

_________________________________________

Y/n’s Ikran lands beside Lo’ak’s Ikran with a screech of alarm, occasionally glancing back at her rider out of concern.

The entire ride back to the base she was able to feel her rider's pain through Tsaheylu. She was able to feel her suffering and the numbness that spread throughout her. Y/n bites her lips harshly to hold back a whimper, her hand shakily reaching out to rub her Ikran in reassurance as she quickly disconnects her kuru.

She hops down from her Ikran, who nudges her head against her shaking body to help her stand. “Thank you” Y/n whispers, clenching her hands into fists to ignore the pain.

She rounds her companion stopping in her tracks as her legs wobble beneath her. Her eyes trace over to where Jake stood in front of his sons and mate, Tuk hugging her mother tightly as Kiri worriedly assessed the damage on her brother.

Y/n quietly trudges towards the group, her ears pinned against her head realizing the lecture she would be in for. She had disobeyed orders just like his sons, she was on the same boat as them.

Y/n catches how Neteyam shifted uncomfortably, and how he blinked rapidly as if to keep himself from crying.

“You're supposed to be spotters, you spot boogies and call ‘em in-from a distance! Does any of this sound familiar-get here!” Jake roars with anger, gesturing for Lo’ak to step closer. His eyes stop momentarily on Y/n, his nostrils flaring in anger. Turning back to his sons he shakes his head in disappointment.

“Jesus I let you two geniuses fly a mission and you disobey direct orders!”

Y/n looks over at Kiri who examines her brother in worry. The stinging feeling of fear settling deep within her stomach. She felt her heart sink as she noticed the traces of blood over his chest, her fault for not taking care of him. For not protecting the sons of her leader.

“Kiri, can you help your grandmother with the wounded? Please?”

Kiri reluctantly turns her attention to her father, “My brother is wounded”

Seeing Jake grow more impatient, Neteyam raises his hand in a stopping motion, his eyes still trained on the ground below him. “It's fine” Neteyam whispers, stepping away from his sister who sighs in reluctance.

“Babygirl please. Tuk go with her, go”

Kiri huffs, pulling away from her brother to head for her grandmother's tent.

Neteyam lifts his head to face his father, noting movement from his peripheral he takes note of how Y/n had joined them. Her stance wobbled as she stood near Lo’ak. He bites down the hiss that threatened to break through knowing she was getting an up close and personal view of him getting chewed up by his father. How humiliating.

“Dad-sir, I take full responsibility” Neteyam turns his attention back to his father, ignoring her gaze that he felt hot against his skin. Lo’ak who was beside Y/n turns to face her, his face contorting to look of concern seeing her face look pale as she limped to stand by his side.

“Yea you do, that's right. ‘Cause you're the older brother you gotta act like it.” Jake growls, his mate stepping forward to intervene. Neytiri stares deep into her mate, her eyes holding great disappointment, she opens her mouth to speak only to be caught off by another.

Feeling a bit of courage Y/n speaks up, her voice small compared to her leader's booming tone.

“S-sir your son is bleeding” She says softly, her concern for the male outweighing her own pain at the moment. As much as Neteyam irked her, she couldn't help but worry.

At the sound of her voice the family turns to face her, Jake glaring into her tiny figure as Neytiri and Lo’ak both scrunched their eyes in concern. She didn't look well, she could barely stand properly, and Neteyam had also taken notice. His tail flicked behind him in alert, his heart dropping when he caught how her breaths came out ragged

“And you? I gave you a task, an important mission to fight alongside Neytiri and you blew it! You disobeyed my orders and left her alone-”

“Ma’Jake” Neytiri interjects her tone dangerously low. She felt worry pang through her as she gazed at the girl in front of her.

“-What if she had gotten hurt? Huh? The point of you being there was to assist her! if you stayed at your post you could have spotted the enemy ships…. I had higher expectations for you Y/n. You've disappointed me today”

“I’m-m s-sorry sir…”

Y/n looks down, blinking rapidly to suppress her tears as well as clear eyes of the black splotches that invaded her vision. Neytiri hisses at Jake, her tail swishing behind her stiffly.

Neteyam took a tiny step forward, his heart hammering against his chest. He thought watching his father belittle Y/n would bring a sense of happiness or accomplishment through him but it did the opposite.

He felt the need to shield her from his father's eyes as she looked down at the ground, her head hung low. His eyes trail down her form, eyes blowing wide when he catches the sight of crimson that nearly stops his heart.

“Ma’Jake, what she-”

“Y/n?” Lo’ak calls in alarm, stepping closer to the wobbly girl in concern . At his tone Jake's eyes soften looking over at Y/n. He feels color drain from his face as he notices the metal piece lodged into her thigh.

A gasp escapes Neytiri as she stares at her in horror, and the pool of blood that surrounds her.

It's as if Neteyam lost control over his body for a moment when he had registered where the blood was coming from, his legs carrying him towards her with no regard to his own injuries.

“M’sorry” Y/n mumbles, her body losing all strength as her vision blacks out. She goes limp falling towards the floor. The only thing she remembered before she was sucked into the abyss was a warm pair of strong arms catching her just in time, and a sound of someone calling for her with urgency.

“Y/n!!!”

~~~~~~~~

Y/n groans, her eyes fluttering as she tries to adjust to the dimly candlelit room. She frantically looks around as the previous day's events flash across her mind.

“Y/n” Tarsem’s soft voice calls, causing her eyes to snap to him. Y/n first notices that she is in the comfort of the Tsahik’s medical tent, surrounded with helpful gear and tools Mo’at would use for healing.

“T-Tarsem?” Y/n croaks, the pain from her leg stinging like crazy. She glanced down to her bandaged up thigh, the pain had subsided greatly but she was still able to feel it. Especially the numbness around the thigh rendering her immobile.

Tarsem rushes to her side, kneeling beside her with his eyes creased in concern. Y/n tries to sit up to which he gently pushes her back into the comfort of the cot she laid upon.

“W-what happ-”

A violent fit of coughs racked her body, her throat feeling dry as she tried to speak. Tarsem pulls her up half way, bringing a cup of water to her lips which she greedily gulps down. Her breath heaving as she tried to compose herself,

“What happened?” Y/n asks as she was able to settle down, with his aid she was able to sit up, her hand reaching down to gingerly trace over the heavily bandaged wound. Her eyes dance over to the bowls that were set up beside her, rags filled with blood placed in the bowls of water, staining the blue water crimson.

“You fainted due to blood loss. The injury-the wound was terribly deep. You’ve bleed so much you…you could have died!” Tarsem winces through clenched teeth, his hands forming fists by his side. Now that Y/n was sitting up right and up to his level she was able to see the tears stain along his cheeks.

“H-how long was I out for?” Y/n whispers, noting how it was only Tarsem by her side. She cursed herself for feeling a bit saddened that Neteyam wasn't present, but who was she kidding? She knew he hated her, but why did her heart want him there?

“Two days. Mo’at wasn’t sure if you’d wake. Your wound kept bleeding and she had to change your dressings many time” he informs, making Y/n wince at the news.

“That must have been awful, I’m ashamed to have put that much burden on her” Y/n mumbles to herself. Tarsem’s eyes snap to her face, his soft eyes squinting in anger.

“Are you kidding? You are worried about Mo’at taking care of you and not over that fact you almost died Y/n? What the hell were you thinking coming onto the battlefield like that?” Tarsem growls, his brotherly instincts taking flight as he keeps glancing at the bandaged wound.

“I had to! Lo’ak and N-Neteyam were there. You know it’s our duty to-“

“No! It’s my duty! I should have done something about it. I shouldn’t have given Lo’ak that gun in the heat of the raid. If I had been more alert you wouldn’t…you wouldn’t have..” Tarsem chokes on his words.

He felt responsible for Y/n, always has. The moment she started living with his family, he knew she would become the sister he never had. When she wanted to become a warrior like him he had mixed feelings, a part of him was ecstatic to have such a devoted student. The other half was afraid of having his baby sister out there in danger.

He knew the consequences of making her a warrior, but when Y/n stressed how she wanted to respect her departed parents by becoming a strong warrior, he knew he had no room to argue.

“Tarsem, it’s not your fault” Y/n says sternly, her voice trembling under the weight of her current state. Tarsem shakes his head. It was his fault, he felt it. This wasn't becoming of him as a future powerful warrior to serve the Olo’eyktan. Mistakes were made he would make sure it would never happen again. He would protect what was important to him.

Some rustling outside the tent caused the two to turn towards the entrance. Lo’ak’s head pops into the tent, his eyes widened with happiness seeing Y/n awake and alert. He quickly rushes in followed by Kiri who is carrying a basket filled with herbs.

“Y/n, you're awake!!” Lo’ak exclaimed, he crouches down to her level, his hand reaching out to carefully stoke her cheeks. He desperately wanted to pull her in for a hug, but the guilt in his heart prevented him from doing so.

“I’m fine! I’m not that fragile, guys” Y/n teases, Kiri takes a seat on the other side to inspect her wound. She smiles to herself noticing how the blood didn’t seep through the new bandage. Proving her prayers had been answered.

“Y/n” Lo’ak calls softly, retracting his hand a to sit cross legged on the cool floor. His ears folded against his head, his tail twitching nervously knowing Tarsem was watching him like a hawk.

“I’m sorry for…everything. Neteyam wouldn’t have come after me if I didn’t disobey orders and you wouldn't have gotten involved. You wouldn’t have gotten hurt saving Neteyam,”

Y/n flushes dark purple at his words.

“H-how” Y/n stammers, her bashful eyes landing on each Na’vi who nods.

“Yes, mom saw you from the air. She saw how you put yourself in harm's way as the bomb went off. You saved Neteyam.” Kiri informs, grinding some of the herbs she had bought with her, Y/n nods, forcing a smile. She couldn’t help but wonder if Neteyam knew.

“Neteyam knows” Tarsem says quietly, making the blush on Y/n face worsen and the knot in her stomach grow. Not only did the Na’vi who hated her guts, got lectured by his father but he also knew Y/n saved him. How mortifying. Y/n sighs knowing that this would only strength his hatred towards her,

“Don’t worry about it Lo’ak. What matters is that we’re all fine and that you learned from your actions . Best not repeat them, yea?” Y/n says softly, making Lo’ak smile in appreciation.

“I won’t!”

“Good, now can you please get out, you skxawng! I need to asses her!” Kiri butts in with an unimpressed roll of her eyes. Lo’ak chuckles before placing his hand over Y/n’s resting hand over her lap, giving it a light squeeze he quickly walks out to let Kiri do what she came here to do.

“I’m glad you ok” Kiri whispers, adding the herb paste into some water, Y/n slightly cringed at the bitter smell that engulfs her senses as she passes over the cup which she reluctantly accepts.

“Thank you and Mo’at for helping me. It was stupid of me for being so careless” Y/n chuckles, her eyes landing on Tarsem who still paced around in the tent. She looks back at Kiri who acknowledges how odd Tarsem had been acting.

“Let him be, he has been worried sick over you the past few days” Kiri whispers, noting how Y/n slightly furrowed her eyebrows as she recalled the words Tarsem had sent her way before the Sully siblings arrived.

‘He was worried, he even blamed himself’

“Y/n” Tarsem calls, coming to a halt.

“Yes?”

“For the next few weeks you’ll be land bound no more flying until you’re fully healed-“

“Bu-“

“No buts! It’s Tsahik’s orders. Right Kiri?” Tarsem glances over at Kiri who agrees enthusiastically at his words. Y/n groans in annoyance, taking a sip of the bitter liquid Kiri had supplied to her, a disgusted shiver going down her spine.

“I’ll let mother and father know that your awake. In the meantime rest, I’m being serious. If I see you out of this tent, there'll be consequences ” Tarsem hisses the last part, his tail thumping behind him to convey how serious he words were.

“Yes, I understand” Y/n murmurs, her ears folding in defeat. Seeming happy with the response Tarsem nods to Kiri before quickly exiting the tent.

“Don’t worry, he is just acting like that out of love” Kiri whispers, seeing the firsturated look on Y/n.

“I know….I just feel useless not being able to do anything”

“We’ll, get used to it. Mo’at knows how stubborn you are, she’s going to have someone in this tent over the course of the night to watch over you. Make sure you don’t…escape”

Y/n hums, glaring at the remaining medicine in her cup. Letting out one sigh of defeat she drowns the entire drink in one go, gagging as the thick liquid travels down her throat.

“H-how’s Neteyam?” Y/n asks after a while. Sticking out her tongue in disgust at the taste of the medicine.

Kiri frowns at her words. Cleaning up her equipment she brought with her. “He’s ok, Mo’at was able to treat him right away after he was able to catch you-“

Y/n flushes in embarasembt at her words.

“But other than that, he hasn't come by once to check if you’re ok.”

‘Well….that’s not a surprise’

~~~~~~~~~

Over the past couple of days Y/n’s days mull together as her boredom reaches a new high.

With a constant eye on her she was unable to escape the tent under any circumstances, much to her dismay.

During the day Mo’at would be in the tent tending to warriors while watching over her, and overnight Y/n would be under the watchful eye of either Kiri, Lo’ak or Tarsem’s parents. They would always alternate but not once didn’t Neteyam step into the tent.

A couple of hours after she woke up, Jake and Neytiri rushed into the tent. Jake expressed how furious he was over Y/n when she disobeyed orders but he stressed how he was glad that she was safe. Neytiri didn’t let go of Y/n’s hand the entire time she was by her side. Thanking her for protecting her son.

Kiri and Tuk were the best company Y/n had, they always kept her busy with engaging conversations not related to her injury so she didn’t have time to sulk over it.

Lo’ak was also great company but his constant stories of what he was able to do in his free time now that he was grounded from flying, only made the older female Na’vi feel envious each time.

And despite loving Tarsem, Y/n disliked when he was in charge of her the most. He seemed to worry over her more then his parents. Always blaming himself despite what Y/n assured of him. The man tortured himself with his regrets. Never seeming to want to live it down.

“Drink this, and don’t think of getting Lo’ak to throw it out for you. I’ll figure it out and I’ll double your dosage for next time” Mo’at threatened, placing the cup by her bed. Y/n forces a smile, her stomach dropping at the threat that held malice.

After the current day Mo’at was getting ready to leave for the comfort of her own tent.

“Don’t worry, I’ll finish it. I want to be able to leave as soon as possible” Y/n says softly, glaring at the green liquid that seemed to taste worse day by day.

“Good” Mo’at grumbles before heading out and leaving her alone.

The tent falls silent with the occasional sound of the wind hitting the chimes placed above the entrance, Y/n shuffles herself around for a comfortable position, not bothering to look up when the entrance ruffles, indicating that someone must have come inside.

“Hi Lo’ak, I’m sorry for-“

Y/n freezes once her eyes land on yellow orbs that stare into her own. She felt tiny under the gaze, the Na’vi’s posture stiff as he closed the entrance behind him. Y/n gulps in slight fear, looking down to her clasped hand that began to sweat.

“Y/n” Neteyam calls sternly, stepping closer to her.

Y/n chooses not to look up, waiting for him to speak again. After recalling that Neteyam knew about her going out of her own way to protect him Y/n was glad he didn’t make the effort to visit her. And now that she was alone with him she felt her stomach churn.

“Why….why did you save me?” Neteyam asks gruffly, causing the smaller girl to flinch.

After moistening her lips she peers up slightly. Her lips part as she tried to find her voice, clearing her throat in the process.

“I don’t know what you mean. The explosion was so severe that we ran into one another” Y/n didn’t know why she thought of lying, maybe it was the embarrassment she felt or the way Neteyam clenched his jaw in anger.

“Y/n I’m not stupid. I was there, I felt you go out of your way to cover me. I don’t need anyone to tell me when I was aware the whole time”

“It was in the heat of the moment”

“You always do this!”

Y/n furrows her eyes at his raised voice, his veins on his neck protruding out due to his anger. Y/n found it harder to respond to him as she watched him sigh out, bringing his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

“You always go out of your way for others putting yourself in danger. Does it please you to feel superior? Do you like feeling like a hero?”

Y/n flares her nostrils at his words, her eyes twitching in anger.

“What the hell Neteyam?! I do what I must for my clan. For my people…for my leader. I don’t do it for glory or fame. Like you” Y/n seethes, her fangs poking against her mouth. Neteyam’s eyes glow in anger in the dimly lit room. His own fangs breaking through with a hiss in response.

“Hah, well, it doesn’t seem like it when you are always praised for your actions.” Neteyam laughs dryly.

Y/n’s ears fold against her head, cursing at herself for even worrying for a boy like him who couldn’t get his head out of his ass due to his ego.

“I’m done with this conversation. I’m sorry I saved you, I’ll make sure no one acknowledges what I’ve done-“

“That’s besides the point!!”

Neteyam paces around the tent, his steps carrying him closer and closer towards the entrance.

“You….you”

Neteyam’s back faces her when he comes to a halt, heaved gasps of anger escaping through him as he recalls something of the past.

~Flashback~

“Wow you’re so cool Y/n!”

Y/n smirks triumphantly as her finger working over the arrow head she was busy carving at the moment. Neteyam sat in front of her, his eyes drinking in the way her finger worked tirelessly against the sharp edge, sharpening it with precision. Great precision for a 10 year old.

“Really? Thanks! Tarsem taught me, you'll learn soon enough and I’m sure you will be better than me!” Y/n encourages which only widens Neteyam’s smile. His eyes shine with admiration as he glances between the girl and the arrow.

For as long as he could remember Y/n was always a part of their clan, always wandering around and trying to learn something new everyday. He couldn't help but feel drawn to her carefree yet strong spirit. He wanted to be like her, as a 9 year old, Y/n looked like a perfect idol for him. Other than his father and Tarsem who had been the hot topic amongst the clan for a while now.

“You think? You’ll help me, right?” Neteyam asks, his eyes gleaming with hope. Y/n chuckles, turning up to meet his eyes. He felt his heart rate quicken, he felt his stomach erupt with a fluttery feeling as they looked into each other's eyes. She was the prettiest female Na’vi he had ever seen, and seeing her in such a light only made him feel this weird feeling more and more as days progressed.

“Of course! But I don't know everything. You’ll have to ask Tarsem.” Yn says making Neteyam frown.

“No! I only want to be taught by-”

“OW!”

Neteyam flinches at the sound of Y/n yelping in pain, his eyes widened, his breath hitched in fear at the sight of crimson dripping onto the forest floor. Y/n clutches her finger, shakily clutching the wound tightly. It wasn't a large cut, but it was deep enough for blood to come pouring out, scaring the poor boy.

“Y/n!!”

Neteyam reaches out to clutch her hand, fear and worry blinding him. Just as his fingers brush against her she quickly pulls away, evading him while smiling nervously.

“I'm fine! It's fine! I'll just go the Mo’at to get patched up!” She says reassuringly, making Neteyam frown at her words.

“Let me see it, how bad is it? Neteyam asks, his voice shaky, he reaches out again only for Y/n to stand up, him following her mom even in confusion.

“Neteyam it's fine, really. You of all people should not worry over a minor cut! It nothing”

“What do you mean? Why can’t I worry over you?”

Y/n rolls her eyes playfully, taking a step away from Neteyam who watches her with furrowed eyes.

“Because you are like my baby brother. How would I feel if I let my baby brother worry about me?!”

Neteyam’s ears flatten against her head. He didn't know why but the term ‘Baby brother’ sent a sickening feeling through his gut. He didn't like it, not one bit.

“Baby brother? You see me as a baby brother? What's that supposed to mean?”

“C’mon Neteyam, you're younger than me. And I should be looking after you! Not the other way around dummy!” Neteyam’s head dropped at her words.

The first feeling Neteyam felt surge through him was anger, the feeling of being incompetent sitting deep with his tiny form.

Was this her way of saying he wasn't worthy of her? That he wasn’t good enough for her? That she didn’t believe he could protect her?

“Is…that all I’ll ever be to you? A ‘Baby Brother’ who has to be protected by…you??”

“Is that wrong?”

~Flashback end~

“You've always been like this” Neteyam whispers , his back still facing Y/n as she fiddles around with the cloth draped over her legs to prove warmth. Feeling confusion ring inside her as she clears her throat.

“What?”

“You've always been like this. You always acted like it was you against the world, you never wanted anyone's help or anyone to care for you. You made me feel….you made others feel useless…”

“Neteyam. I don't know what you mean?”

Neteyam laughs dryly, still refusing to turn around and face her. The way he clenched his hands into fists, his veins protruding along his arms in anger didn't go unnoticed by Y/n who gulped nervously.

“Nothing, forget it. It doesn’t matter to you how anyone feels as long as you are covered. And that…makes you the most selfish person in the room”

~~~~~~~~~

Y/n couldn’t seem to get the argument she had with Neteyam over her head for the next couple of days. After that day he never came around again and Y/n tried not to focus on that. She didn’t know why he became so cryptic near the end but the fear from his words stung deep making her question herself.

“So that’s why I be late, is that ok?” Lo’ak says, tilting his head as he waited for Y/n’s response.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said Spider and I have an adventure planned in the afternoon tomorrow. I might be late coming in tomorrow,”

Today Y/n had finally gotten some good news regarding her injury. It has healed splendidly, but Mo’at still wanted her in bed rest for the next few days for observation.

“Just you and Spider? Where will you be going?”

“I don’t know, we’re going to do some tracking” Lo’ak says nonchalantly. Y/n frowns, something in her stomach didn’t sit right at his plan.

“Lo’ak, I’m dying of boredom just by sitting here all day. Can I come with?”

Lo’ak smirks, his eyes lighting up at her rebellious words.

“Now, that’s what I’m talking about!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Netayams scowl didn’t leave his lips as he rode beside his parents. Though he got all the duties Y/n had prior to her injury that left her bed bound, none of it made him any happier.

He didn’t get anything out of accomplishment , only due to the fact she wasn't here to do them herself. And she was in her current state due to him, it sent a bitter taste along his tongue the more he thought of it.

The com around his neck buzzes to life as Lo’ak whispers on the other side. Neteyam internally frowns as he listens into what Lo’ak informs, his father answering back gruffly. He knew that Lo’ak would disobey rules and venture out to the old shack. So typical of him to get bored just to do the very thing they were warned about.

“Who’s we?”

Neteyam listens carefully, his eyes scrunching with worry for his family.

“Me, Spider, Kiri, Tuk…and Y/n”

Neteyam felt his heart drop, his mind drawing blanks. There were avatar soldiers near them and Lo’ak had their baby sister tag along with them. That alone got his blood to run cold, what caused his heart to beat painfully was the thought that Y/n, who was still very much injured, was also with them.

The girl Neteyam hated seeing hurt.

__________________________________________

A/N: I’m so sorry for the delay! I hope you guys enjoy and Breathing Pt3 will be out soon!

Taglist:

@afro-hispwriter @bigbootahjudy @sasuvke @a-blog-name-2003 @arminsgfloll @notmonroe @mahalkomarvel @jackiehollanderr @briacreations96 @naynay2808 @universal-s1ut @lili-of-the-dream @cumikering @baebinana @empiricsad @aspen-sprout @jjkclub @thehoneymushroomhealer @cherrymoon4 @zoetrope1997 @hannabanana-09 @annyis @yhern05 @hanatsuki-hime @b-tchymoon @jackiehollanderr @verveta345 @hana-yuri @slythermania @mrslandryy @kimberlyshailany-blog @perfectlypinkcat @qtkat @inolaphoenix @camilo-uwu @aphroditeisamilf @bakugouswaif @camilo-uwu @aphroditeisamilf @napalm-springs @moldavitefully @elizarikaallen @verveta345 @mikeyswifie

[anxiousnerdwritings]

Do you remember that ask about platonic yandere siblings Loki & Thor with a sibling who lives on Midgard? Can I request sibling!reader inviting their two brothers for Chrismas the Midgardian style? I would imagine Thor being super excited but totally clueless about the whole thing and Loki only showing up because of their sibling and other then that not wanting any part of it lmao

Yan!Brother!Thor and Yan!Brother!Loki Spending Christmas on Midgard w/Sibling!Reader Headcanons (platonic)

When their beloved sibling decided to make Midgard their new home, taking up permanent residence and choosing to live a day to day life similar to any other Midgardian in complete contrast to their godly title back home on Asgard, Thor and Loki we’re devastated. Their sibling was leaving. They were leaving their parents behind. They were leaving Asgard, the only home they’ve ever known, behind. But most importantly they were leaving Thor and Loki behind.

Out of the two, Thor was the quickest to accept you leaving. Of course it helped with you telling him he and Loki can visit whenever and are always welcomed at your new home, as well as promising that you’ll visit once in a while. Not to mention Frigga did her best to ease both Thor’s and Loki’s distress over the new change. As much as Thor still didn’t like the whole thing he was more tolerable of it now. But Loki was a different case.

Loki absolutely detested your moving to Midgard and abandoning your family, abandoning him. His dislike for Midgard and the Midgardians that inhabit it was already pretty bad but now it’s pure unabashed hatred for the place and people that took his beloved sibling away from him. He is somewhat happy that you said he was welcomed to your new home whenever but it doesn’t fix anything for him whatsoever. You shouldn’t need a ‘new home’ not when you already had one to begin with. To say he’s salty is an understatement, Loki is extremely sulky and resentful of the entire thing altogether and nothing could make him come around to it. The only thing that would make him truly happy is having you back home where you belong.

Also, when Loki first learns about you leaving to Midgard he wholeheartedly believes you’re leaving because of him and his ‘God of Mischief’ antics. There would no doubt be a moment of him bursting into your bedchambers on Asgard, a sobbing and inconsolable mess begging you to stay, that he’ll be good from now on if it means you won’t leave him. He doesn’t care how weak or pathetic he looks and sounds, you’re the only one he ever felt he could allow himself to be this way with because he knew you wouldn’t judge him and you sure as hell wouldn’t tell a soul about it. Even if you did find him pathetic yourself, you at least didn’t utter a word regarding it.

It takes a lot of getting use to now that they don’t have you around. They both miss talking with you, laughing with you, running around and playing games with you (even if all of you were too old for playing games, it was still very much a part of your lives). Thor is a sulking mess, not nearly as boisterous and shining as he was before. Loki doesn’t even feel like playing tricks on any one, let alone Thor and keeps to himself more than ever, barely leaving his own bedchambers unless Frigga comes to drag him out herself.

Speaking of Frigga, she is very much the glue that keeps both Thor and Loki from letting their despair swallow them whole. She assures them that you are doing well, that you are safe and happy but it doesn’t change their moods too much. It does ease them some but it also leads them to miss you all the more. They wish you were safe and happy with them here on Asgard. No matter how frustrating and unwilling either are to pull themselves out of their funk, Frigga never ceases to do what she can to keep them from dwelling too long in the dark.

It’s slow and little by little but eventually Thor is getting back to his usual self and Loki is getting back to his old mischievous habits, albeit they’re a tad bit more cruel but it’s something. It isn’t until Odin announces that you’ll be making a visit to Asgard that they both perk up more than ever since you’ve been gone. Neither can conceal their excitement at being able to see, talk, and touch you. Just being able to be in your presence again has both Thor and Loki ecstatic.

When you’re finally there in the flesh with them again it’s the reunion that all of Asgard had been waiting for with bated breath. Thor can’t help himself and immediately engulfs his precious sibling in a bone crushing hug but they happily accept it having missed him and his infamous hugs. It feels like forever before he’s made to let go courtesy of Loki wanting to finally greet his beloved sibling after being a part for so long. He envelopes you in a hug too, not nearly like Thor’s but it’s still a tight hold. He keeps it more under wraps than Thor had but just wait until there’s no one else around and he’ll be latched on to you like a second skin.

It feels so good to have the three of you together again. Frigga and Odin can’t help but admire the wholesome sight before them. Their little family was back together again and it felt so right.

During their sibling’s entire visit, Thor and Loki are attached to either side of them the whole time. Neither of them step away for any reason and everyone around knows better then to try and pull them away. If someone were to be idiotic enough to try, Thor and Loki put them in their place without hesitation. Nothing is keeping them from missing out on getting to be with their precious sibling again after what’s felt like an eternity without them.

It isn’t until the very last day of their visit, maybe even right before they’re about to leave, that they invite both Thor and Loki to spend what the Midgardians call “Christmas” with them at their new home. Neither Thor or Loki are sure about what this “Christmas” is but the way their eyes lit up and the smile that spread across their lips showed just how much this “Chsirtmas” thing was to them. And who were both Thor and Loki to refuse an invitation to spend even more time with their beloved sibling. Even if Loki could careless about Midgard and the Midgardians, he wouldn’t miss out on this if it meant so much to his sibling.

Thor and Loki would show up a few days in advance before actual Christmas Day just to spend some more time with you and get a feel for what this whole “Christmas” thing was exactly. Thor is excited to not only get to see and be with you but also to take in everything. He may as well be jumping up like a toddler hyped up on sugar. Meanwhile, Loki couldn’t be more uncomfortable and disgusted from what he’s seen so far of Midgard. This was the place you left them and Asgard for? It doesn’t look like much at all, let alone something worth your time.

Once they are at your home and in your company they are greeted to bright lights, an array of odd decor, and a tree heavily decorated from stump to treetop with various shiny and dangling things as well as more lights and some sparkly stuff called ‘garland’. It really is a sight to behold never having seen it before and it certainly appears that you went all out for it. Thor is absolutely captivated by everything he sees and he wants to touch it all but the first ornament he reaches out for breaks within seconds. Meanwhile, as taken aback as Loki is he still isn’t too fazed by it. Honestly you could have all of this and more back home on Asgard. He doesn’t really care about the bright lights, or shiny decorations, or even the stupid ridiculous tree (he of course wouldn’t tell you that). All he wants is to spend time with you and convince you to come home.

After they get all settled you tell them all about what Christmas means to Midgardians and the traditions they follow in regards to it. Thor is all ears, completely captivated by each and every word you say explaining everything. Meanwhile, Loki is also listening intently but he’s much more subtle about it. He still doesn’t get it but if you’re so invested in it then he’ll be along for the ride he supposes.

You tell them all about the foods and deserts they make to eat on the special day, the songs they sing, the cartoons and shows they watch, and last but not least the gift giving that takes place. Everything so far has had both of their attention but that last one about gifts is what really gets them. They didn’t bring you any gifts. They hadn’t thought about it. You didn’t say anything about gifts. Okay, now they’re both inwardly panicking cause they’ve come empty handed. Loki could of course use his magic to give you something but Thor is at a loss. He may even pester Loki into conjuring something up for Thor to give you. But they have a few days to come up with something, right? That’s plenty of time!

The days leading up to Christmas are spent showing both Thor and Loki around Midgard and to your favorite places. You make the point to tell them that around this time of year things get much more hectic then they usually are but you don’t mind too much, if anything you like watching the hustle and bustle. But both Thor and Loki look and feel so out of place, they’re grateful they have you to guide them but they feel completely out of their element, especially Loki.

Christmas Eve is when you spend the whole day prepping for the Christmas Day feats you have planned and what feast it’ll be with Thor there. Both Thor and Loki help where they can with what they can but Loki is the one who ends up doing the better job out of the two only because Thor either ends up breaking something or burning something but he’s content doing whatever as long as he’s involved. Although inevitably the two make a contest out of whatever it is they’re doing, especially if it’s the same task.

Both Thor and Loki are appreciative and happy when you add some Asgardian traditions to the mix, whether with some of the foods and goodies you make or maybe even in some of the home decor they hadn’t noticed before. They’re both very relieved that you haven’t completely cut Asgard out of your life and you have things that remind you of them and your old home.

When it comes time to bake cookies and decorate them, Thor can’t wait. He’s making all different shapes and sizes, decorating them all over the place that by the end of it he’s covered in an array of icing, sprinkles and probably some odd bits of cookie dough. Loki somehow manages to stay clean and pristine through the whole process, not only that but all his cookies are immaculate and even. It may result in a bit of quarrel between the two but you’re able to calm them down.

If you were to wipe some icing on or sprinkle some sprinkles on Loki then he’d just accept it but there will be retaliation and he’ll do the same thing to you. Of course Thor gets involved and by the end of it all of you are more decorated with icing and sprinkles then the actual cookies are.

When met the aspect of wearing matching pajamas or sweaters, Thor is absolutely all for it. Loki takes a bit to come around to putting either on and when he does he does so begrudgingly but really he actually likes it. Especially since you picked them out. If you were to have made the pajama or sweaters yourself then both Thor and Loki would treat them like the most precious and fragile things in existence. They would be so careful wearing them, doing their absolute best to keep them in good condition.

If their sibling were to have gone out of their way to get a small Christmas tree and a few little decorations to put on it so that Thor and Loki could experience decorating a tree alongside their sibling would make them both melt. Thor does his damndest to be gentle and gingerly when putting anything on the tree. He doesn’t want to ruin it and in turn ruin the moment they’re all sharing together. Loki acts like this whole thing isn’t a big deal but deep down it is. Their sibling had already excitedly and impulsively decorated their home and the tree before Thor and himself got there but still wanted to share this part of the tradition with them.

It would really make Loki feel nice and warm inside that they went out and did that for him and Thor. He was working his way to warming up to this whole Christmas thing. But what would make it even better was if it was on Asgard, where the three of you, Frigga and maybe Odin could all be doing this and celebrating together like a family if only you’d come back home. To your real home, leaving this pretend one behind.

When Christmas Day is finally here, your excitement for the day is enough to get Thor and Loki in the spirit. Thor is very much more open and outwardly showing his fondness for it while. While even though Loki is willing to participate and go along with it he still isn’t nearly as fond of the whole aspect as you and Thor are. But seeing you glowing with joy would keep him biting his tongue and going with whatever.

Now when you hand them their gifts that you’ve been desperately trying to keep as much of a surprise as possible both Thor and Loki are excited and anxious to see what you’ve gotten them, especially since they’re pretty sure it’s Midgardian related. No matter what it is they both would absolutely cherish it to no end. Even Loki who could careless about Midgard and everything to do with it because it took you away from him would be utterly infatuated with what you gifted him. As long as it’s from you and the fact that you looked so worried about how either of them would react to their gifts, in particular keeping more of a close eye on him and his reaction specifically, that it automatically makes his gift the best thing he’s ever received from anyone.

Thor is also extremely elated with his gift. You may have to tell him what it is or how it works but he loves it nonetheless and it will become his most prized possession. As would Loki’s gift becoming Loki’s very own prized possession that he would keep in the safest place where only he could have access to it.

After that it’s time for your gifts. Both Thor and Loki take out the gifts they had very quickly and sloppily put together for you. Thor’s wrapping was of course messy and scrunched up but it was obvious he had tried his very best. Meanwhile, of course Loki’s wrapping was immaculate probably having used his magic to do it for him but still it was lovely all the same. Handing the gifts off to you, Thor and Loki sit back anxiously awaiting your own reaction similar to how you had been earlier. They doth wait with bated breath hoping that you love what they rushed to put together for you.

They both got you something to remind you of not only them but also Asgard as a whole. They had even gone back to Asgard at some point and gotten Frigga to add her own gifts into the mix as well as Heimdall and a few others. As much as Thor wanted you to come back home he also realized just how truly happy you seemed during your visit when talking about Midgard and your adventures there. Asgard would always be there for you but while you were making a home on Midgard you may as well be surrounded but things to remind of your original home and the family that was there waiting for you.

Loki wants you to come back home no matter what and he would be the one to drag you back. But having talked again with mother and hearing her explain things he supposed he could wait for a bit before trying to enact any attempts at being you home. He also gifted you something that would remind you of him and of him so you’d never forget about what was there for you when you were finally over this Midgardian phase. It would be something you could always wear; a ring, necklace, bracelet/cuff, a hair piece, broach, etc. But it wouldn’t be any ordinary piece, it would be fitted with the most valuable and beautiful jewel or jewels found in all of the nine realms. Not to mention Loki has definitely used his magic to do something to it to keep you and him connected without you knowing about it. Whether it’s to keep track of you and wherever you may be, or it’s had a protective spell cast on it to keep you safe, or maybe it allows him to hear and feel your heartbeat so he can feel closer to you while being so far apart.

Both Thor and Loki would freak out if their sibling were burst into tears at the gifts they got them and the people from Asgard they brought into it. The homesickness would really kick in after all of that. Thor and Loki would both rush to comfort their sibling and calm them down. If their sibling were to make some wholesome comment about family being the best gift of all or something like that it would have Thor smiling like an idiot and Loki smiling softly at them.

The rest of the day would be filled with fun and laughter. Thor would of course have to tell you about how much difficulty Loki had trying to wrap his gift for you and very loudly might I had. It would be even funnier if Loki’s perfect and pristine gift was actually wrapped by Thor while Thor’s scrunched up and messily wrapped gift was Loki’s actual wrapping job. Loki would be utterly ashamed that Thor threw him under the bus like that but he would get him back later. Probably with a snowball to the face cause of course there has to be a snowball fight. And making snow angels but that’ll be saved for after the carnage that takes place when the snowball fight starts up.

[goodeapple]

how much do i have to pay you to write something with current canon show Aemond and Ysilla

absolutely CERO dollars (bc this has been in my drafts bEGGING to come out teehee)

“it is just gossip, my prince. something to pass the time between the smallfolk. words fill the mind when there’s no food to fill the belly-”

“i said,” aemond cuts off the squabbling squire, his tone icy. “tell me what was said about the princess ysilla.” 

the boy pauses, the blood draining from his face and leaving behind a sunken gray parlor. when he speaks again, his voice quivers like a blade of grass in a storm. 

“they’re saying she’s pregnant. quick work by the blacks to solidify ties with the north. or with the riverlands. the word is, she is some moons along. so the… union must have taken place soon after your business with the late prince lucerys. many are saying cregan stark, the wolf of the north, must be the father as he is very committed to the black’s cause. very committed to the princess and their coming child-”

“leave me.” 

the squire doesn’t need to be told twice. he turns tails and scurries off, the heavy chamber door thudding shut behind him. the prince regent sits alone in the council room. all else is quiet, save for the war raging in his mind.  

aemond shouldn't be surprised- he's not, in a way. bastards are rhaenyra’s specialty. certainly, she would implore her daughter to spread her legs and whelp out an alliance in the form of a babe. and if the father is indeed stark that fucking mongrel, how aemond wants to carve into his belly and pluck out his entrails until they are but a noose to hang him with then aemond knows he needs to tread cautiously.

‘this war will not be won with dragons alone.’ fucking horseshit. he'll burn down winterfell on the morrow if he wishes, until there's nothing left but ancient ash and stone. he'll kill the wolf in his own den, lest he has not already made room for himself in ysilla’s bed. 

unbidden, fantasies of his niece swollen and plump with life rush forth. pregnancy would suit her: the swell of her hips filling out, the golden gleam from her skin glowing bright, the blessing of her bosom busting out of her neckline. 

another vision, of a swaddled little thing in green and gold blankets, cradled in her arms so tenderly. ysilla would coo and shush them with her sugar sweet voice, all the while the babe would suck milk out of her heavy, aching breast, the dusty rose of her nipple bitten and spit shiny. 

green and gold blankets. a foolish fantasy… but fantasies, have no chance of coming true. 

“you’re pathetic. you and your lush of a brother ruin dinner and taunt my brothers into behavior that is unlike them, and you won’t even think of apologizing? our families are balancing such a fine line, and yet you dance on it with glee.” ysilla judges with such a biting clarity, she leaves no room for argument. she barged into his room like had the right to, and plucked the book he was reading right out of his hands and sent it flying into his wall. and now, she subjects him to this? her righteousness makes him choke. 

“your poor poor, bruised brothers.” aemond pouts mockingly, before erupting into laughter. his niece flinches, more frightened by that then she would be if he shouted. “i hope aegon rang luke’s head like a bell. and i? i should’ve struck jacaerys the same as he attempted to strike me.” 

ysilla regards him with something close to sympathy, but there's too much detestment alongside it to be at all good-natured. 

“what a sad, small man you make, aemond. my pity is the only piece of me you may have. never my respect, never my admiration, just my pity.” 

aemond takes her words and swallows them down, lets the sharp edge of them carve a jagged line down his gullet. if she wants to try her hand at cruelty, aemond will show her how it is done. 

“the word of a bastard born girl means little to me. i do not have your respect? the only value you have within you is that of your last name. and that name ysilla, is not Velayr-”

ysilla’s palm crashing into his cheek stops him short. he toys with the idea of praising her- she hits harder than her brother could ever hope to. even in her brutality, her touch upon him is warm and the heat spreads to the rest of him as if he's being engulfed in a forest fire. 

“do you think that hurt? come on, you can do better than that.” aemond taunts, pulling upwards into his full height. he towers over his niece but she does not yield, straightening her spine in an admirable attempt to seem formidable. “hit me.” 

so she does- striking him again and again. a slap, a shove, a scratch, the next harder than the last. but still, he advances, accepting it all with a greed that has drawn open a pit inside his belly. ysilla spits and snarls, her adrenaline making her blows land soundly but sloppily until her back collides with the edge of his table. aemond catches her wild hands in his own and pins her wrists behind her to the tabletop. the smooth expanse of his cheek will soon begin to bruise like a ripe peach but for now, it glows ruby red, the very color of ysilla’s wine stained lips. 

“not a dragon at all, i see. mayhaps, you’re more akin to whatever your father’s sigil is- whatever that may be.” oh how he wants to devour that fury that springs to life within her valyrian eyes. maybe not velaryon, but undeniably targaryen. 

“you’re sick. you’re as sick and twisted as that fucking scar on your face-”

their kiss is more fight and fury than anything sweet. teeth catch tongues, and they battle for an upper hand neither are willing to give.

aemond sweeps his arm across the table, books, cups, and papers careening to the ground. he spins ysilla around, humming in appreciation as she arches back into him. she places both hands on the table, trying not to seem too eager as she widens her stance and therefore, opens her legs.

“don't care to look at me?” she asks primly, her haughty tone only dampened by the lust heavy on her tongue. the one-eyed prince can't wait to hear what she'll sound like when she's praying to him for release.

“quite the contrary, issa dõna. unless you wish to leave here in tatters, let me unwrap you like a gift and take my spoils as such.” 

his words strike the right chord as he hears ysilla take in a shaky breath. she clutches at one of his hands pinching at her hip and guides his touch upwards, until aemond has a handful of her breasts. maybe it will be him that prays to her for salvation.

every button on her dress he pops apart reveals slips of skin he mouths at hungrily. she tastes of honeysuckle and salt, and he'll bet a million gold dragons her cunt tastes even better.

ysilla’s hands go behind her, fumbling and toying at his belt until she unlatches it. her hand dives into his breeches, cupping the pulsing thickness of his hard cock. he voices a warning groan into the nape of her neck, grazing his teeth along her skin in a promise. 

“aemond, do it. take me… ruin me.”

and when she begs like that, he cannot find it in himself to deny her. 

it was the night before his father died. the last night they were all together- the last night he’d seen her. only a handful of days before he and luke met for the final time in storm’s end…

he can’t be… it’s not possible. well… it’s possible but his niece isn’t stupid- she must’ve drank moon tea the morning after they… 

but what if she hadn’t? 

aemond snarls, sending the spherical stone once in his fist across the room in a vociferous clatter. all of his thoughts- aegon, harrenhal, his mother, the iron throne- melt away and leave behind a thread that has begun to unravel. ysilla, ysilla, ysilla. 

he has to see her. he has to know for certain.

.

[velieditss]

Forbidden Desires

Pairing: Davos Blackwood x Bracken!reader

Summary: Perhaps, you will find some common ground to earn a truce, however, how much of your past are you willing to reveal?

Previous parts: Masterlist

Part 5

«Out of sight, out of mind. If only it were true» you thought.»

"Do you think if I venture out, the spirits of the Blackwoods will strike me dead?" Elena found you slumped in one of the armchairs, exhaustion etched across your face. You’d thought yourself well-versed in handling family disputes, but the Blackwoods—the Blackwoods—were leagues beyond anything you had ever encountered. The king should have awarded you a pension if you managed to survive the crows.

"I do not know, my lady, if you believe in such things..." she replied, glancing at you from your reclined position. In a manner most unbecoming of your upbringing, you practically collapsed onto the soft cushions.

"I don’t know what to believe anymore, Elena," you sighed. "Perhaps if a spirit possessed me, it might scare him enough to send me away."

You were losing your sanity, and absurdly enough, you had only been in this house for a day—no, not even a full day, mere hours.

"I think it best you rest, my lady... You have had a difficult day."

"He’s an insufferable man. Help me think of other options, Elena," you insisted, ignoring her advice.

The poor girl hadn’t the faintest idea what to tell you.

"I didn’t expect him to be so handsome," Elena commented.

"And what has that to do with anything?"

"Well, it might make him a little more tolerable for you, my lady."

You scoffed.

"Or not. We’ve yet to see his true nature. A man in pain is never at his best." You were adept at reading people, but all you had deduced so far was that he was utterly detestable. "And to think... he may never be 'at his best' if I’m to be honest."

"If I may speak freely, my lady, perhaps you should wait to be sure of that. Besides, what other options do you have?"

You were on the verge of tears.

"I don’t know! There must be something..."

«Other than poisoning him, as my brother insists.*

"If you leave here, you won’t be able to return home."

"I know."

"They’ll just drag you back here."

"I know!" You pressed a hand to your forehead. "I need an entire bottle of wine or ale—anything!"

After a long silence, you heard Elena approach. She knelt before you, taking your hand as if she were an elder sister offering solace to a younger one.

"Believe me or not, my lady, but you’re on the right track. You’ve already won over the servants, and even the woman who raised the lord himself. As I told you, we know far more than you realise. If I were to wager, I’d suggest finding some common ground with him, either through companionship or with what the servants might share. You may discover an arrangement or bargain that will suit him, and that may lead to a truce. Once that’s in place, you can strike the final blow."

"I wouldn’t say seducing him into loving me is ‘striking the final blow.’"

"You’d be striking a blow to his hostility. After that, anything is possible."

The idea intrigued you. Perhaps you could indeed reach an agreement if you persuaded him. He already knew you wouldn’t leave of your own accord. All you needed to do was devise a deal that was mutually beneficial. It might be the way to gain Davos’ friendship—friendship before love. Friends before becoming lovers. It would grant you time to win his favour, time to insinuate yourself into his thoughts, and later, his heart. It would be a challenge, certainly, perhaps the greatest of your life, but if you set your mind to it…

Yet there was one obstacle: what if you could never overcome your aversion to him? Still, you were a master at concealing your feelings… or at least, you had been before you arrived at this wretched place! But you could regain control, provided he never realised how much you disliked him.

𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎

No, of course Davos did not take kindly to hearing the message Maida had sent him through her niece. Firstly, he had nearly choked on the water he had been drinking; secondly, he could scarcely fathom how a woman so cold and reserved could have dared to utter such a thing.

What could have transpired in his absence to bring about this situation?

“Have you not been keeping an eye on her?” Davos demanded of his sister, his voice heavy with disbelief.

“I am no guard to follow her every step,” Alysanne retorted, her tone challenging the very reason behind the question.

Davos was at a loss. Ever since that woman’s arrival, it felt as though everything was slipping through his fingers, as though he no longer grasped what was happening within his own household.

“Did you see how she smiled when she told me her aunt was feeding my children?” he pointed towards the door, as though the girl were still standing there, her pride lingering freshly in his memory. “She was proud to tell me!”

Alysanne let out a faint chuckle, crossing her arms before sinking into the chair.

“I did, I was there,” she replied, her tone betraying her amusement at the whole affair.

Davos snorted and shook his head in frustration.

“What has that girl been up to?”

“You can ask her yourself. She will dine with you tonight.”

“You truly do despise me, don’t you?”

“Quite so,” she answered, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎

Approaching that bed again was just as unsettling, for his long, muscular bare leg still lay draped over the sheet.

He remained in bed, propped up by numerous pillows, though at least he now wore a white nightshirt—though it hung open almost to his waist. And he had combed his hair! But he hadn’t shaved, and his beard darkened the lower half of his face. Perhaps he was feeling a little better...

“What in the spirit’s name are you wearing?” he growled as you neared the bed.

You felt a brief flush of embarrassment as you realised his gaze had fixed itself on your neckline, but you pressed on regardless. You might love the comfort of modern fashion, but you had never quite grown accustomed to the deep necklines so popular in the riverlands.

“I always dress like this for dinner,” you lied.

“Not when you’re dining with me.” You placed a hand on your hip, watching him with a genuine challenge in your eyes.

“As you wish. I can be very adaptable.” He snorted at your words, and, since he already seemed as feral as a beast, you added, “I suppose there’s no need to ask how you’re feeling tonight. You don’t seem much improved.”

“I’m ravenous, that’s what I am. I’ve been put off twice now, with no explanation as to why I haven’t yet been served. How did you manage to seduce my cook?”

“I didn’t seduce her,” you replied in a light tone. “In fact, it’s abundantly clear that your staff don’t like me one bit.”

“Then why do they listen to you rather than me?” Davos exclaimed.

“Because I’m a lady, of course,” you replied bluntly. “And the servants wouldn’t dare defy a lady due to the severe consequences of such behaviour; you must have overlooked that in your fever. Besides, your little plot to starve me while I’m here won’t work—at least wait until you’re well enough to keep an eye on the kitchen yourself. Because in the meantime, I’ll toss your cook out with a broom and prepare my own food if I must. So perhaps you ought to reconsider that unpleasant plan. Burnt bread and nothing more? What were you thinking?”

His face reddened a bit further. You should have been angry too, but having eaten a decent slice of pie at lunch, his attempt to starve you began to seem somewhat amusing, and you tried to calm him down a little.

“I suppose our dinner will arrive soon enough, but in the meantime...” He lowered his voice and stopped talking, so you glanced at his wound, relieved when you could say, “It looks better. It’s not as red.”

“I don’t see why you care. You belong to the most tiresome, odious, repellent, detestable, abhorrent—”

“I get it.”

“What do you care if the wound reddens, if I lose the leg or die?”

“I care because, hard as it may be to believe, and despite the fact you’re an ill-mannered brute, I have no desire to be left with an eleven-year-old as a husband.”

He clicked his tongue.

“You could stop insulting me.”

“And you could give me a reason to stop.”

So far, you had spoken in a courteous tone, even smiled at him, something that clearly confused him. Good, it was a start—it would pique his curiosity, catch him off guard.

“It’s far more likely that, should I die, Alysanne will be pledged to one of your brothers. Or rather, she’d sacrifice herself to spare Benji from such a fate.”

Yes, you couldn’t fault him for speaking that way—you felt the same. And honestly, Alysanne wasn’t a bad person; you didn’t wish that fate on her either.

You looked at him in silence for a few moments, and he looked back at you.

“Don’t you dare do what you’re thinking.”

Kill him? You’d thought of that long before arriving here.

“And what, exactly, am I thinking?”

“Killing me”

“Says the one who tried to starve me,” you replied with a smile as he scoffed, and you sat at the edge of the bed.

“Do you wish me dead?” he asked.

“Do you think I can make wishes come true?”

“Can you?”

“I didn’t think you were superstitious, Lord Blackwood. But if I possessed such a talent, I wouldn’t be here, would I? I’d be at home, enjoying my freedom without the need to endure this dreadful situation.”

“Is that all? Wouldn’t you wish for something more grand?”

The question surprised you. Was Davos trying to learn something more about you?

“Not really. I was quite content with my life.”

Yes, your brothers were insufferable idiots, and your sister could be excessively spoiled and superficial, and yes, at times you despised them—but they were your family, and you loved them as they were. Of course, being away from them wasn’t unpleasant, but you had been happy.

“You know I have no reason to believe in your interest in my health, and plenty of reasons not to.”

“Quite right! But I don’t aim to convince you of anything, so it doesn’t matter if you don’t believe me. You asked, I answered. And since we’re both making confessions…”

“Not ‘both,’” Davos interrupted, emphasising the word.

You ignored him and carried on.

“I should warn you that I’m not one to reveal my feelings. I’ve grown accustomed to hiding them, so to speak.”

“Why?”

“Would you reveal yours?”

“Is this reverse psychology?”

“Exactly! It often is, but not this time. And earlier I was angry, as you may have noticed. I couldn’t hide my anger because—”

“But how will I know if you’re hiding or revealing your true feelings?” he interrupted again.

“I admit it might be hard for you to tell. So why don’t we agree to be honest with each other?”

“I hope you won’t stay here long enough for that to matter.”

That wasn’t quite what you’d expected to hear, but once again, you were speaking to Davos Blackwood, not some ordinary man.

“Well, that’s a start,” you responded sarcastically.

“Fine, I’ll continue sharing my feelings with you. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing, so I suppose we needn’t agree on anything at all.”

If he couldn’t see that he had finally succeeded in irritating you, then he must have been blind. But Davos had no time to respond, for at that moment, dinner arrived, and at last, his expression changed to something brighter.

You nearly laughed—it was clear his mood had improved solely because he was starving.

You picked up one of the two trays of food that had been placed on the small dining table and brought it to Davos. A small vase of flowers had been added to one of the trays; Maida must have been trying to make amends for delaying dinner until you were ready. In your defence, it had been Alysanne’s order, not yours.

He likely wouldn’t even notice how lovely the flowers were. You knew you should offer him a smile as you set the tray beside him, but you couldn’t manage it. He was lucky you didn’t drop the tray in his lap.

“Do you want me to feed you?”

You really had to stop provoking him. You received only the furious glare you deserved, and Davos didn’t thank you for placing the tray within his reach or for handing him the plate. Did he have no manners at all, or did he reserve his unbearable rudeness just for you?

After lifting the ceramic lid that covered his dish, you returned to the dining table where you intended to eat—away from him. Again, you were reacting to his rudeness, forgetting your effort to win his favour. Then, you changed your mind, removed the lid from your own plate, picked up the tray, and sat in the chair beside the bed. You would be pleasant to him despite his foul mood and show him you were perfectly delightful company.

He didn’t tell you to leave again; perhaps he was too busy eating to care. The baked fish was accompanied by a tangy cream sauce and crisp vegetables. You found the dish quite tasty. There were also biscuits, small bowls of butter, and for dessert, cinnamon buns.

Davos seemed to have no trouble reaching everything on his tray. Other than the wound on his thigh, his body was in perfect condition, and his arms were long. You imagined that when he stood, his height would impress you. Would he be even more intimidating then? You hoped for some kind of truce before that.

With your fork in hand, you searched for a topic of conversation that didn’t revolve around your future marriage. Curious about his family, you asked, “When will your father return?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He seemed to be weighing whether or not to respond, which gave you a sense of satisfaction when, at last, he murmured,

“I don’t know. He’s almost never here. My father and my uncle travel a lot.”

“The same could be said of my family. My father travels to King’s Landing more than he does to his own lands. It’s funny that we have that in common.”

He looked at you with incredulity, his brow furrowing.

“We have absolutely nothing in common. You have an annoying habit of jumping to conclusions, especially when they couldn’t be further from the truth. My father doesn’t travel to attend the kingdom’s frivolities; he travels because, with the heavy rains, some of our vassal villages have suffered damage to their homes.”

“And when did I say that my father attends the kingdom’s frivolities?” you shot back, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, didn’t you?” His tone was more sarcastic than apologetic. He knew he was right, and though it was the last thing you wanted to admit, you couldn’t contradict him.

“He has important matters to attend to.”

“Sure.” But he wasn’t paying attention. Irritated, you rolled your eyes.

Leaning forward, you finally caught his gaze, not just because of the sudden movement, but because now he had a perfect view of your neckline.

“You don’t believe me?” you asked playfully.

“You don’t believe your own words, darling.”

Darling?

“And what would you know?” you challenged, leaning closer, and he didn’t back down.

"I know plenty. Your father has drawn a lot of attention around here… and not the good kind."

That didn’t surprise you. You knew that anyone could speak ill of your family, and no one would refute it. But this time, curiosity got the better of you.

"There must be something good," you insisted with a smile. "We’re not that terrible, even though you all see us as the worst."

He let out a laugh, taking a sip of wine before replying:

"If you’re looking for something charming, you’re on the wrong side."

"I know that already, but there has to be something, no matter how small."

He fell silent, as if for a brief moment he was genuinely considering it. His eyes fixed on yours, as though analyzing every line of your face, every expression, searching for something more.

Finally, he spoke:

"You were going to get married, weren’t you?"

Your smile vanished, along with the light flirtation in the air. You straightened up and looked down at your plate, now half empty.

It wasn’t a secret, of course, but it wasn’t something you enjoyed remembering either.

"Maybe," you admitted without lying or hiding the truth.

"What happened?"

You hesitated, the words stuck in your throat. You didn’t want to talk about it, not really.

"My sister liked him more."

You said it without emotion, without shame or guilt, just the cold acceptance of a truth you had long since come to terms with.

He had the courtesy not to ask any further, and silently, you were grateful.

𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎ 𖣂︎

When you opened your eyes in the wide, dark room, you didn’t know where you were. Disoriented, you sat up, looked around, then laid your head back on the soft pillows and remembered—you were at Raven Tree, in the home of the angry, rude, and handsome man who would become your husband.

The night before, when you returned to your chamber, you had taken a sip of the sleeping draught that Elena had offered, and since it hadn’t taken immediate effect, you drank another sip. You feared it might take a while for you to fall asleep in that room each night because of the door connecting your room to his, which you couldn’t open, but he could from his side.

You noticed that Elena had already been there; there was fresh water in the washbasin, still slightly warm, but the curtains were still drawn. You opened them and smiled at the sight of the garden beneath you. It looked charming bathed in the morning sunlight. If you could find a book, maybe you would spend the day reading on one of the many benches.

When you had unpacked your trunks, the tall bookshelf in your room had been empty, as were the rest of the furnishings. The décor of the room indicated that a woman had previously occupied it. The large canopy bed was covered with a thick white blanket adorned with pink flowers and edged with frills.

The carpet was a deeper pink, mixed with yellow and garnet, while the walls were of a lighter stone than the rest of the castle. Next to both windows stood a settee and a comfortable-looking chair, both upholstered in lavender brocade with silver threads. Between the chair and the settee was an intricately carved table.

You had left your toiletries and jewelry box on the vanity; a small desk was still empty and would remain so, as you had no stationery, but perhaps you’d buy some in the nearest village. You thought you might let his mother know how much fun you were having in this place.

You dressed quickly, which wasn’t hard with the current fashion. You tied your hair back with a white ribbon that matched your dress; you were more accustomed to wearing it that way than in the elaborate style you had worn the previous night and during the journey here.

Although Davos might be waiting for you, you were in no hurry to return to that room, so you first went downstairs, passed through the kitchen on your way to the stables, and grabbed two sausages.

Once your curiosity was satisfied, you returned upstairs.

Certainly, the dinner the night before had ended on a tense, uncomfortable note, and although you had managed to silence Davos Blackwood, there was a bitter aftertaste in your mouth when you left the lord’s chamber.

The subject of your failed engagement was something that had been over for more than three years. You had barely turned fifteen when that drama unfolded, and now, in a way, you were grateful for how things had turned out.

However, that wasn’t what you should be thinking about right now.

You had failed in your mission to win Davos over, although you felt that at some point, the conversation had taken a more casual, almost playful turn between the two of you. If there was one thing you could vouch for as something you had in common, it was the incessant need to tease each other, though that didn’t guarantee anything.

He could still unleash his fury and kick you out of his house, but that would only happen in a moment of blind rage. If he lost his temper, he would only be giving up everything that mattered to him, just to get rid of you. That was why he was so angry and doing everything possible to force you to leave.

"How much time did he have to win that battle? Was there a deadline before you had to marry or face the consequences? Because your family had certainly rushed to send you here. You thought about asking him, and perhaps you shouldn’t keep him waiting while he was expecting you.

That thought made you quicken your pace. Once again, as you entered, Davos’s room was filled with servants, and there was no voice that didn’t wish you good morning.

You offered your own smile as you approached the bed.

"Are you always surrounded by such a retinue in here?"

His blue eyes had settled on you as soon as you appeared, already frowning. However, he deigned to answer:

"One is here to assist me and bring what I ask for, another is busy with my clothes, and the last has come to be a damned nuisance."

Your cheerful smile faded, but not your determination.

"If you’re referring to me…"

"I’m referring to that little brat over there." Suddenly, you noticed Benjicot, who seemed to be giving orders to the servants as if he knew what he was doing. "But if you want to add yourself to the list, that’s up to you."

"There’s no need to repeat things that are already clear. Still, I think it’s time to call for a truce," you said, trying to change the subject.

"Promise you’ll leave before the wedding, and you’ll get an immediate truce."

You wondered if you should pretend to agree, just to see what he was like when he wasn’t growling or scowling, but no—you didn’t want to give him false hope, only to have it crushed later.

"Mmm, I don’t think so..." You glanced at his wound; the leeches were no longer stuck to his leg, and you were thankful for that for two reasons: it was an unpleasant sight, and you didn’t think they had done much good.

However, to your surprise, the wound seemed to have drained well; you didn’t know if it was thanks to those disgusting insects or if they had applied some kind of ointment that helped.

"It looks better than yesterday," you commented, adjusting the bandage that seemed freshly applied.

"Better or not, I still can’t walk."

"It would be better if you hadn’t gone riding the day I arrived." He shrugged.

"Risks I was willing to take."

You didn’t know how many times you had rolled your eyes since you met him. And all because he didn’t want to welcome you—how ridiculous.

To distract him and yourself, you decided to bring up the topic that troubled you.

"When are we supposed to get married?"

"Too soon."

"Wouldn’t it be enough to get engaged?"

"No. The king doesn’t like problems, or at least those problems that can be solved easily and quickly. He firmly believes this marriage," he pointed at you and himself, "will resolve our differences and make us the closest in the land of rivers."

The last part was said with clear sarcasm.

"I know King Viserys is a pacifist, but… there have been marriages between our families, and I don’t see that the relationship has improved in any way."

"Yes, His Majesty chose to ignore that fact." Davos shrugged. "Oh, and it’s good that you ask, because he wants it immediately. So if we don’t marry within the time frame he set, he’ll get what he really wants through this nonsense. The first of three banns was read yesterday during Sunday mass. The emissary took care of it before departing."

That news caused you some discomfort.

"So there are only two weeks left? I’m surprised the emissary didn’t wait for my arrival to marry us at the threshold of the door."

"He wanted to. I only managed to postpone the matter due to the seriousness of my injury; he clearly saw that I was hurt since I had to receive him lying in bed. He was the one who stipulated that you must remain here while this lasts. If you leave..."

"Yes, yes, we know your feelings; mine are the same as yours. Believe me: I wish none of this had happened. As I told you, enjoying my freedom is something I wouldn’t have wanted to change, and instead, I have to endure your presence. My apologies, my lord, I didn’t mean to insult you."

"You shouldn’t try to provoke me," he said in a dark tone.

Well, it was time to put an end to this if you didn’t want to grab the vase next to him and throw it at his face.

"So you’re the only one allowed to be provoking? Wait a minute: does that mean I’m supposed to be here to see what happens if I ignore your advice? Which means you won’t say the words that would put an end to all this, right? And that suggests a truce is still the best solution for both of us."

Incredibly, he didn’t respond with a no, and that gave you the confidence to continue.

"Look, Davos, I don’t know how many times I need to tell you and remind you that this is something I never wanted, a situation I never intruded upon, and now I have to pay for the decisions of the idiots I call brothers. So I’m just asking you for a bit of decency, manners, and respect." You truly wondered if what you were asking was so complicated. "Let’s just get married in two weeks and live our lives apart. I won’t bother you, and you won’t bother me, and that’s that."

For now, it was the best you could hope for from this situation. The idea of loving him, of learning to care for him, felt like an unreachable horizon; you didn’t want to cling to an illusion that could vanish at any moment. So you decided to embrace reality, however harsh it was.

Your words resonated in the air, bringing him to silence. However, deep down, you knew you were right. Both of you were trapped, but among your intertwined souls, he bore the greater burden of guilt.

"Very well," he finally said, in a tone that invited reflection. "Let’s have a truce."

You couldn’t help but let a genuine smile appear on your face, an expression of gratitude that bubbled up from deep within you.

At the end of the day, perhaps Davos Blackwood did have a heart, and an intelligence that, though hidden, was glimpsed in his words.

"But, it will be on my own terms" you never thought you'd feel a look burn as much as his. "Do you still want to go ahead?"

"yes, no, I don't know."

It was the truce you were looking for so much, then, everything was valid in between.

"Yes."

Then, you saw him smile slightly.

…

We have finally reached the point of no return 🤭

[starbounddragon]

I am 6 years old and my family tries to call me Lexi.

They tell me it's a nickname

It is uncomfortable in a way I don't have words for

Like the Easter dress my mother always made me wear

There is an ache in my whole body I cannot explain

I ask them not to call me that

It's years before they listen

I am 8 and my best friend is a boy

I play sports and read books and detest Barbies

I am branded "tomboy"

It fits like wearing my dad's oversized baseball mitt

Roomy, not uncomfortable, but not right

I am told I should be more ladylike

I am 10 sitting with the other girls from my class

They ask why I never wear the uniform skirt

I tell them I just prefer to wear the pants.

I do not explain how I begged my mother not to buy any skirts.

I do not explain the panic I felt when I tried it in on at the uniform store.

I just prefer pants.

I am 12 and my best friend switches schools

The same girls ask if I miss him

They ask if we're dating.

My face grows hot and I forget how to speak

Before I can deny it another girl scoffs

She says my shoulders are too broad

She says I am not a pretty girl

She means it as an insult

Why am I relieved when she says I'm not a girl

13 and I have a new best friend

A girl this time

It feels different in a way I don't have words for

She doesn't go to my school

For the first time I beg my parents for a cell phone

I text her every day

The school year starts and I have my first health class

I go to a Catholic school

The two "teachers", a youth pastor and the ccd coordinator, tell my class to hate the sin, love the sinner

One of them says she loves her brother but he's going to hell for his "gay lifestyle".

To their merit, my classmates are outraged.

Their uncle, oldest brother, cousin, is gay.

They protest on behalf of their loved ones.

The teacher does not change her stance.

I am ashamed.

I am afraid.

I am silent.

I am 14 and I hold a door open for a stranger and his kid

The man tell his son to "say thank you sir"

I feel like a fish on dry land

I feel my broad shoulders

I feel like wearing a uniform skirt

I feel tomboy

I feel Lexi

He's gone before I correct him

How do I run from this

15 and I only wear blouses and push up bras

I only wear my hair down

I can't bring myself to wear a skirt

My highschool is Christian not Catholic

Chapel every Wednesday reminds us girls to honor our husbands

Health on Fridays says babies are God's plan

There is no path more fulfilling than joyful motherhood

I tell my teacher I do not want to be a mother

She assures me she didn't either at 15

Her husband changed her mind at 20

The rage I feel is familiar

So is the grief

This is the year I learn the term asexual

This is the year I learn I am not aromantic

This is the year I become two people

My family and school friends are all conservative

We do group activities

We talk about their lives

I keep them at arms length

They don't ask

They don't notice

They don't want to know

My summer camp friends are all queer

I tell them everything

My girl best friend is one of them

She's pansexual

I realize I'm in love with her

I also realize I can't have a girlfriend

Not like this

Not as two people

I'm not ready

We're 16 and she tells me she's gender fluid

She tells me her pronouns are she/they

I didn't realize a person could be that

I wish I could be they too.

They call me Lex.

It doesn't hurt.

At 20 I learn the term agender and it feels like finding something I didn't know I was looking for.

I'm still two people but not as much anymore.

25 is the first time I say it out loud to other people

Friends from college who are also they/them

And for the first time since 15 I feel like a whole person.

[valyriians]

Not a corner of this earth- P2.

aemond targaryen x sister!reader, cregan stark x reader.

summary: being the younger daughter of king viserys i targaryen and queen alicent hightower, your hand was merely used to provide stability, at the age of ten and six, you were sent to the north to marry creagan stark, much to your brothers' detest.

word count: 1.5k

warnings: incest, smut in the end but not much, obsessive!aemond, mention of rough handling, death.





When you had heard the monstrous roar coming from afar you quickly hurried back to Winterfell, Silverwing flying around the keep screeching making your presence known.

You dismounted your horse and looked around in the courtyard where everyone looked at you with sympathetic eyes, confused and worried you made your way to the hall and where you saw the bannermen of the North seated in the hall until your eyes caught a tall and slender figure that turned around.

Aemond, your brother had come to Winterfell, for the first time to see you after you left King’s Landing.

You ran up to him and threw your arms around him and released a relaxed sigh when his arms went around your waist, the both of you had set formalities aside and simply greeted each other as sister and brother.

Your husband came into the hall, ‘’My prince.’’ with a small bow, ‘’You honour us with your presence, if we had known you were coming we would have made preparations-’’

‘’I am here because of my duty as a Prince of the Realm.’’ he said while not removing his eye from you.

You looked at your brother, he had a stiff face and you knew that your father the King was dead. You held your brother's hand and dismissed the bannermen. With only you, your brother and your husband.

You looked at your husband and he then hugged you, he didn’t just mourn the loss of a king but also his father-in-law, just as you mourned a father.

‘’I would like to speak with the Princess alone, Lord Stark.’’ Aemond said while giving Cregan a death stare.

Cregan looked at you and you replied with a nod, he left the hall and ordered the guards to follow him.

‘’When did it happen?’’ you ask.

‘’A fortnight ago’’ he replied.

‘’And this is a message that could not have been carried out by a raven?’’

‘’No, my sweetling’’

Sweetling, a name he used on you when you were young.

‘’Our drunken brother has been crowned King and I was sent to retrieve you to King’s Landing’’

‘’Retrieve? This has been my home-... and family for the last five years, I'm the Lady Stark and, you can’t expect me to leave my home.’’ A heavy sigh escaped your mouth.

Although you still felt like an outsider, a stranger in the North, it was your home.

‘’You are no Lady dear sister, you’re a Princess of the Realm and this northern life was not meant for you. We both know that you were supposed to be with someone else.’’ He took a step closer to you. ‘’With me.’’

You turned around and walked some steps away from him.

‘’What of Rhaenyra? She is our father's heir and my husband's late father declared for Rhaenyra and he will without a doubt follow his father's oath.’’

‘’That oath is as old as Vhagar and Cregan is his own mind. He married you, for an alliance with the crown, and he will continue to be faithful to the crown, and the rightful king or he is a traitor to the realm. You must lean him into supporting our brother, or I shall take you away from him.’’

He whispered those words into your ear and every hair on your body rose up and shivered.

‘’As for Rhaenyra, she and her bastard children will be put to the sword.’’

You never had a relationship with your half-sister, she did not pay you any mind but you respected her, and she you. After you were wed to Cregan, she sent you a raven wishing us good fortune and if Cregan and you were to be blessed with a child, she would allow you to personally pick out an egg if Syrax produced another clutch of them.

‘’For all her fault she’s our sister, our blood, if you follow Rhaenyra she will forgive you and allow you back into her heart, that much I know.’’

He walked away from you, looking around the hall.

‘’Do you remember what you said to me, the night before you left?’’

You looked down and sighed, you knew what you said, but you didn’t want him to see you on the verge of tears.

‘’That your heart will always be longing for me.’’

‘’Aemond i-’’

Your words were quickly silenced by Aemond kissing you, the kiss was soft at first, then he decided he wanted more and his hand wandered to your throat where he grabbed it harshly making you wince with a hint of pleasure.

Cregan was never harsh to you, he was gentle and thought you did lay together very often. He always made sure you were comfortable and it was very enjoyable but there was a certain longing for more.

It was like Aemond knew what you wanted, what your limits were, how you wanted to be pleased, and where you needed to be touched.

You kissed back and felt the need for more and then went into the state of mind where you felt your sense drift away into one place as he grabs your thigh had pulls his hand up to your area that has been longing for his touch, he grabs it but the stops when he hears the knocking on the door and you get pulled back into reality.

Your husband entered the room to tell you that he has ordered his bannermen to gather their men and you tell Aemond that he is welcome to stay or take his leave since you would be following your husband.

‘’You are welcome to stay dear brother, my husband and I will have to wait for an envoy from my sister. Surely you know best of all how these things work.’’ You glared at him with softness and sternness in your eyes.

‘’I will have to take leave dear sister, I have other kingdoms to rally up for our brother, the King.’’

Cregan then only know knew that Aegon had been crowned king. He looked at you with confusion.

Aemond then stepped towards you and took your hands in his, he slipped a piece of parchment which had a drawing of a mountain on it which was a short flight from Winterfell.

‘’In case you change your mind, sweetling.’’ He whispered.

He then left and flew away on Vhagar, the Queen of all Dragons.

-

‘’Aegon has been crowned king?! You know very well that I love you but I also loved my father and I will follow his oath and support Queen Rhaenyra. I am your husband and you will do well to follow me.’’ Cregan told you.

‘’I don’t like the idea of Aegon being king but they are my family, my blood.’’

‘’Rhaenyra is also your blood so don’t betray her too.’’

‘’I will not, I fully support Rhaenyra it’s just…- I can’t-’’

‘’It’s because of Aemond right?’’ He asked you.

‘’I’m so sorry my love, he’s the only one I had for those ten and six years before I came here, you simply must understand how hard this is for me, he is very dear to me.’’ you said with a pleading voice.

‘’Dearer than I?’’ he said while looking at you with sad eyes.

‘’Cregan-’’ a pause, ‘’he’s my brother, you’re my husband.’’

‘’You will make your choice now, wife. Either you stay beside me or beside your brother and be an enemy of the North.’’ He says with a sad voice but also anger.

-

You walk out of Winterfell in your riding attire, suited for the harsh north wind.

Walking towards Silverwing, you quickly get up and strap yourself to the saddle and urge her to fly. You fly to the mountain that was drawn on the parchment and you see the green dragon on the ground and lower Silverwing to the ground, you hop off and walk towards Vhagar when you see a small cave which has a fire and a tall figure inside.

You walk towards it and see that it is Aemond, he waited, he actually waited.

‘’So you changed your mind.’’

‘’I cannot choose between you and my husband.’’ you exclaim.

‘’So why did you come?’’

‘’Because- I love you.’’

That was all Aemond needed to hear, those three words coming from your mouth. He quickly kissed you and started to lead you into the cave. He took off his coat and started to undress you gently but was also hurrying. The both of you were undressed now and your clothes were scattered on the ground providing some comfort from the cold hard ground.

You were underneath him while his hand roamed your entire body grasping at everything he could while you wrapped your arms around his neck, you touched him like you had always wanted to, and he wasted no time to finally have this moment.

He flipped you over so your stomach was on the ground and he then pushed himself into you while holding the back of your hand and grasping it. He was rough and his handling would surely leave some kind of bruising on your thighs, waist and wrists.

You stayed in that cave for hours, just holding each other and sitting in silence.

You then realised, your heart and body belonged to Aemond, not Cregan, but to him.

''We could stay for a thousand years'' he whispered to you as you fell asleep in his embrace.

[anotheroceanid]

Oh my gods thank you for answering me I'm about to sleep so I'll annoy you more tomorrow if you keep answering my asks, Kronos thoughts on Percy? Just because of the Rhea dress up series I'm now starting on your ask blog

Don’t worry, it’s nice talking ✌️

Hm… okay, but as I said, Titans can be creepy. (this can be considered a bit darker than the previous snippets, and it gets a bit of titan lore from WTHB, but nothing that counts as an spoiler)

You know these old guys who will look at you and tell you that you look just like their deceased wives? That was Kronos. But at a much younger age, Percy thought it was super normal being compared to a long-recluse titaness.

See, everything was happening so fast ever since he got to camp, that never once he reflected much on the “you look like your grandma” talks. He thought it meant in a “she sided with the Olympians too, now they’re not even on speaking terms with her anymore”, and coming from the guy who ate his kids, Percy wasn’t paying much attention.

Years later, it definitely snapped to him.

Probably talking to one of the other elder titans, he’d come to realise how much Kronos used to really compare him to his former wife. Even in the way he spoke to Percy. Weird. Weird. Weeeeird.

The thing is: after a millennia or two living on Tartarus (and worse, without a body), you don’t end up well. Kronos, all his siblings would confirme, was never in a good place… mentally speaking.

Their father detested him more than he detested anyone else, and in the meanwhile Ouranos worshiped the ground Rhea walked on. And Kronos had a huge, huuuuge crush on her ever since… ever. No need to say that Ouranos was 100% against it, that was his little girl, his favourite, the jewel of his world, one good thing about having kids is that one of these kids were Rhea.

But Rhea liked Kronos too, when he was just that silly guy that made her laugh, so she hoped eventually Ouranos would soften a bit to this potential relationship. Well, it never happened. The whole thing with the coup went on. Rhea could’ve told his father that her mother and brothers were conspiring against him, but turned out she liked Kronos more than she liked their father.

Kronos was very smug about it.

About the time the coup happened, some of the titans were already married. Tethys and Oceanus had a lot of kids already, Hyperion and Theia had Helios and Selene already, and it was just a matter of time before Koios and Phoebe started having kids too. Krios was trying to woo his violent sea lady and Iapetus was doing just alright as a bachelor (until Clymene was born, but that’s an entirely different story), and the other titanesses were still in their “Boys??? Ew!!!” era. So, Rhea and Kronos got together. Everyone knew it’d happen. Happy ending, right?

Nope. As stated before, Kronos never been in a nice mental state. But Rhea loved him very much, and thought Kronos’ turmoil was just a matter of time (yes, a pun) and that he’d be fine sooner than later and would like have kids just as much as Hyperion but a little less than Oceanos (she didn’t want to have that many kids).

Then, she got pregnant. And he ate the baby. Then again. Then again. Then again. Well, we all know the story about how it got to the rock.

But Kronos… not so much. Maybe something deep (as Tartarus) down, he felt bad about it. Maybe he did want to have kids. Maybe he even liked the kids that he had. He made a joke about his daughters’ future weddings on the day Helios got married to Oceanos’ eldest girl, Perseus, who was Kronos’ favourite niece. He spoke about them like they were sitting just beside him, not in the bottom of his stomach. That was terrible. Rhea cried a lot.

So everything to say: Kronos is not very aware of reality as it is. He’s a terrible person (titan, whatever), but he’s also a very confused one. So at the sight of Percy, he didn’t see Percy… At least, not all times. Usually, he’d see Rhea playing in a younger, boyish figure. Sometimes, he’d see his enemy. And sometimes, it’d mix. And if Rhea was a bit wilder, well, he wasn’t exactly the same either, so whatever.

And if if Rhea had loved him more than she loved her father once, maybe it could work again, right?

But Luke didn’t want to cooperate with this part of his plan. Thankfully.

[melonisopod]

I still really like the way DunMesh introduces Kabru's party. Where they're clearly set up to be foils to our main party but not in a way that the narrative is pointing at them and saying "These guys suck and you should hate them!" They could just as easily have been the main characters and have the Touden party introduced second and it would have worked just as well IMO.

Cause I think a 'lesser' show would have set up characters like them as unpleasant jerkwads that you immediately can't stand. Maybe Mickbell is like that but even then he comes off more like a "funny asshole" than a genuinely detestable person. But the show goes out of its way to show that Kabru is incredibly smart and perceptive and knows and trusts his crewmates. The fact that he stopped Rin with a kiss tells me the two must be pretty close (it was pragmatic but I don't think she'd have reacted that way if they weren't at least on good terms, her main gripe was the illusion magic making Kabru look like a fish).

Plus, even though his reasons for going after the Touden party are /wrong/, he doesn't know that, and has no reason not to believe they've acted maliciously against his crew. So even while his party innately has it in for our heroes they're not bad people.

There's less that we know about Shuro and his current party and so it's harder for me to glean exactly what's up with him, but I also don't think he's set up as a 'bad person we're supposed to hate' either. I think the fandom is a little hard on him for his one-sided crush on Falin too - for all the "she's just like her brother" jokes she really isn't, not "exactly" at least. Falin seems a bit better at masking than Laois and has a better gauge for handling people, which makes her more "tolerable" in their eyes, hence why more people are willing to "tolerate" her monster obsession.

I know that Shuro has/had feelings for her and that it didn't go anywhere but that's...fine? There's no indication he acts entitled or pushy or doesn't respect her feelings or boundaries, and just having a crush on someone isn't a morally bad thing. I haven't seen the "outburst" when he and Laois fight either so I dont' have a lot to say here, just that I relate heavily to Laois, but I dont' think Shuro is bad for not speaking up on his dislike of him either.

As much as I desperately wish more people would tell me when they have a problem with me, how awkward is it to have to tell someone that to their face? How do you even say that? "By the way, I find you really annoying and can't stand you, I just want to clarify that so you stop assuming we're friends," I would love for someone to let me know but also imagine having to be the other person. I wish there was a nice way of saying it (and Shuro DID have a "nice way" of "saying it" but Laios is too autistic to pick up on subtle cues)

I still kind of hold the opinion that every character in DunMesh is some degree of autistic, but it's possible Laios is like the one guy who never really learned how to mask beyond "never talking about his special interest in public".

[she-karev]

The Talk About Kids (Jolex Imagine)

Previous Chapter Here

Age Rating: 12+

Chapters: Two of Two

Fandom: Grey’s Anatomy

Ship: Alex and Jo

AN: I decided to shift my focus to a power couple that deserved so much more. I decided to show Alex and Jo throughout pivotal moments in Season 16 and 17 that I believe would fit them.

Summary: Alex and Jo go over adoption agencies online in the loft until people come over to celebrate their nuptials, cutting the moment short. The gang figures out their plans and react with joy.

Words: 1642

November 1st, 2019

“How about this one?”

Jo asks Alex who is busy making coffee while Jo is at the table going over adoption agencies in Seattle. The couple are still clad in their pajamas, having just woken up with Jo already on the track to finding a baby to adopt. Alex is giddy at her eagerness and feels his dream coming closer by the minute.

Alex walks over and looks over Jo’s shoulder at the screen showing an adoption agency website, “What makes this one special?”

“They take in safe haven babies instead of letting them go through the system. I mean its fate, right? For us to find a baby like me who was left by their mother outside a fire station?”

“Yeah, that would be great if we found a baby who was in your situation.” Alex closes his eyes at how that sounded, “Not great for the baby, I meant great for us to give that abandoned baby a chance we never got.”

“I know honey.” Jo says with a grin, “We still have to find a house and make it picture perfect for inspection so we’re just going over our options before we apply but this definitely looks promising.”

“If it has your approval then it’s got mine.” Alex pulls out his phone, “I should look into real estate agents while you do agencies, divide and conquer.”

A knock on the door stops him from typing up in the search engine. He groans but puts his phone away and walks to the door opening it to find a group of five people on the other side. Meredith Grey, Jackson Avery, Link, Andrew DeLuca and Amber Karev are on the other side holding items in their hands. Jo sees the gang and closes her laptop, not quite feeling ready to tell them about their plans to have a baby.

“Hey, what are all of your guys doing here?” Alex asks causing Meredith to raise an eyebrow.

“You told me you got married last night; did you really not expect a celebration? Or gifts?”

“Yeah dummy.” Amber adds passing her brother with a waffle maker box in hand, “It was about time you two knuckleheads sign the damn papers like you should have from the beginning.”

Andrew shakes his head amused at his live-in girlfriend, “That is Amber speak for congratulations from both of us. Happy marriage.”

The whole gang enter the loft and greet Jo who smiles at them, “Hey guys you really didn’t have to do this, the last wedding was good enough for us.”

“Well Meredith insisted we come over and congratulate you in person.” Link explains putting a box of whiskey glasses set on the table, “I think she’s antsy for a party.”

“I just got out of prison.” Meredith reminds them all, “And my medical license might be taken away from me and everyone at Grey Sloan hates me so I need have happy moments otherwise I will start throwing furniture. Coffee?” She asks sharply.

Alex quickly heads to the coffee pot, “Yep.”

Jackson hands Jo a bottle of fine whiskey, “Congratulations you guys.”

Jo grins, “Thank you, you didn’t bring Vic?” Jo sees Amber pursing her lips at the mention of Vic clearly still detesting the firefighter Jackson is casually seeing.

Jackson catches Amber’s disgusted look, “I was planning on coming tonight to bring you the gift, but Amber insisted I ditch my breakfast date with Vic. More like demanded even though I’m her boss.”

“Oh boo hoo.” Amber says dismissively, “Your good friends got legally married last night, celebrating that takes precedence over being sad rebounds for firefighters.”

Jackson groans at that and asks Jo half seriously, “Please remind me why I keep her around?”

Jo chuckles and pulls Amber in for a side hug, “Oh come on, you and I know underneath that crusty exterior there’s a heart. Besides it’s not the first time she disliked someone who’s seeing her favorite men in the world.”

Alex chuckles nostalgically, “Yeah that is very true. One time I caught her putting a cockroach down my dates back and she ran away screaming. I swear I wanted to give her an atomic wedgie so bad.”

Amber grins at that, “Well the high school tramp was calling mom a nutty loon and she talked down to me and told me to make myself useful and get her a water. And most of your other girlfriends treated me just like that, a mini waitress working minimum wage. Same goes for Aaron, you two like to pick girls whose IQ is as high as their bra sizes.”

Meredith chuckles, “So I guess this attitude towards Vic is because you see her as not being good enough for Jackson? Nobody can be good enough for your brothers?”

Amber scoffs and acts tough, “Your crazy if you think I’m that invested in these idiot’s love lives. I just hate awful people and they have a preference for them.” Jo glares at that, “Except for you, you are the exception.”

Jo chuckles and pulls her sister-in-law in for a side hug, “Well I’m glad I got your approval.”

“Please do me a favor though.” Jackson asks Amber with a pleading face, “Don’t scare Vic away with a cockroach or a snake or whatever disgusting creature feels drawn to your evil nature.”

“Are you gonna make me some coffee?” Amber asks causing Jackson to roll his eyes but head towards the coffee maker to Amber’s satisfaction, “I’ll do my best then.”

Jo chuckles and pulls away, “We feel bad if we knew you were coming, we would have made a spread or something.”

“Since when do you cook?” Meredith teases before proposing, “We’ll just go to a pancake house and celebrate with lots of carbs and syrup.”

“And bacon.” Link adds with a smile, “You can’t have a celebration breakfast without bacon.”

Meredith laughs, “And in that spirit I’ll find us a breakfast place nearby that serves all of that.” Meredith opens the laptop to Alex and Jo’s distress.

“Wait Mer don’t-” Alex’s attempts are stopped as the screen pops up showing the adoption agency website that Jo left it on.

Meredith looks at the website in silent shock with the rest of the gang looking at her confused. Alex and Jo look both embarrassed and relieved at the cat being out of the bag. Jo sighs and stands next to Alex wrapping her arm around his back as they face Jackson, Link, DeLuca and Amber who look confused by Meredith’s frozen face. Jo and Alex look at each other silently communicating that it’s okay to tell people.

“We have an announcement to make.” Alex starts.

Jo smiles, “We’re gonna have a baby.”

The gang have different reactions of joy with Link asking ‘what?’ with a big smile, Jackson’s eyes shot up in shock, Amber’s mouth gapes open before laughing in joy with her boyfriend Andrew next to her smiling saying congratulations.

“Eventually.” Jo elaborates with a smile over their joy, “We’re looking at adoption agencies which is what Meredith is seeing at the laptop that caught her off guard.”

Meredith closes the laptop and goes to the happy couple with a smile, “Congratulations! Your gonna be parents!” She hugs Alex first who smiles at the affection as well as Jo who gets a hug as well before Meredith pulls back, “And if you ever need help with the adoption process, I am the person to turn to.”

“Thank you we really appreciate it.” Jo tells her good friend.

“And seriously.” Meredith starts with a grin, “Zola is the best thing that happened to me and Derek, I knew from the moment I saw her that she was ours and you’ll know it with your baby.”

Alex grins, “I hope so and you know if it wasn’t for me that little girl wouldn’t have even come here and you wouldn’t have met her so really, I’m the reason you started your family.”

“Humble as always.” Meredith quips, “But thank you for that.”

Amber shrieks at the news and immediately tackles her brother in a bear hug that takes him by surprise, “Wow kid I think this is the most affection you’ve ever shown me.” Alex tells his sister in a strained voice over how tight she’s squeezing him.

Jo giggles and at the sight, “We take it your happy.”

Amber pulls back still smiling, “Of course I’m happy I’m finally gonna be an Auntie, Auntie Amber. What took you two so long? I have been dying to have a niece or nephew to spoil.”

Alex chuckles, “We’ll things have happened, and life got in the way of us taking the next big step.”

Jo holds his hand, “But then we realized that life is always gonna be unpredictable so we might as well have a little more love and joy to get through it.”

“Amen.” Link states, “And if you guys have a baby before me, I can just watch you two and figure how to not screw up my kid.”

Jackson chuckles, “What he means is congratulations and we hope you guys start a family soon. And if you ever need a reference, I am always up for it.”

“Or you can pick me and DeLuca and Link instead.” Meredith and Jackson look at Amber with a raised eyebrow over excluding them, “Sorry guys but out of all of us you two have a record as dirty as a swamp rat in a sewer.”

Jackson clicks his tongue, “Ouch.”

“She is right.” Meredith says, “She’s mean but she’s right. Okay shall we get a breakfast spread to celebrate you guys getting legally married and starting to have a baby?” The gang all agree and head out for a breakfast party to celebrate this new chapter in Alex and Jo’s life.

[fractured-shield]

WIP Wednesday

not doing this as a tag game this week, but maybe if I post more actual excerpts it’ll keep me moving forward…here’s a bit from early on in chapter 8

Maybe Malin’s still grieving the ruined kingdoms too, he just doesn’t show it the same—

A shuddering bellow ripped through the silence. Then, the sound of wings. Before they could move, a dragon crested the row of houses opposite them, coming to rest on the top of a low wall. Its claws tightened around the stone, sending cracks down the already-brittle structure.

The rider held a torch—no, a lantern, lit with an unnaturally red glow, the same as Therien had seen the night before. Even in the warm light it cast, the dragon’s scales reflected a cold, glittering gold.

“The new Aureate,” Malin said under his breath, his sword already drawn in one fluid motion. He didn’t seem particularly afraid, and his horse stepped calmly forward a few lengths as the golden dragon shrieked, its needle-like frills rising around its neck.

“Vaefre.” The rider dismounted, speaking in a whisper that carried eerily far through the darkened street. His shaven head bore mage-tattoos, and more of the same marks traced down ashen-grey arms in swooping arcs like the ones Therien had seen in books. “I name this creature Vaefre. She is descendent of the Fifth god’s paradigm, and I name myself fated as the blessed dragon’s keeper.”

Another pair alighted on the roof next to them. This dragon was larger, with a plate of steel armor on its head and another on each forearm, scales purple-grey with a spiny protrusion on its chin. Its rider moved to stand next to the first, removing her deer-horned helmet as she did. She held a spear loosely in one hand. A fine chain wrapped between it and her wrist. At its end hung a heavy gemstone, its facets reflecting the light’s artificial fireglow as it swayed.

Therien watched unmoving, as if she could hide in the too-big cloak still wrapped around her. Outside of the cloak her hands were cold, near numb from the chill wind, and her white-knuckled grip on the reins felt clumsy and thick.

Her papa moved his horse in front of hers, holding his spear ready but waiting for Malin’s lead.

Ngelorim’s Golden Swordsman addressed the mages after a moment, his deep voice splitting the tense silence in two, the strength behind it easing her fear a little. “What is your business here? The people of the village, of Rhorn—what have they done to attract your attention?”

“Done?” The woman repeated, like it was some kind of joke but beneath the glint of mirth her voice was icy cold. “Nothing, of course. We aren’t here to hurt them. There are treaties in place, you know.”

Now her papa urged his horse forward a step. Instead of the usual high-strung sidestepping, the black horse stood squarely alongside Malin’s white one, unmoving before the dragon. “If you name yourself as the Aureate’s keeper, you claim the authority of the Lochieru sovereignty. Do you allow yourself to be recognized by the Allied Council, despite the implications of such a claim on those same treaties?”

For a moment, in the dim light, her papa seemed less withdrawn and forlorn—just as much a soldier as the Golden Swordsman. Before her was a grim, tall figure in plain armor, unassuming yet resolute, someone who served on Maithyr’s famed war-court and kept a precarious peace in a room of heroes and kings.

She’d never seen her papa in a real fight, outside of sparring or Tarnuvin’s festival games. She’d always had a hard time imagining it, gentle and placid as he seemed. But, no—this made sense, too. She felt safe, behind him.

“My brother’s been chosen by our god as keeper of an Aureate Standard-bearer. Both of us have claimed sovereignty together.” The woman paused, giving a thin smile as the lantern illuminated her face and her spear.

“What better place to make it known than here? At the crumbling ruins of your forsaken history—a city your Hyse allies won’t touch, a relic of a history they detest,” she mused teasingly. “You really think you have enough in common with each other to maintain your frail alliance once it’s tested?”

tag list: @just-emis-blog @orions-quill @honeybewrites @leahnardo-da-veggie @robin-the-blind-sniper-rifle

[blue-istari-stars-of-the-south]

Tûl Harar WIP: Arrival of the Blue Istari

Just a WIP I am working on involving Manó and Aratacáno, and a few of my other OC's. Princess Fisrah of Tûl Harad, a city in Far Harad, helps her father in the welcoming of two strangers.

From high atop her throne that sat just to the left of her father’s even more grandiose one, Princess Fisrah watched the two men approach. They seemed to be a duo of peasant merchants, with their plain clothing and walking sticks, and the princess sniffed at them in contempt. The princess placed her decorated hands demurely in her lap as she only half-listened to the proceedings. Rings and gems glittered and made a gentle tinkling sound as she made the slightest movement. Sumptuous silk made a soft hissing with the adjusting of an arm or the crossing of a leg. A long, dark braid decorated with expensive baubles sat over a slender shoulder.

Normally, it was her brother Hadhokor who would take part in these sorts of things, him being the first born male by their father. But he was away now, fighting in some skirmish. But her father had seen fit to have Fisrah sit in Hadhokor’s place, telling the princess to take leave of her ladies and their gossiping.

“Strangers from the North,” she heard her father, the Lord Azhab, say with a sneer and a wave of a hand. “Why should I welcome you? Do you wish to bring the Elvish war upon us all? Don’t think that we are deaf to the rumors here in my court. There may be a huge distance between our lands, but word travels fast, especially in the caravans. My people have no need for more wars or for shedding blood. They’ve seen enough of that already.”

One of the two “merchants” stepped forward, the taller of the pair, a reddish tint coloring the silvery locks (his looks almost attractive, even, in Fisrah’s opinion), and he spoke, bowing politely to those assembled:

”You couldn’t be farther from the truth, your eminence. We are but humble tradesmen, my friend and I. We wish no trouble on your citizenry”

Fisrah took note of how her father analyzed the man’s words, his eyes cold and shrewd, sitting forward in his chair and rubbing his bearded chin in thought:

“I see. But how do in know that you’re just not trying to trick me with your silver tongue? And your silent friend. What has he to say about all of this? Or have you instead come to my city to kill me and steal my authority?”

The other man’s head popped up then, and Fisrah could almost believe that she saw a flash of anger there on the ageless Elven features. Though the two seemed to be old men clutching tightly to walking sticks, there was something to them that she could not name. She had never seen one of the Elven folk before, only heard the tales, but Fisrah supposed that this is what they must look like.

Who are these men who claim themselves mere merchants?

”Shall I have my guards search you and throw you into the dungeons to let your flesh be torn apart by my tigers for speaking such treasons?”

Flinching at the image conjured up in her mind, Fisrah idly pushed it from her head. She had better things to consider, places to be, other than such horrid and unnecessarily bloody events. How she detested talk like that!

Tension hung in the air then, staring daggers, neither saying anything to the other. 

It was then, that the princess shifted in her seat, moving gracefully to whisper in her father’s ear in a sweetened tone:

”Father, these men are tired, having clearly traveled from afar. Perhaps we might offer some food and shelter? It is obvious they mean no harm.”

Letting out a huff, the Lord Azhab finally sat back, his arms across his chest. It seemed to her that he did take heed of her words, thinking them over before giving his reply to the two men.

”I’ve heard quite enough from you.” Lord Azhab spat, “Not enough from your friend however. I shall like to hear what he has to say as well. I command it.”

Giving another small bow, the man moved aside, giving room to the other stranger. The princess saw how the silent one slowly hobbled forward, his gaze stern and unyielding as that of his fellow merchant (if that was what they truly were). It was like staring straight into the gaze of the Great Judge himself, having one’s very soul on display.

The princess could not suppress the shiver that slid up the length of her spine, swallowing hard. It was far from a cold day, and yet it felt like an icy wind blew right through the room. 

A group of armed soldiers stepped up, hands on their swords and ready to defend their lord. As if mesmerized, Lord Azhab waved them to step back.

What threat is an old and feeble man, in anycase?

Opening his hands in a friendly gesture, the silent one did finally speak:

”My good and mighty Lord of Tûl Harar, we two are bringers of peace. That is all. We bring no weapons or any enemies trailing behind after us. Nor do we have any dubious connections with the Northern forces from Gondor or otherwise. Let us go free, and we will trouble you no more.”

The man’s words took hold of them then, grabbing their attention and not letting go. Even Fisrah tried to fight it, but in the end had to relent to whatever spell was woven by this strange man who wasn’t just a man. And suddenly, the pair became tall and majestic as any king surrounded by subjects, ready to put out a hand and speak an order to them. 

“You…what power do you have that gives you the right to speak to me like that??” Azhab said, standing from his seat, hands clenched at his sides. 

A hush filled the room, as there was no response. Fisrah brought a hand to her mouth, letting out a soft gasp.

Yes, that was what they were. Spies. They obviously wanted to steal the wealth from her father and cast them out onto the street.

“Spies, then. That is what you are. Spies, and snoops.”

Turning, the lord quietly spoke to a man to stood off to the side, head lowered in respect. When Azhab turned back, he sneered:

“We will show you how we deal with spies, in Tûl Harar.”

[dirtytransmasc]

Spellman Siblings~~

_

They've seen the siblings agitated, on edge and wound too tight.

They've seen them panicked, fearful and close to falling apart on themselves.

They've seen them enraged, bloodthirsty and dangerous.

But they haven't seen them like they are now; fidgety and unnervingly quiet, distressed but trying now to show it.

The twins are the worst, and none of them miss the unease in Spider, the concerned looks he keeps giving his siblings.

Then the tree line breaks and they see it.

Dr. Augustine's old Schoolhouse.

Abandoned and dilapidated but otherwise untouched by the surrounding forest. They were heading towards the old Hometree site - they assumed that was what had the siblings so keyed up - but it's clear by the way the siblings all go still, like deer in the headlights, that it wasn't Hometree that was bothered them.

It was the Schoolhouse.

They stare at the old schoolhouse with a gaze that could only be described as haunted and faraway, a distinct combination that a soldier is all too familiar with.

They look so small in this moment.

They aren't Spider's Siblings in this moment, or Spider's Protectors, they are the brothers and sister of Rutxi'äna, the girl whose blood still stains the wood floors of this schoolhouse.

"Their-" Spider starts, "Our sister, Rutxi'äna, died here."

Quaritch stiffens, the low whisper that Spider speaks in does nothing to dampen the punch to the gut that his next words bring.

"Rävi and Reyzì saw it happen."

Quaritch knows what happened here. He had been chief of security, he had seen the reports, the photos, and he had dealt with Augustine in the aftermath.

The shooting was the only thing they ever agreed on. It shouldn't have happened.

"Lyle, get the kids out of here now. Take Mansk and Z-dog with you."

Lyle doesn't question the order - he doesn't need to, he too knew what happened here - and a slight push on Spider's shoulder is all it takes for the boy to go towards his siblings.

_

Quaritch eyes the one wall of the schoolhouse, staring at the coloured handprints that decorate it, slightly faded to time, but the names beside each handprint remain legible.

Three are clustered together, one large and two small, all yellow in what must have once been a vibrant and bright shade, with names beside each.

Rutxi'äna

Rävi

Reyzì

Quaritch hates that their handprints are small enough that the palm of his hand covers them completely.

if quaritch didn't hate himself, humans, the RDA, whatever you wanted to call that, the forces that hurt his kids before he, this new na'vi identity, existed; he did now

even if he knew his human self detested what happen

"names grace, give me names" he never called her by her first name, he didn't even realize he did it, "I don't want men who decided shooting kids in their own school was a good idea, on my team," "oh, so know you show some heart," she spits back at him, still drying her eyes, she hadn't even changed her clothes, there was still blood all over her. "this is different, no kid, no matter how many fingers they have, what color their skin in, the air they breathe... no kid should die in the one place they feel safe. so give me names, and I'll handle it under the table, no heat on your neck needed." his words are short and drained. they both know why, gun violence had been horrible back at home, school was practically a death sentence. they both thought they could escape such meaningless violence here.

it wasn't enough, he doesn't even remembered what happened to the men that did it, it may have been nothing considering the fact most people there, including himself, couldn't give a damn,. they could have been executed for all he cared, it didn't unspill this blood, children's blood.

it doesn't give his kids their sister back nor their innocence, it doesn't give neytiri her sister back either. it didn't undo the pain and suffering that was caused.

and now he has to look at how happy his kids once were, their little hand prints painted on the wall in bright colors, their scribble handwriting. he thinks about what they might have been like, before they were forced to handle the pain and grief of losing their entire family, their home, in a few short years. before they became weapons, each of their own kind.

when he leaves that schoolhouse he will be faced with kids once so strong and mighty reduced down to small shaking children, who in that moment, may as well be the same age they were when the day this place lost all its innocence.

he'll walk back to find the kids huddled together, ro'eyk holding onto Zdog's arm, reyzi curled up between mansk and ravi, ravi resting his head on his shoulder. spider bouncing between his siblings and the recoms setting up camp, trying to comfort his siblings while also trying to be as helpful as he can around camp. the mood is so hopeless and glum, it sticks to the back of quaritch's throat and makes him feel sick.

he can't undo whats been done, but the sight of his kids like that, he will personally make sure to destroy anything that managed or manages to hurt them like this ever again.

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “Cat’s Cradle”, Part 5

Yup, finally did it.  Enjoy, lovelies.

“Cat’s Cradle”

Chapter Five: One String at a Time

History is, after all, just a repetition of turns in a game for keeps.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 fin

* * *

"To set in motion what needed setting."

Sansa mulls over Bran's words as she sits in her solar, a lone nail tapping along the desk in front of her. The shock of his return is still vibrant beneath her skin, the joy still lingering dully in the pit of her stomach, and yet, there's an unexplainable dread winding round and round the quiet of her mind.

They had all decided to keep up the pretense of Bran being Gilly's wounded and bedridden brother, sequestered in their guest quarters, with only Maester Wolkan being alerted to the situation, as Sansa had demanded Bran be seen by a healer. Jon and Arya could not calm her until Bran had relented to Wolkan's attentions. Later that same night, Bran had gone into more particulars about his absence these last few years, and it only served to unsettle Sansa further.

These cryptic lines of his, the way he speaks, the things he knows, it's not... it's not normal. This Three-Eyed Raven, and his tales of the Children of the Forest, everything is just... just too much.

She only wants her brother back. Her little brother.

Her chest tightens at her innocent need. She fears he will never fully return to them. Not as he once was.

(But have any of them returned as they once were?)

Sansa shakes her head, eyes shifting closed on an exhausted sigh.

What had he meant? What needed to be set in motion? Ever since word of Bran's 'assassination' had made it to them with Arya's return, Baelish had become more impatient, more reckless. As though he saw an end to his manipulations in the near future, all his plans coming to fruition, just within reach. Is this what Bran meant? That Baelish would hasten his plans, that he would slip, that he would be too blind to their machinations in his own desperation?

But then why keep her and Jon in the dark about his survival? Why have them experience such pain, when he must know how news of his death would devastate them?

It comes unbidden to her then, the memory of her and Jon in the godswood. A mess of strings in her hands, the grief lodged in her throat, and his warm hands along her face, his comforting words breathed into her skin, and his kiss – their kiss –

Sansa's hand ceases its tapping, a sharp breath sucked between her teeth. She lurches forward in her seat.

No.

No, Bran could not know. And even if he did, he would have no reason to... no disregard of the gods to...

It plays through her mind in instant, bewildering flashes – Jon's mouth pressed firmly to hers in the godswood, her confession in his chambers, his refusal of the lords' marriage proposals, the moment in her solar before Bran's arrival, when he was nearly hers and she was nearly his and nothing had ever felt more intoxicating in her life.

No.

This cannot be what Bran had meant to set in motion.

Even if she has made her peace with loving her own brother, Bran would have no reason to sanction such a union, or to encourage such feelings in either of them. It's senseless. Against the order of the world. Gods, she's said as much to herself before!

And yet...

She cannot find a reason for his deception. Not to them. Not to those who love him most.

What game is Bran playing?

A knock sounds at the door, startling Sansa from her thoughts.

"Come in," she calls, straightening in her seat.

Arya opens the door.

Sansa nods stiffly at her, her frustration with her sister still ripe and untouched.

Arya closes the door behind her, shoulders pulled back. She makes her way to stand before Sansa's desk, her hands wound behind her back. It's an image Sansa has grown familiar with these last several weeks, and yet, somehow detests. It's not that it's her sister, not that she seems strong and confident and fierce. Rather, it's that... that she seems so lonely.

Sansa realizes suddenly – acutely – that she misses the Arya that needed her.

Or perhaps more accurately, she misses being the Sansa that her sister needed.

"I saw Lord Royce's entourage earlier," Arya greets.

"Yes," Sansa says, "He arrived this morning."

Arya pulls a deep breath in. "So, tomorrow it is, then?"

Sansa looks carefully at her. "Yes. Tomorrow."

Arya cocks her head. "Are you nervous?"

"Should I be?"

Arya glances to her desk, a frown marring her face. "Baelish may have contingency plans we don't know about," she says uneasily.

"None that you may know about," she corrects.

Arya glances up at her.

Sansa leans back in her chair, hands coming together over her lap. "Believe me, I would not set this in motion if I wasn't absolutely sure of his escape routes. He has none. Not for this," she promises.

Arya gives her a concerned look, her hands tightening behind her back.

Sansa offers a reassuring smile. "Only when he trusts you fully will his fall be possible," she tells her, quoting Baelish's words from long ago. "This is what he believes. And for once, he is right."

"Baelish trusts you?" Arya asks warily, a single brow cocked. "Completely?"

"He trusts that I have no way of revealing his crimes without also implicating myself," she answers. "And he would be wrong."

Arya considers her a moment, nodding. Her gaze shifts over to the far wall, her throat flexing with her anxiety.

Sansa watches the expression curiously.

"Is Lord Royce prepared then?" Arya asks.

Sansa nods. "I've already spoken to him this morning. As well as Jeyne." Her voice softens at the end, the memory of her reunion with Jeyne still lingering in her mind. Their hesitant embrace, Sansa's sigh along Jeyne's hair, Jeyne's tightening arms around her waist, the way they each barely managed to hold back the tears, the way Jeyne's eyes shone determined and alive again, when Sansa cupped her cheeks in her hands and smiled at her.

Jeyne needs this as much as any of them do, she realizes. And she deserves it, probably more than any of them do.

If it means granting her friend peace – if it means granting her aunt, and her cousin, and her mother, and her father, and all of them peace, then there is nothing that can stop her now. Nothing that can save Petyr Baelish.

"When they've tried him for his crimes against our cousin, when Royce has stripped him of his status as Lord Protector, then I'll have Brienne bring you in as Gareth Stone, and we can level our own charges against him before the Northern court. Are you ready?"

Arya nods, remembering the plan they'd laid out the night before upon Bran's arrival. "Yes. I've already prepared a body," she tells her.

Another of Baelish's nameless spies. And perhaps Sansa should be worried at her sister's body count, but then, none of this would be possible otherwise. She swallows down her unease with a practiced sense of resignation.

"When you're finished interrogating me," Arya continues, "Brienne will take me out for the 'execution'. We'll make sure to burn the body we've prepared in place of Stone."

Sansa nods, her lips pursed tight. "Well, then. We're all set."

Arya chews on her lip. "Yes."

"I'll see you in the morning then," Sansa tells her, her dismissal clear.

Arya hesitates a moment, before she steps back, turning for the door.

Sansa's chest is still tight, her longing still acute.

Arya stops halfway to the door and Sansa's breath catches at the sight.

It's several moments, long and drawn-out, or perhaps only a second later, that Arya turns back to her, stalking up to the desk, her brows dipped into an anxious crease. "I'm..." She swallows it back, chest heaving with her sudden agitation. And then she bites down on her lip, a frustrated breath escaping her. "I'm sorry," she says.

Sansa blinks up at her.

Arya's shoulders slump with it, her whole form sagging beneath the weight of the admission. She looks desperately at Sansa. "I'm... I'm so sorry, Sansa. For keeping it from you. I didn't... I didn't want to. I didn't mean to, but then – but then what Bran said – and with Baelish – and all this trouble about who's claim is the right one, and not knowing where you or Jon stood, and... and..." She squeezes her eyes shut, breathes deep. "And not knowing what to do..." Her voice cracks at the end there.

Sansa's throat closes up, her little sister's desperation so keenly familiar, so painfully intimate. King's Landing is brilliant and golden and deadly in her mind once more, the memory hot at the base of her skull.

"I don't know what to do," she cries, terror-stricken, just a girl.

(I'm just a girl, she wants to wail.)

Sansa stares at her sister, chest throbbing, lungs aching. She stares at her.

(She almost reaches for her.)

Arya opens her eyes, meeting Sansa's gaze with a hung head. "I didn't know what to do," she says brokenly. "At first, I thought... I thought Bran did it because he didn't trust you." She stops, swallows, lets out a trembling sigh. "But now I know he did it precisely because he does trust you. Both of you."

Sansa looks off toward the far wall, licking her lips in her trepidation. She swallows it down quickly, hands clenching in her lap. "I still have questions," she tells her.

Arya takes an eager step toward her from the other side of the desk. "I'll answer them," she promises.

Sansa looks at her once more.

"I'll answer all your questions," Arya whispers, her eagerness waning slightly as she meets Sansa's gaze.

Sansa takes a moment, tries to quell the memory at the root, tries to hush the terror of remembrance that still visits her dreams sometimes.

Her father's head, tumbling down the muddy steps. Joffrey's sneering from his throne on high. A gauntleted slap across her face, cheekbone cracking beneath the force of it. Cersei's taunting whispers at her ear. News of Mother and Robb's gruesome deaths. An empty, golden room, but for her sometimes-husband, sometimes-captor. And the loneliness.

Gods, but the loneliness.

Sansa sucks back the unexpected sob along her tongue. She stands swiftly, hands stiff at her sides.

Arya opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes.

More than anything, she realizes, she wants to be Arya's Sansa again. She wants to be the Sansa she needs.

She only hesitates a moment, and then she gathers her skirts in her hands, striding gracefully over to the twin cushioned chairs settled before the hearth. "Come," she tells her.

Arya follows obediently, quiet and rigid.

Sansa allows herself a small, contented smile when she catches sight of the bundle of string along the side table. She settles into one of the chairs, taking the strings with one hand and motioning beside her with the other. "If you're so apologetic, then repay me with a game. I'm in need of a partner as of late."

Arya watches hesitantly for a moment. "I'm a bit rusty," she offers as a paltry excuse.

Sansa pats the seat across from her. "Then I shall have to help you, won't I?"

Arya stares at her a moment, lip caught between her teeth, before she cautiously rounds the chair and settles into it.

Sansa leans over her knees toward Arya, stretching out the familiar web of strings between her fingers. She gives her sister an expectant look.

Arya stays perfectly still a while, just watching her, and then her gaze shifts to the strings, a tremble lighting along her chin, a sheen of wetness over her eyes, before she's blinking it back, reaching for the strings herself.

Sansa walks Arya gently through her stumbling, and so, quietly and slowly, they begin again the game from their childhood.

Turn after turn, Sansa's understanding grows. She misses this, she finally registers. Misses her little sister. Misses the person she is when she's with her little sister. Misses her home and her childhood and those that left her. Misses everything. Misses all of it. Misses even herself.

But she's tired of missing that which will never return. And tired of fearing that which now remains.

She will never be the person she was years ago. Neither will Arya. For that matter, neither will Bran, or Jon, or Jeyne. Bits of them may remain, in glimpses. Familiar smiles and familiar pains and familiar dreams. But there are things in each of them to be learned anew.

She could never have loved Jon when they were children, in the way she does now. Perhaps, then, it's alright to love Arya a little differently as well. Perhaps, this is how one sets aside their longing, their missing of the past.

Sansa looks at Arya, catches the sight of her brow creased in concentration at their game. She allows herself a soft smirk. "You were always much better at this game than you gave yourself credit for."

Arya snorts across from her, eyes never leaving their game.

Sansa piques a brow her way. "I mean it. You had the hands for it, you know. I could see it in your sewing."

"My sewing was shit and you know it."

Sansa allows herself a chuckle. "Only because you never truly tried." She takes the set of strings cleanly from Arya's hands.

Arya stares at the strings, gauging her next move in silence a while. "It wasn't me," she says finally, so low Sansa almost misses it.

"No, I suppose not," Sansa muses. More silence pervades the room as they take their turns. She peers at her, watching the way Arya focuses so intently on their game, her fingers deft and sure. "But you've more a touch for it than you know. You just wield a different sort of needle now, I suppose."

Arya glances up at her, and then continues her turn quietly, mouth tipped into a frown.

Sansa sighs softly. "I guess I never really understood that – why you were the way you were. I still don't, truth be told. These... skills of yours, now. This... profession." Sansa swallows thickly. "I may never understand it, or your need for it, but if it makes you happy – "

"I'm not happy," Arya interrupts swiftly, voice resigned, like a noose she's spent too many years carrying round her neck.

Sansa looks up at her, hands stilled over the net of strings.

Arya's gaze is resolutely downcast, strings held taut between her trembling fingers. "I'm not happy, Sansa," she gets out in a quaking voice, swallowing tightly. She looks up. "But I'm home," she says roughly, blinking furiously against the wetness dotting her eyes.

Like a noose cut open at the knot, frayed ends splaying wide.

Sansa watches her, silent and still.

Arya clenches her jaw, looking at her hands. "What I've learned – what I've done..." She shakes her head, voice wavering. "I can't say it's brought me happiness, but it has brought me home." She flicks her cautious gaze back up to meet Sansa's. "And I think that's as good a first step towards happiness as any," she whispers shakily, keeping her eyes fixed to Sansa's.

Sansa licks her lips, blinking away the sudden moistness at the edges of her eyes. She clears her throat, resuming the game with a gentle touch. "A very good step, I'd say." She takes the web of strings from her sister's hands with surety.

Arya peers up at her with a guarded gaze, hands settling limp along her knees.

Sansa sighs, the game halted between them. "And I'm proud of you for taking it – that first step."

Arya's eyes wet instantly, her mouth tightening with her waning control, lips trembling.

Sansa leans toward her, never letting her look away. "No matter what, I'm proud of you," she says fiercely, chest constricting with the words.

Arya's face crumples suddenly, a sob hitched in her throat, before she's sucking it back with a heavy inhale, a hand going to her face. She blinks furiously up at the ceiling, sniffling back the tears, looking back down again after a single, steadying breath, the heel of her palm dug into one eye, the heavy, lingering wake of a too-long second spilled out between them, and then she's leaning forward swiftly, taking the strings from Sansa, distracting her with another turn, still sniffling back her unspent tears.

Sansa almost laughs. Instead, she tucks the sound quietly between her ribs, lets the warmth nestle there. She bites her lip to hide her smirk, following Arya's cue and taking her next turn in silence.

Arya tries to discreetly cover her sniffles, and Sansa lets her.

Another turn passes in silence, before Sansa cocks her head, her smirk settled more firmly along her face. "I'm still going to win this one, though," she says confidently.

Arya barks a laugh, tear-laced, leaning back in her seat as she wipes her nose on her sleeve. "You always do," she says.

Sansa beams.

She finds that maybe, more than the girl she used to be, more than the girl she thought she should be, more than everything, more than all of it – she misses the woman she wanted to become.

"Your turn," she tells Arya.

Perhaps that realization is as good a first step toward happiness as any.

* * *

Bran stays resolutely quiet. Jon urges him to join the court, to let them announce his survival. It would mean Bran taking his crown, of course, but Jon's already made peace with that. He'd intended the crown to be Sansa's though, once news of Bran's death seemed indisputable. Yet, oddly enough, Bran only continues to repeat his first assurances of abdicating, and his need for secrecy about his presence in Winterfell until Baelish is disposed of.

"I must go South," he tells Jon when he visits his younger brother the day after his arrival, while Arya visits with Sansa in her solar following the meeting with Yohn Royce. "Once the throne of Winterfell is secured, once Baelish is dead, once the Others are dealt with – I must go South. There is much to do."

Jon stares at his bunched hands, sitting along the edge of Bran's bed. He can't deny the part of himself that feels relief at Bran's decision. The chance to remain Lord of Winterfell, King in the North. All he's ever wanted, really.

It feels wrong though. Far more wrong than it did before.

He thinks about the bundled scroll lying atop the bedside table – Robb's will.

He hasn't the heart to read it yet, though Bran has already shared its contents. Maybe because reading the words in Robb's own hand makes everything more real, more permanent. Maybe because it finally validates his desires. Maybe because it means another thing stolen from Sansa.

Jon sighs heavily, glancing up at Bran.

His brother is looking at him evenly, head canted, hands held limply over the blanket covering him. "You have a choice," he tells him.

Jon furrows his brows at him.

"I've given you the tool you need to cement your rule in the North. Will you take it? Or will you heed Sansa's claim instead?"

Later that same day, after he's made his way down to the crypts, that conversation plays over and over in Jon's head. He stands before the stone statue of his father, eyes fixed to it, taking in a lungful of needed air. Down here, there is a clarity he cannot find elsewhere.

"It's your choice, what you do with it," Bran had said, when he placed the worn scroll of Robb's will into Jon's open palm. "Though I hope you wait until Howland Reed arrives. There are things you should know before you make your choice."

Jon wipes a hand down his face, sighing, before he turns from the stone visages of his dead family and makes his way back toward the entrance of the crypts.

First, they deal with Baelish. Then they settle the succession of the Northern crown. One step at a time. There are enough battles to choose from, after all.

And Jon only wants to protect.

"Your Grace," Jon hears upon his exit from the crypts. He turns toward the greeting with a sneer, finding Baelish waiting for him past the stone markers.

Littlefinger nods at his notice, coming up beside him. "I pray you are not too troubled, Your Grace. I know the crypts of Winterfell have long provided solace to the Starks," he says pointedly, a nod sent behind them as he follows Jon in his trek away from the crypts.

Any other time, Jon might have lashed out at the man's audacity to approach him, but there's an even calmness blanketing him instead. He wonders if it's the presence of Robb's will at his breast, tucked beneath his tunic, beneath the weight of the cloak Sansa had sown for him herself.

(He would laugh at the irony of it, if it weren't so cruel.)

Or perhaps it is the certainty he feels about their meeting with the lords the next morning that pacifies him. The day they enact their plan against Baelish, just past the dawn. He thinks it should have him restless, uneasy, anticipatory. Rather, the knowledge of Littlefinger's impending downfall (though hardly assured) keeps him tranquil, at ease.

No more whispers in Sansa's ears, no more subtle touches, no more lingering shadows.

Sansa will be free, and so will the North. Free of his treachery.

Jon can endure another tiresome conversation with Baelish one last time, he figures. It may be the last the man ever speaks to him, after all, before his throat is slit.

A final mercy, if you will. The thought almost makes Jon compassionate. But not quite.

Jon continues to stalk down the halls toward his quarters, Baelish in tow. "You didn't come find me to inquire about my troubles, I'm sure," he scoffs, glancing at Littlefinger over his shoulder.

The man offers a perfunctory smile, tight at the edges. "No, Your Grace, you are correct there."

Night falls heavy around them, the fire in the sconces along the walls flickering orange slants of firelight across their forms as they walk.

Baelish clears his throat. "I wish to speak to you of the Lady Sansa."

Jon stops abruptly. The weasel is wearing Jon's mercy down already. With a thin frown, Jon turns fully back to him, a challenging brow lifted when he tells him, "I believe I already informed you not to speak of my sister to me ever again."

Baelish nods with acknowledgement, and Jon doesn't miss the way he swallows uneasily, a hand going to tug at his collar briefly, before smoothing his palms over his tunic, the memory of Jon's hand around his throat clearly fresh in his mind.

Jon can't help the dark smirk that tugs at his lips at the reminder.

"Again, you are correct."

Jon stares at him. "Then why are you still here?"

Baelish lifts his chin slightly. "It seems my concern for her well-being overrides even that for myself."

Jon wants to roll his eyes at the comment, his teeth grinding in his skull. But he won't give Baelish any ground the night before his trial. "Speak," he nearly barks. "And quickly. Before I change my mind." He flexes his hand at his side, a warning.

Baelish seems to notice, the slight curl of his lip signaling his distaste just half a second before he hides it behind a deferential smile. But Jon has grown to recognize the man's tells.

"I was surprised at the sudden arrival of Lord Royce," he begins.

Jon's shoulders tense at the words, but he says nothing.

"I had known of Lord Arryn's feebleness, of course, but I hardly expected him to decline so quickly. The news Lord Royce brought with him was disheartening to hear."

Jon eyes him cautiously, licking his lips. "Yes, we were all sorry to hear of the boy's sickness."

"Hardly warrants a journey to Winterfell, though. A raven would have sufficed, don't you think?"

Jon gives him a deadpan look. "What I think has never been of interest to you before, Lord Baelish."

Littlefinger smiles then. "No, I suppose not, if we're being honest."

Jon raises his brows at that. For a moment, a brief flicker of trepidation lights in his gut at Baelish's easy admission.

Baelish smacks his lips, straightening his shoulders as he takes a step toward the sconce along the stone wall beside them, eyes following the flame. "I do, however, suspect you have an inkling as to why Lord Royce made the journey himself. Not that I expect you to tell me." He raises a couple fingers to run along the ash-lined rim of the sconce's frame, frowning, and then flicking away the dust – disinterested.

"Then why bother asking me?" Jon gets out lowly, watching him with an eye of caution.

Baelish glances back to Jon, fingers rubbing together to clear the smudge of ash. "You were so adamantly against Lady's Sansa's marriage. I must wonder why."

Jon is momentarily thrown by the change of subject, but he doesn't let the surprise bleed into his voice. "I don't see how the two are connected."

That smile is back, sickly sweet. Baelish looks again to his dirtied fingers. "Lord Arryn is young. He has not an heir of his own, you see. The heir apparent – at the moment – is the Lord Harrold Hardyng." He lowers his hand finally, linking it behind his back with his other one, turning fully to Jon. "The man I represented when the court last spoke of Lady Sansa's marriage prospects. The man you refused without so much as an introduction."

"I've already given my reasons for delaying Sansa's marriage. I'll not repeat myself."

"Hmm, yes," he says. "'Delaying', as you say."

Jon takes a step toward him, face dark.

"But considering you usurped her rightful claim to the Northern crown, is it not only right that you secure her future for her? As Lady of the Eyrie?"

Jon barely restrains the snarl at the back of his teeth in response to his boldness. "You're very quick to discount your lord's possible recovery."

Baelish squares his jaw. "I'm not unfeeling, Your Grace. Simply practical."

Jon does scoff then, a rueful chuckle following the sound. "I beg to differ."

Baelish purses his lips. "Even still – "

"Even still, you want to secure your influence," Jon interrupts, a note of disgust lining his words. "If Sansa can't have my crown, then she will have another, is that it? A crown you can control."

"I only want what's best for her."

"Do not presume to think your greed has gone unnoticed, Lord Protector. You want what's best for yourself, and that's all. You care nothing for Sansa," he snarls, the heat rising in his chest, unbidden. He swallows thickly, trying to smother it.

Baelish's eyes flash at Jon's quiet outburst, a knowing smirk spreading slowly over his lips. He keeps his hands linked behind him, a tilt to his chin when he tells him, "I see the way you look at her."

Jon's chest constricts, that flicker of trepidation flaring brighter, harsher. His gut curls at the sensation. "And how is that?" he manages through grit teeth, eyes never leaving Baelish.

Littlefinger is quiet a moment, lips pursed in contemplation, an oily smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Much the same way I look at her," he says lowly, a glint in his eye.

Jon's chest heaves at the words, his growl choked back when he takes a step forward, hands already fists at his side.

Baelish's smirk curls into another sickly sweet smile. "With devotion," he finishes reverently, before Jon can say anything in response.

Jon sucks a ragged breath though his clenched teeth, turning slightly to face down the hall, a hand wiped over his mouth in his ire. "My position is unmoved," he growls out, not even daring to meet Baelish's eyes, for fear of what he will do to the man. "There will be no more discussion of my sister's marriage. And considering recent events, I think it best you direct your devotion to your ailing master, instead, Lord Baelish." He sends a glare toward the man, eyes narrowed and unflinching. "You are the Lord Protector of the Vale, not my sister's keeper. Perhaps you should start acting like it."

"I daresay I'm not the only man playing your sister's keeper."

Jon stills, glare never leaving Baelish. "What?" he gets out tightly.

Littlefinger only smiles. "But then, I suppose you are simply just an... affectionate brother. Rather affectionate, wouldn't you say, Your Grace?"

Jon's nostrils flare at the insinuation, his skin thrumming with alarm. "I could have your head for such implications," he says on a deadly exhale.

Baelish gives him a baffled look. "I have implied nothing, Your Grace."

"You've really no care for your life, then, do you?"

"And you've no care for your allies, is that it? Because if the Lord Arryn should hear of such threats on my life..." He shakes his head with feigned concern, brows furrowed. "If your own lords heard such threats, just weeks before your Vale allies were needed most in this little war of yours?"

"This 'little war' is a concern for the entire realm, and I'll not have us splintered by your poisonous words," Jon seethes.

"Good," Baelish says. "Then we are agreed."

Jon is practically shaking with his fury. "Agreed?" he asks mockingly.

"That the Lady Sansa should wed Lord Hardyng, keep our ties strong, keep us from... splintering," he finishes meaningfully, with a cock of his head and an impish smile. He winds his hands together before him.

Jon lets out a bark of laughter, clipped and menacing. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the minute flinch of Baelish's hands at the sound, the subtle twitch along his jaw.

Good, he thinks. The man still fears him at least, even when he's grown adept at not showing it.

Jon thinks instantly of Sansa's caution.

"You're rather determined, aren't you?" he asks derisively, bottling his rage as best he can.

Baelish pulls his shoulders back. "I think my determination is one of my more positive traits, actually."

"Personally, I don't think you have any positive traits, Lord Baelish," Jon says evenly, no longer bothering to hide the look of distaste on his face.

Baelish clears his throat. "Be that as it may – "

"Be that as it may, I tire of your grating voice," Jon clips, taking one last step closer to the man, a deadly calm overtaking him, a dangerous stillness. "And I tire of your presence beside my sister. Rest assured, when I return from our venture North, yours will be the next head my blade sets to rolling."

Baelish swallows thickly, his smile wilting into a sneer, not even pretending any more. "Then I shall pray for your safe return, Your Grace," he quips.

Jon raises a hand, reveling in the wince Baelish tries to hold back in response, just before he lands his calloused palm along his shoulder, squeezing it tightly. He leans in. "Good man," Jon whispers, dark eyes shifting between his menacingly, a slow smirk forming along his lips, before he releases him, turning and stalking back down the hall toward his chambers.

He keeps his fury smothered in his chest, thrumming just beneath his skin. He never looks back.

When he finally makes it to the hallway holding his chambers, after long moments of trying to ease his breathing back to normal, to wash Baelish from his mind (for just one night, for just one night more he reminds himself), he finds Sansa standing before his door with her hand raised as though to knock.

She turns when she notices his presence, offering a smile.

Jon sighs heavily, resuming his infuriated stalk to his door and ignoring her look of concern when he grabs her by the elbow, though gently, and leads her into his rooms.

"Jon?" she asks, stumbling past him when he latches the door closed behind them.

He takes both hands to his face and scrubs, an exhausted sigh leaving him. "Baelish," he growls out, as though it is answer enough.

Sansa gives a soft 'oh' of understanding, before reaching for his wrists and dragging his hands from his face. She peers up at him. "What has he said?"

"Well," Jon begins, a tick at his jaw, "For one thing he threatened to tell the lords of an 'indecent' relationship between you and I."

Sansa frowns, her brows bunching together. "He said that?" she asks sharply.

"Not in so many words. But I can understand his meaning. He means to discredit me with the lords if I move against him."

"Against him on what?"

Jon's eyes flick between hers. "On your marriage to Harrold Hardyng,"

Sansa is quiet, her touch rescinding from around his wrists. He misses the warmth instantly.

"Sansa..."

She turns and paces across the floor of his solar, hands winding together, one thumb pressed into the opposite palm. "It is, of course, still on the table," she says carefully, glancing at him over her shoulder.

Jon only frowns at her.

She sighs, turning fully to face him once more. "Jon, you know it must be. At least... until we have dealt with Baelish, but even then, once you return from the war, there will still be talk of my marriage. It's not something we can ignore."

"I know!" he snaps, regretting the heat in his words instantly. He softens then, shoulders slumping. "I know," he says again, this time only in quiet resignation.

But he will not think of that now. He cannot. Not if he wants to last the night.

Day by day he must bear this burden. Day by day he must fight this need. He knows he hasn't the strength to think of the 'after'.

Releasing another sigh, Jon walks to his desk, dropping into the chair unceremoniously. "I just can't... I can't bear to hear him talking about you like you're a... a... "

"A pawn?" she supplies sadly.

He meets her eyes. "Aye."

She offers him a reassuring smile, small as it is. "That's exactly what I am. At least to him. And that's exactly how I need to remain in his eyes, for this to work."

Jon nods mutely, resting his elbows along his knees.

Sansa makes her way toward him, slipping into the space between him and the desk, leaning back along the edge of it. "Did he speak of anything else?"

"He believes the story we spun of your cousin's ailing health, though he suspects an ulterior motive to Royce's arrival."

"Of course he does."

"No mention of Jeyne though. We've hidden her well enough."

Sansa releases a breath of relief, a hand going to her chest. "Good. We need to keep her safe until morning."

"I have only my most trusted guards at her door," he tells her, reaching for her hand. He rubs a tender thumb along her knuckles in reassurance.

Sansa nods, looking down at where he holds her hand. She takes a steadying breath in.

Watching her, Jon feels his chest tighten, his eyes riveted to her face. He releases her hand swiftly, licking his lips as he looks away.

Sansa stays silent a moment longer, and then she's smiling again, looking up at him once more as she leans her hands back along the desk's edge. "Then we're almost there."

"Aye," he says on a disbelieving exhale.

"And once Baelish is disposed of, you can make Robb's will public, solidify your claim."

Jon snaps his gaze back to hers. "Sansa," he begins in resistance.

"Most of the lords supporting my claim are traditionalists," she reminds him. "The Stark name means everything to them, and with Robb's will, they'll finally see you as I do – as a Stark."

His mouth goes dry, his words sinking back into his gut as he stares at her.

"It's the way it's meant to be, Jon," she says softly, already knowing his mind, it seems. "It's okay."

"But it should be yours," he chokes out, straightening in his seat, remembering those late-night conversations when she'd finally admitted to her hurt and resentment of Robb when she was held hostage in King's Landing, when their brother hadn't thought her valuable enough for a trade. He remembers those nights, when she rubbed the tears from her cheeks and still – still, after everything– professed her love for Robb, sobbed over how much she missed him. He remembers being disappointed in his brother for the first time he could ever recall. Jon clears his throat, watching her with saddened eyes. "Robb only legitimized me to keep the North from falling into Lannister hands, or any hands that would use you. You've said it yourself." It doesn't make it hurt any less. And so, he shifts closer to her along the edge of his seat, stares imploringly up at her. "But I promise, Sansa, they cannot use you anymore. I promise. I would notlet them," he vows heatedly.

She sucks a shallow breath between her teeth at his fervency, a trembling smile touching her lips. "I know that," she says solemnly, one of her hands reaching for his jaw. She brushes a delicate thumb over his bearded cheek with a tenderness that nearly rends him. Her smile is something singular and sacred. It makes his heart clench uncontrollably. "But I also know you'll keep our people safe. They'll follow you anywhere, Jon." She takes a tremulous breath in, her hand hesitating at his cheek a moment, before she withdraws it. "As will I," she whispers breathlessly.

Jon opens his mouth, a ragged exhale leaving him. "Sansa," he sighs.

Her smile returns, that wisp-like, wonderous thing.

He stares at her, something filling him he hasn't a name for.

And then she clears her throat, rocks along the edge of the desk before him. "Bran will support it. I know he will. And you'll have Arya and I. We're a pack, now, remember? We protect each other." She levels him with a determined look, her ice-blue eyes glinting. "I promised, didn't I? That I would protect you."

He remembers, suddenly, that first night they retook Winterfell. He's there again, instantly, soot filling his lungs, grime beneath his fingernails, muscles raw and aching from the fight and then there –

There, beneath a once-white sheet –

Rickon's arrow-riddled body, taking up all the air in the room, all their words, all their fractured hopes.

They've won the battle, but the victory is a hollow one, when their brother lies dead before them.

In his memory, Sansa glances across the room to the body beneath the sheet. She swallows thickly, eyes glazed over. "Do you remember his face?" she asks, voice hollow and soft.

Jon looks up at her, elbows along his knees, hands clasped tightly between them. He doesn't answer. Doesn't even rightly know what she's looking for when she asks it.

Sansa tears her eyes away from their dead brother, meeting Jon's gaze. "I don't remember," she says in lieu of his non-answer.

The words linger in the air between them – an honest and unclean truth.

She turns away.

And the rub of it?

He doesn't remember either.

There's a vague image where the memory of Rickon should be. Auburn hair. Ruddy cheeks. Toothy smile. But it's just pieces. Nothing whole. Just parts of the boy they used to know. His face is still unclear, still out of reach.

Perhaps that's just what happens after so many years. Perhaps Rickon simply hadn't lived amongst them long enough to cement his permanence in their memory. Perhaps that's just what happens when you're apart from someone longer than they've even been alive.

Jon grits his teeth at the wrongness of it.

He wants to remember his little brother. He wants to remember.

Sansa sighs across from him, and the sound steals his attention so acutely, his breath nearly stills in his chest.

"I suppose that makes me a terrible sister," she says, voice cracking. She slumps back in her chair, both hands pressed to her face, a hitch in her breath signaling the first sob.

But it never comes.

It's a dreadful silence instead. One where Jon imagines he should go to her, stride over and kneel beside her, draw her hands from her face, tug her into his chest, hold her like the sister he'd missed, even when it hurt too much to think it. He imagines he should tell her she's not alone. That he doesn't remember either. That he misses Rickon even still.

That it's okay if she does as well.

He imagines he should brush her tears away with gentle thumbs, cradle her face in his calloused hands, stifle her sobs with soothing words. He imagines he should be her comfort, as she has so lately been his.

But he also imagines that he is not the brother that can give her this.

So instead, he simply watches her. He keeps his distance. He clears his throat. "I don't think you're a terrible sister," he finally manages, voice rough with disuse.

She peeks through her fingers at him, breath held tight in her chest.

He clears his throat again, licks his lips. "I think we just... missed our chance with him."

Sansa draws her hands down her face, watching him with red-rimmed eyes, the sheen of wetness over them evidence of her precarious control.

Jon sighs, hands releasing their white-knuckled grip as he leans back in his chair. He shoves the sudden guilt down, down, down. Tries to smother it with reason.

But there is no reason enough to excuse... this.

Their baby brother, dead beneath a sheet – the pristine white of it stained with blooms of red. The figure beneath it is far taller than Jon remembers, like that of a young man, and not the boy he knew instead. It only hurts worse at such a thought.

(It shouldn't have been Rickon.)

Sansa surges from her seat suddenly, sucking a tight breath between her teeth. She exhales roughly, hands wringing themselves as she starts to pace across the room, past Jon's seated figure, the body on the table at her back. She stills when she makes it to the far wall, turns back stiffly, eyes fixed to him. "I don't..." She takes a deep breath, one thumb pressing into the opposite palm. "I don't want us to be the last of the Starks," she says quietly, tears lining the edge of her words.

Jon blinks at her admission, at the seamless and instinctual way she says 'us'. He thinks back to just earlier that morning, atop the ramparts.

"I'm not a Stark."

"You are to me."

Sansa purses her mouth into a frown, taking a single, confident step toward him, her shoulders pulling back. "Like you said, we have to trust each other. We have to... we have to protect each other. And Bran and Arya, wherever they are. We'll find them. We'll protect them. And..." She bites her lip, taking another step toward him, her hands held tight before her, her back immeasurably straight, like the lady he's always known her to be, even all those years ago.

(Even just months ago, when she came through the gates of Castle Black snow-beaten and weary from the journey, a trail of Vale soldiers at her back.)

"And I'll protect you," she promises firmly, eyes never leaving his. "I swear on the memory of our father, I will protect you, Jon."

(It's strangely the safest he's felt in a long, long while.)

Looking at her now, many moons since that harrowing day, as she sits along the edge of his desk, a confident smile gracing her lips, her eyes only for him (for him, after everything) – he recognizes just how determinedly she has kept that promise.

It unlatches something within him – a door opened, perhaps never to be closed again.

His eyes wet instantly, a sound of longing caught in his throat, and he knows now – irrevocably and without warning – that he will never love anything so dearly as he loves her.

He reaches for her.

A short yelp of surprise breaks from her when he wraps a hand around her wrist and tugs her down to his lap, his other hand bracing along her thigh to hold her there, and she falls against his chest, knees hung over one side of his legs, tangled in her skirts, her free hand grasping for his shoulder to steady herself. She blinks wide eyes at him, stilling when her nose brushes his, his hot breath splashing across her cheeks.

Jon's chest rises and falls steadily against hers in the silence that blankets them, his mouth parted as his eyes rove her face, his grip over her wrist trembling.

"Jon," she manages breathlessly, hardly daring to say more.

His brows crease, his jaw tightening. It seems so suddenly and incredibly... easy, now – to give up the fight.

Everything comes spinning down into a clear, pinprick focus.

Just her.

Just Sansa.

The one who wants him unabashedly and unreservedly. For him. Just as he is. The one who protects him, even against terrors she has been fighting herself for years. The one who so easily names him a Stark, even when he wears her crown. The one who never stops fighting for him, sacrificing for him, embracing him.

The one, the one, the one.

The only.

Jon's chest aches, his heart thudding against his ribs.

He knows they don't have time – or the gods – on their side. They have only each other.

(But that is enough for him. He knows that now.

And he wants to believe that such a love could never be wrong.)

Jon releases her wrist, reaching for her cheek instead, a shaky thumb arching over her cheekbone as his eyes flick between hers. "Sansa," he exhales against her lips, like a surrender.

She swallows thickly, watching him, her chest heaving beneath anxious breaths.

His hand glides up her jaw, fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of her neck. She sucks a shallow breath between her lips in response, and he glances to her mouth, the hand still supporting her along her thigh gripping tighter, shifting her slightly atop his lap. She arches subtly into him, almost unconsciously.

Jon meets her gaze once more.

This time, it will not be grief. It will not be loneliness or confusion or fear.

This time, when he kisses her, it will be on purpose. It will be with meaning.

He leans in.

"What are you doing?" she asks tremulously, barely breathing, the warmth of her words felt at his lips when he pauses just a whisper away.

She's strung taut like a pulled bow, teetering on the edge, ready to crash against him with only the right words.

They come to him unbidden, a rueful smile in their wake.

"I'm redrawing the lines," he tells her, and she has only a moment to blink at him in surprise, before he takes her mouth with his own – firm and decided.

Sansa sags against him, her tear-laced sigh swallowed by his heady kiss, her arms slipping around his neck as he pulls her into him, slants his mouth over hers, his tongue pressing hot and fervent against her own. Her breath floods his mouth and his urgency only grows, his mouth moving desperately over hers, swallowing her delicious whimpers.

Jon presses harder, a groan of impatience escaping him when he drags her over his lap, needing her closer, needing her, needing her – the heavy tangle of guilt and self-control and exhaustion coming undone in his gut. It washes through him violently, like a release. Like a dam breaking beneath the surge – the floodgates blown wide.

He doesn't know how he ever stopped it before. Doesn't think he ever could again. Not when she's this warm, and this close, and this indisputably his.

Not when he knows how she tastes now. How she tastes when he isn't fighting it, when he isn't fighting her.

And yet –

Jon rears back from her, panting, chest heaving, his hands fumbling for her waist, and then he's hoisting her up with a grunt as he stands, dropping her back atop the desk and stumbling into her. Sansa manages to keep one arm around his neck through the jostle, her other hand hitching up her skirts a bit at one knee to accommodate him when he settles between her legs.

And then he stops, one hand braced against the desk beside her, the other settled at her waist, just at the curve of her hip, and he hangs his head at her shoulder, a delirious pant of disbelief escaping him, every muscle in his body coiled tight, and he squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head, begs her –

"Tell me again."

Sansa stills with her hand at the nape of his neck, fingers sunk into his curls. Her swollen mouth parts silently in confusion.

Jon opens his eyes, lets the dam break further. "Tell me I'm a good man," he asks of her, voice finally cracking.

Sansa doesn't even hesitate. She pulls her hand from his hair, cradles his face with both palms now, raising his head so that he meets her gaze – that ice-cut, ardent blue. "You are a good man, Jon," she tells him, eyes wet, yet unblinking. "The best I know," she gets out breathlessly, a shaky smile branching across her lips.

Jon's eyes slip shut once more, his chin trembling with his control, his throat tight. "I'm in love with you, Sansa," he tells her. He gasps a needed breath at the end of the words, his tongue heavy with them. He shakes his head, his voice breaking as it leaves him. "I'm in love with you."

"Jon," she urges, her thumbs brushing his cheeks.

He opens his eyes, meets her unhindered gaze. "But you deserve – "

"I deserve a love returned in kind," she says firmly, her hands still gentle over his cheeks. "So," she begins, eyes softening on his, "Will you love me? As I love you?"

Jon takes a sharp breath in, and then he grabs for her face, kisses her with a fierceness he has never known, his whole body aching for her, for her nearness, for her words. He presses closer, his chest braced against hers, so needful and so forceful and so finally unrestrained that he pushes her back along the tabletop, his weight settled atop her, panting against her mouth as his hips pin her to the desk, that heat between her legs, that heat, cradling his growing hardness, one of her heels steadying herself along the back of his thigh as she kisses him back with abandon, her hands dug into his curls. He breaks from her with a heated breath, a sob hooked along the end of it, one hand trailing along her jaw, the other gripping frantically at the skirts at her thigh, fingers flexing with barely held control. "I will love you more," he gasps out, a fervent promise, this madness like a fever running through him. He presses his forehead to hers. Breathes her in. Breathes her out. Feels her pulse beating steadily beneath his touch.

She smiles.

(He swears he can feel the warmth of it against his mouth.)

"Then I was right," she says. "I can never regret loving you." She kisses him then. Kisses him, and kisses him, and holds him. Her touch is a revelation. Like spring sprouting beneath every graze of her fingertips, like a garden blooming beneath his skin.

The frost of winter slips away.

And she is the one, the one, the one.

His only dream of spring.

* * *

She's imagined this for many moons now. She barely hears Davos' updates on the war preparations, or the interjections of the lords. She barely acknowledges the slow waning of morning light through the windows lining their Great Hall.

"If that is all, then, Your Grace," Baelish says in request for a dismissal of their gathering.

It isn't until these words are spoken that Sansa comes back to herself. She stands gracefully, swallowing her trepidations behind a cool mask. "That will not be all, in fact, Lord Baelish."

The lords grant her an audience of silence, waiting for her to continue. Littlefinger raises an attentive brow her way.

Sansa takes a deep breath, stems the urge to reach for Jon's hand beside her. She feels his presence though, knows he's there, watching her, backing her. She knows he's there.

It is all the strength she needs.

"As some of you may know," she begins, voice ringing out in the silent hall, "Lord Royce of the Vale has recently made the journey to Winterfell. He brings urgent news, and I've asked him to take the floor in addressing the court this morning." She nods at Yohn Royce where he sits along the edge of the gathered lords with his retinue, ignoring Baelish's curious eyes.

Clearing his throat, Royce stands with a raised chin, a disdainful look sent Baelish's way. Littlefinger glances toward Sansa, his jaw tight, eyes narrowed a moment, before looking back to Royce.

"Many thanks, my lady," Royce begins with a sonorous voice. "You are as gracious as ever, and my lord sends his regards, as well as his gratitude for granting us the stage to unmask this serpent."

Mumbles of confusion blanket the hall. Sansa keeps her gaze determinedly away from Baelish.

"In short, there has been an attempt on my lord's life," Royce continues to the crowd.

Cries of outrage sprout from the gathered lords, demands for further explanation.

Baelish steps further into the open space between the head table and the seated lords. "Lord Royce, you did not mention this when we spoke upon your arrival yesterday," he says urgently. "Is this true?" His eyes are searching upon the other man's, his posture still carefully unperturbed.

Royce gives him a look of derision. "Yes, Lord Baelish." He puffs his chest out, hands resting along his belt. "Though you knew that already, didn't you?" Murmurs sound through the hall at the accusation.

Baelish blinks at him, the minute quirk of his lip revealing his confusion, and his dread. His eyes flick toward Sansa briefly.

She does not reward him with a look in return.

Baelish clears his throat and steps further onto the floor, his attention returning to Royce. "I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning," he says tightly.

"You understand my meaning precisely, Lord Baelish, as you were the one to order his poisoning."

Shouts echo through the hall at Royce's words, Lord Cerwyn standing from his seat with a fist pounded into the tabletop. "This is an outrage."

Baelish narrows his eyes on Royce, a sharp breath leaving him. "That is a heavy allegation, my lord. Be careful who you accuse of what," he warns.

"Then I suppose it's good I carry the proof of it," Royce answers back with a lifted chin, his face reddening in his indignation.

Baelish swings wide eyes to Sansa then, and she is ready for it, even as the chaos in the hall grows. She keeps his gaze with a steady look of calm, knowing he cannot condemn her without also condemning himself. She watches the way he bites his tongue in frustration, the way his throat flexes with his control, his breathing growing unsteady. She offers him the slightest lift of her lips in acknowledgement, watching his eyes grow wider, before she turns to Royce. "You may continue, my lord."

Baelish's head snaps toward Royce, watching as he gives Sansa a grateful nod. Littlefinger licks his lips, his hands flexing as he steps closer to Royce, head bowed somewhat. "My lord, if we could talk elsewhere, perhaps I ca – "

"Perhaps you can explain your treachery, is that it?" He keeps his voice booming for all to hear.

Baelish's mouth snaps shut, his breaths coming heavy now. "This is... this is...preposterous."

"It's treason, is what it is!" Royce bellows.

Baelish's face screws up in poorly veiled anger. "Mind your tongue, Lord Royce," he bites out, eyes flickering to the crowd behind them.

"Lord Royce, you spoke of proof," Sansa interjects.

"My lady," Baelish pleads, his head whipping to her. When she only gives him a raised brow, Baelish swings his frantic eyes toward Jon. "Your Grace, please, this slander is unworthy of your court."

"I believe my sister has the floor, Lord Baelish," Jon says cooly from his seat beside Sansa, leaning back in his chair. "So, you'll submit to any of her questions, should you truly respect the 'worth' of this court," he quips nonchalantly.

Baelish's mouth dips open, only for him to clamp it shut. His wide eyes swing back to Royce.

The Vale lord gives a great huff at Littlefinger before standing aside to usher Jeyne Poole to stand beside him. She rises from her seat unsurely, the hood pulled back from her straw-like hair, fingers trembling as she settles the material around her neck. She never meets Baelish's eyes.

He's too stunned to react, regardless, but Sansa won't let herself feel any satisfaction at the reaction just yet. There's still work to be done, after all.

Over murmurs at the young girl's appearance, Sansa's voice rings out steadily over the hall. "Identify yourself for the lords, my dear."

She swallows tightly, nodding at Sansa. "My name is Jeyne Bolton, formerly Jeyne Poole. My father was Vayon Poole, Lord Eddard Stark's steward."

More murmurs spread through the crowd.

"And how did you come to be Jeyne Bolton?" Sansa asks gently, her throat flexing with her control. She keeps the tears at bay.

Jeyne raises a shaking arm, a slender, accusatory finger pointed at Baelish, eyes flashing in pain and hatred. "That man sold me to the Boltons after forcing me to impersonate Lady Arya."

"I did no such thing," he denies vehemently, stalking toward her.

"You will restrain yourself, Lord Baelish," Sansa snaps, and he halts instantly, glancing up at her. She motions toward the guards along the wall. "Or I will have you restrained."

In unison, the guards all brace their pikes to their chests, a clang of armor resounding in the hall.

Baelish takes a cautious step back in place, swallowing thickly as he watches.

A guffaw sounds behind them from the crowd, another's holler, another's rebuke.

Jon raises a hand to silence the crowd. He glances at Jeyne from his seat. "Is there anyone to corroborate your story, Miss Poole?"

Sansa smiles to herself at how Jon addresses her friend, remembering their agreed decision to annul her disgusting marriage to the Bolton bastard.

"Aye," she says, her hand settling back to her side. She nods toward Barbery Dustin, seated amongst the other lords. "Lady Dustin was present for the course of my imprisonment, before I fled Winterfell and shed the false name."

Dustin shifts in her seat uncomfortably, but she gives a silent nod of acknowledgement, her mouth a thin frown.

"Then Lord Baelish is the one to blame for your treatment after Ned Stark's execution?" Sansa asks her, bringing the attention of the lords back to the accusations at hand.

Baelish scoffs. "That is hardly – "

"Yes, my lady, he is," Jeyne answers swiftly, hands wringing themselves, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. "He brought me into dishonor, attempted to smear Lady Arya's name, and aided the Boltons when he sold me into cruelty beyond imagination."

Baelish wipes a hand along his sweat-slicked brow. "These are baseless lies, my lady," he pleads, looking at Sansa. "And regardless, I don't see how any of this slander has to do with Lord Arryn's poisoning." He gives a meaningful tilt of the head, a warning flashing through his eyes.

But Sansa is well past caring for any of his warnings.

"Because when I finally escaped to the Vale, when I finally thought I was safe," Jeyne continues, voice shaking but urgent over the mutterings of the seated crowd, "I found I'd only fallen back into his clutches. He threatened me, hurt me. He knew Lady Sansa had asked me to care for her cousin, Lord Arryn, so Littlefinger knew I had access to him, and that's when he gave me the poison. Threatened to kill me if I didn't follow his instructions, or worse – throw me back into the hell he'd first dragged me into." She was trembling at this point, her whole body shuddering in her fear, her eyes riveted to Baelish's, her lip held tight between her teeth.

Sansa wants to pull Jeyne into her embrace once more, to hold her dear friend like she used to, to wrap her arms around her and comfort her, the way Jeyne used to do for her.

Her hatred of Baelish only boils hotter beneath her skin.

"I never gave you any such orders, girl," Baelish snaps, "Nor any poison."

"Then explain why Maester Colemon says that's exactly what's been happening to our Lord?" Royce demands.

"What are you talking about?" Baelish snaps, flexing a hand nervously at his side.

Royce raises a sealed scroll in his hand for the gathered lords to see. "I have here the sworn statement of Maester Colemon attesting to Lord Arryn's poisoning, after inspecting his blood and his symptoms. Explain this, Lord Baelish. If you didn't give the poison to the girl, as she freely admits, then how do you explain Lord Arryn's condition?"

Littlefinger bites his tongue, a dangerous glare sent Sansa's way. He heaves a single, frustrated breath, his trembling hands smoothing over his tunic in a measure of control. "I cannot," he bites out, eyes slipping back toward Lord Royce.

Sansa lets the first breath of relief rattle from her lungs, cautious in its release.

"But this reeks of falsity, my lords," Baelish beseeches the crowd, turning to take them in. "I have been nothing but loyal to the Vale. And this girl admits to the poisoning herself," he says, a hand motioning back to Jeyne. "This is simply an attempt to escape punishment, by throwing the blame elsewhere. She has falsely named me as the arbiter of her fate since the honorable Ned Stark's execution, and so she must continue the farce! Where better to place the blame, than at my feet?"

"I admit to my part in the plan," Jeyne interrupts, grabbing Baelish's attention back, "But only because I could not do it any longer. I could not harm Lady Sansa's kin, not after everything her family has done for me, not after everything they have been through." She swings imploring eyes on Sansa. "Please, forgive me, my lady. I was at threat of death. But I just... I couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't let that man hurt you or your family again."

"You lying whore," Baelish seethes between his clenched teeth, a step taken toward Jeyne, but Sansa's voice stops him once more.

"Lord Baelish, you will stay where you are," she snaps. "I will not repeat myself."

Baelish twists his neck in his ire, his jaw working. "My lady," he grinds out in acknowledgement.

Sansa turns her attention back to Jeyne. "We thank you for your service, Jeyne. I know it wasn't an easy decision, and I know what you must have risked to confess to Lord Royce. I promise, you have my protection, as the Lady of Winterfell. Is this agreeable to you, Lord Royce?"

Royce nods, stuffing the sealed scroll of Colemon's testimony back into his tunic. "It is, my lady, now that the true culprit is revealed."

"And have you any other instructions from my cousin?"

"I do," he answers with a growing smirk. He tugs his tunic into place with an air of satisfaction, turning to face the fuming Baelish once more. "By the decree of Lord Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East, Petyr Baelish, you are hereby stripped of your status as Lord Protector of the Vale and named a traitor to House Arryn. Any lands and titles in your possession are revoked, and now property of House Arryn."

Baelish's face goes red with his rage. "You can't do that, you fat, incompetent oaf!"

Royce huffs his indignation at Baelish, a hand waved to his guards, and instantly, they rush toward the floor, two of them grabbing for Littlefinger's arms as he splutters his denials, tearing his arms away. "You can't – you can't do that, you – unhand me! Unhand me, you fools!" He struggles in their grasp, his arms yanked behind his back as he's forced to his knees. "My lady," he pleads, eyes wide as they fly toward Sansa. "My lady, please, you know I did not do this. You know. Please, my lady. Sansa! Sansa, please!"

She raises a hand to halt the commotion.

Everyone stills, the two guards on either side of Baelish still holding his arms behind him as they glance toward Lord Royce. He nods silently at them, lips pursed. They remain in their place as Sansa turns to address Royce.

"Before you haul him off to face these charges, Lord Royce," Sansa begins calmly, a sideways glance sent Baelish's way, "I have some things to say."

Baelish's shoulders slump in his relief, a heavy sigh escaping him as he shuts his eyes, the cautious hint of a grin etching at the corners of his lips.

It does not last long.

Sansa turns back to face Baelish. "I have some charges of my own," she finishes, watching in barely concealed delight as Baelish's eyes snap back open, his body going rigid.

"My... my lady?" he asks hoarsely, mouth parting anxiously.

"Of course, my lady," Royce answers, taking his seat, a hand along Jeyne's shoulders to usher her back to her chair as well. He doesn't bother to hide his satisfied smirk now.

Sansa settles the tips of her fingers along the table's edge before her, like an anchor. She taps one fine-boned finger along the wood tremulously.

Beside her, Jon shifts in his seat, a soft rustle of furs signaling the motion, and then he's trailing two fingers down the length of her cloak, slow and steady, obscured to the crowd before them by the table and the closeness of their chairs. It's a measure of comfort, of constancy.

It quiets the noise in her head, the pulse pounding in her ears. It sets her spine to rigidity, eases the heaviness of her tongue.

Just the lightest of his touches, even through their layers –

(She was undone by his touches just the night before, and yet now – now she is the steady, grey stone of Winterfell. Now, she is the surety of a coming winter. Now, she is the unbending North.)

Just a touch – but it's all she needs.

Sansa lets the hint of a smile tug at her lips.

"Sansa, what is this?" Baelish asks, all sense of false propriety leaving him.

She levels him with an even stare. "I have a witness claiming you tried to assassinate my siblings, and Ned Stark's trueborn heirs, Bran and Arya Stark."

Glover upends his chair with the vehemence with which he stands, face blotted red as he bellows his rage. "Treason!" He reaches for his sword instantly.

"What is this?" Manderly shouts from the next table, standing as well, roars of fury and indignation sounding in the hall around them.

"Quiet, all of you quiet!" Jon barks, standing as well, motioning for Glover to sheath his sword. "Lady Sansa is speaking,"

The crowd grumbles their acquiescence, Glover and Manderly slowly lowering back to their seats with murderous glares sent Baelish's way.

Littlefinger is sweating, for his part. It stirs a dark satisfaction in Sansa, watching him. He's still held on his knees, his eyes shifting frantically between her and Jon, Royce and his men against the wall, and the Northern lords howling for justice at his back.

"I don't – I don't understand," he mutters, looking up at her.

"I believe you know Gareth Stone," she continues, motioning for a guard to open the door at the far end of the hall where Brienne enters, dragging her sister behind her while she wears the false face of a half-beaten Gareth Stone. The lords along the benches and tables all stand to get a better look, talking amongst themselves, and Baelish shifts along his knees to watch their entrance, eyes narrowing in confusion, mouthing like a fish on a hook.

"He's the one you assigned to lead the party of assassins sent after my siblings," Sansa accuses smoothly.

Baelish shakes his head vehemently, his breaths coming heavy now. "I've no idea what this man has told you but he hasn't been in my employ in months. Whatever he's done was never at my behest," he defends, chest heaving.

"Lies!" the false Gareth cries as he and Brienne make their way to the open center of the hall before the head table, stopping beside Baelish. He wipes a hand over his bloody nose, tossing his head in Baelish's direction. "The lord here told me to make sure I was the one to gut the little runts personally. 'Make it bloody', he said. 'Make it hurt'."

"I never told you that!" Baelish denies on a shout, trying to rise, only to be shoved back to his knees, and he grunts beneath the force of it, hands going out to the floor to brace himself as the guards finally relinquish their hold of him. "This is ridiculous," he spits, looking up to Sansa from his hands and knees. "You know I never... you know I only ever meant to help you." He licks his lips nervously, fingers curling along the stone floor. "I sent men out to find Bran, not to kill him. You know that, my lady."

"I know you were concerned you would find him alive," she snaps, eyes heated suddenly, a hate so violent and gut-wrenching she cannot keep it contained any longer. "That's what I know," she seethes dangerously.

Baelish blinks at her, understanding slowly inking into formation behind his eyes.

She drags her hands from their precarious perch along the tabletop, clenching them into fists at her sides, her shoulders pulling back as she straightens. "We have his confession," she continues after a breath, a practiced iciness to her voice.

"He's... he's lying," Baelish begs, his head snapping toward Gareth suddenly, a venomous look overtaking his features. "Tell them, you idiot. Or I swear I'll – "

"And if the orders are in your own hand?" Brienne interrupts suddenly, the hand not holding Arya by the arm rising to show a crumpled missive between her fingers.

Baelish's face goes white, his shoulders slumping as he eyes the thin slip of parchment.

"We've read its contents already, Lord Baelish," Jon says from his seat with poorly veiled smugness. "It confirms your underling's confession."

Baelish balks at them, speechless, while the lords continue their shouts for justice behind him. Jon motions half-heartedly for them to quiet.

"I have your treason by your own hand, Lord Baelish," Sansa says tightly, the words suddenly catching in her throat. It all comes frothing to the surface. "And now every man here knows what you are." Her throat flexes with her control, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, salt-tinged and fierce. "You cannot whisper your filth to me anymore."

(Like the first breath after drowning. This is how it comes to her.)

Baelish slumps back on his haunches, his hands hanging limp in his lap as he stares up at her, mouth opening, and then closing. The confidence seeps from him instantly, his shoulders slumping. A quiet, slack-jawed disbelief settles over him.

"Let me see that," Manderly demands, moving toward Brienne. She hands him the missive, and the hall is quiet as he reads it, face reddening as the seconds pass. Glover leaves his seat as well, stalking over to them, grabbing the missive for his own eyes when Manderly is done with it. The other lords crane their necks around to witness the confirmation. A tense quiet overtakes the room as the missive is then passed round and round, Cerwyn reaching for it next, before Dustin takes her turn.

Sansa stays staring at Baelish from her place at the head table while the murmurs of the court grow, murderous curses stewing in the air.

Baelish nearly shrinks in on himself, his breaths coming shallow and quick now, eyes blinking furiously.

"Take him away," Sansa says to Brienne, motioning toward Stone. "You know my will," she says simply.

Arya makes a show of terrified pleading in Gareth Stone's skin. "Please, no! M'lady! M'lady, please! I've told you all I know. Please! Mercy, I beg you, mercy!" The shallow cries grow faint as Brienne drags her back through the door they first entered, a growing eddy of voices gathering around them.

Baelish watches their exit with dread, eyes never leaving their retreating forms. He stays still as glass, fingers curling into his palms with a fierce tremble. "Where is your sister?" he asks Sansa on a hoarse whisper. He clears his throat, shifts his gaze back to hers. "I'd like to hear the account from her." There's a note of defeat to his voice.

But Sansa will not let it make her careless.

"Don't worry, Lord Baelish. She's tending to a very special guest of ours, though I'm afraid you won't get the chance to meet him," she promises.

Littlefinger narrows his eyes in confusion.

Jon smirks proudly beside her.

"Lord Royce," Sansa calls out, turning once more to face the stout man.

He stands at the address. "Yes, my lady?"

"Lord Arryn gave you full authority on the matter of Petyr Baelish, did he not?"

"He did."

"Then, considering the attempts on the lives of both our liege lords, and considering my familial ties to each of them, have I your trust in the sentencing of this traitor? Will you honor my decrees?"

"I shall," he affirms. "Let it be known that the Vale cedes to the North's decision concerning the fate of Petry Baelish," he booms, turning to address the entire court. He looks back to Sansa, a short, reserved bow sent her way. "We know you will give us satisfaction," he adds, before taking his seat once more.

Sansa raises a brow at Baelish following Royce's words.

He only breathes deeply, his head still held high, though his chin trembles, words held tight behind his teeth.

"Have you anything to say in your defense, Lord Baelish?" Sansa asks primly.

He works his jaw, eyes glancing around the members of the court. He looks back up to her. "Only that it wasn't that fool Jeyne who poisoned young Robert."

She keeps her features schooled into passivity when he continues, knowing his coming words, recognizing his last attempts to lash out, to take her down with him.

"It was you," he spits.

Cerwyn stands swiftly. "You will swallow your slander, lord, or I'll have you swallow your tongue," he threatens on a bellow.

A resounding answer of support echoes throughout the hall, with fists on tabletops, several hands on swords, a few chairs upended when many of the lords stand in their indignation.

Baelish sneers up at Sansa, eyes never leaving hers.

She keeps her steady stance, keeps her face impassive. It is not an unexpected attack, after all.

"You're saying I poisoned my cousin?" she asks incredulously.

"That's exactly what I'm saying." He gives her a hateful look, his lip curled back, even as he swallows thickly, trepidation flooding his body. "You were so weak, so alone. You only needed a little goading. Only a little attention. And then you were mine. You listened to every direction. You trusted my word, never questioned my intentions. You were a doting, scared little girl, and you did everything I asked," he says darkly, a knowing look passing over his features, before he glances furtively toward Jon. The curl of his lip slips into full disgust. "And I see now just how closely you followed my instruction," he bites out.

But even now, he cannot touch this.

What lies between she and Jon.

He can never touch this.

At that moment, Brienne enters the hall once more, striding toward the head table to stand behind Sansa. She gives her lady a nod, and Sansa dips her head in acknowledgement.

Jon takes that moment to stand, the scrape of his chair along the stone silencing the angry lords in the crowd. He sets a hand to the small of Sansa's back. "Is this how you would defend yourself?" he asks Littlefinger incredulously. "By besmirching my sister? The one who's supported you all this time? All while you plotted treason behind her back?"

"I wasn't the one plotting behind people's backs, it seems. Or doing worse," he says meaningfully.

Sansa sucks a shallow breath through her teeth, bracing for it.

Baelish spreads his arms wide, taking in the court from where he kneels. "Shouldn't they be told, my lady?" he asks with a hint of delirium, voice rising. "Shouldn't they know where this sudden self-righteousness of yours comes from, hmm? This swift change of loyalty?" His eyes darken on hers, an unhinged laugh escaping him. "Shouldn't they know that it's because you've fallen into bed with your own brother?"

"That is enough!" Lady Mormont shouts from her seat. Several lords echo her sentiment. An uproar begins in the hall.

Sansa simply watches as the chaos ensues, the cries for Baelish' head, the way Glover steps out fully into the open space before the head table now, brandishing his sword at Baelish, the way Mormont shouts her derision at the accusations, how Cerwyn spits at Baelish's feet, the two Vale guards behind Littlefinger barely holding the fuming lord back from their charge.

She knows he wouldn't be believed. She knows he couldn't expect to have been either. And yet, that coil of unease still curls hot in her gut.

Because it's the truth.

Because she had fallen into bed with Jon. And because she'd fallen into so much deeper.

"Enough of your poison!" Manderly bellows amidst the crowd.

"Yes, enough of this madness," Mormont agrees. "Do not give him a stage to speak any longer!" A chorus of assent sounds around the room.

"Even with all the evidence against you," Jon begins, eyes narrowed on Littlefinger, "Even now, you spin your tales. You spew your treacherous lies."

Baelish laughs, his eyes wet. It's a crazed, yet saccharine sound. The kind of laugh that sees the end coming.

"It doesn't matter," he whispers harshly, licking his lips. "Nothing matters anymore." He hangs his head, hands curling into fists in his lap. Another coarse laugh escapes him. "Not without you, Sansa." It could be the promise of a lover with how ardently he says it.

Instead, it scrapes at the underside of her skin, stirs a sickness in her gut. She blinks at the sudden wetness along her eyes, her breath hitching in her chest.

She never wants to hear her name on his lips again.

(Never again, such repulsiveness.)

"Did you think you could share such vile confidence with me and I wouldn't reveal it?" she says disbelievingly, taking in a long, indignant breath, before exhaling it carefully. "Did you think I would let you plot treason against my family, against my kingdom? Did you think I would sit idly by and let you manipulate this court? Let you threaten my brother's rule, let you divide us? Did you think I would gladly swallow your poison?" The words snap from her on a heated breath. She's near shouting at the end of it, her chest heaving, the tears hot at the corners of her eyes, and it's only Jon's hand pressing firmly at the small of her back that calms her, his palm spreading warmth throughout her even through her cloak.

That anchor.

That steadiness.

Like their embrace that fist snow-lit afternoon, when she came through the gates of Castle Black – his arms around her winter-weakened form, his disbelieving breath hot against her cheek, her fingers curling in the rough leather of his tunic, at the nape of his neck, her feet lifted up, up, up off the ground, braced tight to his chest, and rocking, like a song, like a song she used to know, held there against him with all the force of ages-long yearning, and his choked-off laugh at her ear, her name expelled in his tremulous breath across her neck when he presses his nose to her shoulder and she is lifted and steady and spinning, all at once – all at once whole again.

His hand braced to the back of her head. Her tears warming her cheeks.

She'd found her home again well before she ever found Winterfell.

Now, she means to keep it.

There's a knock at the door nearest the head table, before Arya, now rid of her earlier disguise, opens the door and enters the hall, meeting Sansa's eyes when she turns at the noise.

Sansa swallows back the fervency of her recent outburst, nodding to her sister. "Arya, join us, please."

The raucous crowd dims slightly at Arya's entrance, watching her stalk across the stone floor, halting at the edge of the crowd in a ring around Baelish. She stares at him impassively, her hands held behind her back, shoulders pulled taut. "Brienne informed me of the progress of his trial," she says by way of greeting, her head canted toward Baelish.

A scoff escapes the disgraced lord. "Trial," he mocks, glancing up at her. "You shouldn't even be here," he grits out, eyes flashing.

Arya grins smugly in response. "You got sloppy, Baelish." She piques a brow at him. "Perhaps you should work on that. Though, it doesn't look like you'll be getting that chance now."

Baelish closes his eyes, a heavy breath rattling from him when he braces his head in his hands. "How is this... how is this even..."

"You'll forgive me, my lords," Arya addresses the court, "For not coming forward concerning Bran and I's attack earlier, but I was following King Jon and Lady Sansa's orders.."

"We could not risk her safety by revealing the attempt without evidence," Jon explains.

Grunts of acknowledgement sound about the room.

"And now that we have that evidence," Sansa continues, "I believe a judgement is in order."

The lords answer with shouts of support, a slow but thunderous rhythm of fists along the tables taking form.

Sansa lets the growing hum of bloodlust go uninterrupted for a moment, simply staring down at Baelish, watching as he drops his hands from his head, looking up at her in desperation, his mouth opening and closing like a gut fish.

Like something bloodied.

Gasping.

The thrill of his life in her hands is not something she thinks she may ever forget.

Sansa clears her throat, lifting her chin. She looks to her sister at the end of the head table. "Lady Arya, if you will."

Arya steps forward, striding slowly to the center of the floor, a hush gradually descending the riled crowd as she unsheathes the Valyrian dagger at her belt, holding it ready. Baelish watches the blade with widened eyes, a flicker of recognition lighting his face.

"This is the knife you sent with your man, is it not?" Sansa asks. "The one you ordered him to 'gut the little runts' with, yes? "

A cool, even quiet settles over the now still hall.

Baelish's eyes slip toward Sansa's with a distressed shake of his head. "Please..."

Sansa swallows tightly, unblinking. "Fitting that it be used now to gut you."

"Sansa," he rasps out, one hand reaching toward her.

Reaching.

And empty.

"It was your throat he aimed this blade at, Arya," Sansa clips out, eyes shifting toward her sister between them. "I do believe you should return the favor."

Baelish's hand drops back to his lap, a choked off sob escaping his lips, barely discernible.

Sansa turns to Jon beside her. "Is that fitting, Your Grace?"

Jon's hand slips from the small of her back. "Quite fair, I'd say," he answers darkly, gaze heavy on Littlefinger.

Baelish glances between them frantically, a hand pressed to his sweat-licked brow. "Sansa, wait, please – "

"In fact," Sansa interrupts, a raw lash of anguish catching in her throat, "This is the very blade you set against Bran's life the first time, isn't it? All those years ago, while he was lying comatose in his bed after the fall?" She grinds her teeth, her jaw quaking beneath the force of her control.

Swallow it back. Keep it closed. Don't let it to air.

(He can never hurt them again, she promises.)

It flares hot in her gut, the remembrance like a torch beneath her skin, her body trembling with it.

(Her father's head tumbling down the muddied steps. Her shriek lighting the air, all the dreams of her youth severed at the root, at the neck. Her world caving into muted darkness.)

Sansa sets her jaw, her nostrils flaring.

Swallow it back. Keep it closed. Don't let it to air.

(She hasn't let the light in since.)

"Pity you didn't also have it when you put a blade to our father's throat as you were betraying him," she bites out, voice as thin as ice.

Baelish goes still.

A beat of silence pervades the room.

He blinks at her, mouth parting. "What – "

"I did warn you."

The world tilts on its axis, teetering on a breathless edge, a great upheaval happening within her. Everything is loud and blaring and crashing inside her. But outside, she is –

Still.

Still as his breath.

Breaths that come out of him quickly now. Once. Twice. And then swallowed back. His chin trembles, his eyes watering. He shakes his head. "No," he groans out. He shakes his head harder. "No."

She sees the moment he makes the connection.

"I did warn you not to trust me," Baelish had said as he held his dagger to Ned Stark's throat in the throne room of the Red Keep, those many years ago.

(All the dreams of her youth severed at the root, at the neck.)

Baelish mouths at the air, eyes blinking furiously in his disbelief. "How... how do you know that?" he whispers out.

Sansa thinks of her conversation alone with Bran when he first arrived. "He chose power over truth," he'd told her, revealing the details of Baelish's betrayal concerning their father's arrest – details he had no way of knowing, like the many things he had no way of knowing and yet, does.

She thinks of the time she first showed Baelish her little game of cat's cradle. "I did warn you, my lord," she'd said, the mess of strings undone in his hands.

And then she thinks of Jon. She thinks of the night just before.

(She thinks of a love they deserve.)

They lay stretched out together before the fire, her bare shoulders peeking out from the furs covering their sweat-slicked and sated forms, his fingers running a path up and down her back as he holds her to his chest.

Sansa presses her mouth to the juncture of his shoulder and neck, inhaling deeply. She sighs into his skin when his hand trails down the length of her spine, settling at the small of her back. She tightens her arm slung around his waist, pressing into him.

He moans softly in contentment, his hum at her temple, against her hair.

"Jon," she says.

He pulls back just enough to watch her face, his hand curving over her hip. "Hmm?"

"Are you ready? For tomorrow?" she asks cautiously, her lip caught between her teeth.

Jon sighs, rolling onto his back fully, his hand still fixed to her hip. "Are you?"

Her gaze shifts down to his bared chest, eyes alighting on his scars. She brushes a gentle hand along the one above his heart.

Jon stays watching her quietly.

She lets out a slow breath. "I have to be," she answers finally, glancing up at him.

Jon's gaze shifts between hers, a furrow to his brow. "What are you afraid of?" he asks on a whisper. It isn't a judgement. It isn't said with any derision. It's warm, and caressing.

As if the words were open arms.

I'm here, they say.

Sansa sighs, pressing her face into his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut.

"Hey," he says, his hand rising from her hip to settle in her hair, brushing it from her cheek carefully. "Hey," he eases.

She pulls her face back, meets his gaze. And then she's sitting up on a heavy exhale, the furs falling from her bare form. She looks down at him. "I just... need to know that they'll be safe. That Bran and Arya will be safe."

Jon rises as well, shifting as the furs settle over their laps. He braces one hand to the floor beneath him, leaning on it as he cocks his head at her, watching her. His other hand lifts to cup her cheek. "We do this, and they will be. Baelish can't touch them again."

Sansa leans into his touch, eyes slipping closed. "And after? When he's dead? What then?" Her eyes shift open to catch his, a flicker of uncertainty stretching across her brow. "We still have a war to fight. And a crown to secure."

"Aye, we do," he gets out hoarsely, swallowing thickly.

Sansa simply watches him a moment, eyes wetting. And then she blinks it away, glances to the fireplace before them. "You'll leave me."

"Sansa," he says instantly, both hands cupping her face now, turning her gaze to him as he leans toward her.

She meets his gaze reluctantly.

But then his mouth is on hers – so urgent, so warm. She whimpers at the unexpectedness of it, her hands going for his wrists, anchoring there. She gasps at the heat of his mouth when he pulls away, his lips still close enough to brush hers.

"Sansa," he pants at her mouth, fingers curling along her jaw.

(But she thinks that neither of them could ever truly leave – not now. Not after knowing what they know. Not after loving what they love. Not ever. Not anymore.)

She doesn't let her sob escape her. "What are we supposed to do?" she asks brokenly, her forehead braced to his. "What are we... what can we possibly do?"

"We ensure your safety," he says confidently, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks as he leans back to meet her eyes. "And we make sure the North continues under the Stark name."

"But Bran – "

"He's told you his wishes."

Sansa quiets, her gaze drifting down. "He's father's last trueborn son," she says, unable to hide the resentment that blooms just behind her ribs.

Because it should be Jon's, even if that means she cannot be Jon's.

Robb's will can only make certain of that.

"And he doesn't want the throne," Jon tells her.

Sansa gives him a baleful look, shaking her head, and his hands slip from her cheeks at the motion. "He should," she says. "And if he doesn't, then it's you. It's you, Jon, and that's the way it should be."

"But it's not the way I can live with," he says with a surety that stills her. He reaches for a strand of her hair, brushing it past her bare shoulder, his eyes drifting down over her naked form. "And maybe... maybe part of it is because I don't want to be your brother for true."

She can't help the breath that she sucks between her teeth, a slow heat gathering in her gut at the look he gives her. She knows he must see the marks he's left along her neck, along her breasts. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, every previous thought banished at the lingering gaze he rakes over her now.

"Not after everything," Jon gets out breathlessly, his hand trailing down past her collar bone, just barely brushing the valley between her breasts before he draws his hand away. His other hand grips at the furs in his lap, his eyes rising to meet hers when he takes in a heavy breath. "I'd be lying if I said this wasn't part of it, even though I know it doesn't matter, not truly. But I'll take being your bastard brother over being your legitimate one, if it means you and I can – " He stops, swallows the words with a shake of his head.

"Jon," she whispers achingly.

"That's not how this works, I know that," he says, jaw squaring. "Just makes the guilt easier I guess." He heaves a sigh. "Even when it shouldn't."

She knows exactly what he means though, since there's a part of her that's always rationalized her feelings because they were ever only half-siblings.

It doesn't erase the sin. She understands that. Always has. But somewhere along the way, that 'sin' became her refuge, her guiding star. Somewhere along the way he just became... Jon.

Confirming that Robb actually legitimized him would pull the smokescreen back. It would make the truth undeniable.

Not simply that she was in love with her brother, but that nothing could ever truly come of that love.

(It's the only thing that haunts her anymore, even when she knows he deserves it – even when she urges him to claim it.

Because she knows he deserves it.)

Jon sighs, a hand raked through his curls. "Doesn't make a difference, in the end."

Sansa peers up at him with consoling eyes, one brow raised in question.

He watches her face when he tells her, "I made my decision long ago."

His words narrow her focus instantly, her brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

He watches her a moment longer, mouth parting, and then he turns away, pushes himself from the floor. He walks to the desk beside his bed, and Sansa follows the naked lines of him, muscles taut beneath the flickering corners of firelight. She gathers the furs around her chest and stands to follow him. He takes a deep breath, his broad back rising with the motion, and then falling, his hand clenched around a rolled parchment.

Around Robb's will.

Sansa stops just behind him, a hand at his shoulder, eyes fixed to the scroll in his grasp. "Jon," she says carefully.

He turns to her.

Her gaze flits between his own dark eyes and the scroll in his fist. "Jon, what are you saying?"

"Once Baelish is dealt with, once Bran can safely reveal his presence to the lords, he's going to renounce his claim. And then I plan to do the same."

Sansa's eyes go wide, her breath hitching in her throat. She mouths a word, silent. And then she clears her throat, shakes her head. "Jon, wait – "

"I know what I'm doing, Sansa."

"But why?"

"Because it always should have been yours. I never meant to keep it any longer than it took to rid you of Baelish, to guarantee your safety. That's been the goal from the start."

Sansa licks her lips, glancing back to the will, and then to Jon. "But Robb legitimized you. We have the proof now. The lords will fall in line and there won't be any division anymore."

Jon grits his teeth, his dark eyes shifting to the will in his hand. He takes a deep breath, jaw working. "Then maybe such proof should never have been found," he says evenly, before he stalks back toward the hearth.

Sansa sees what he means to do just moments before he does it, and she flies toward him, the furs falling from her grip when she reaches for him, stops his hand just before he can toss the bound scroll into the fireplace. "What are you doing?" she cries, stumbling against him with the momentum, looking up into his face frantically.

Jon catches her with his free arm around her waist, his other hand halted in her grip. "I'm making sure your claim can never be contested."

"Jon, no, wait," she gasps, tears beading in the corners of her eyes. She sags against him, her chest heaving. "Wait, you can't – " Her voice breaks, and she swallows it back, wraps a hand around the back of his neck, anchoring there. "Jon, being a Stark is what you've always wanted," she says on a pleading cry, peering up into his face desperately.

Because she's always wanted it for him.

For him, for him, for him.

(Even when it means he'd be her brother for true. Even when it draws a line between them she could never redraw, not ever.

Even when it means there's no going back.)

Jon softens at her cry, his shoulders slumping. His wide hand spreads over her waist, the hint of a resilient grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He dips his head to hers, meets her eyes unblinkingly. "Being wanted is what I've always wanted," he tells her, nose brushing hers. His hot breath fans her cheeks and her hand slips from his wrist unconsciously, the breath winded from her. Her eyes shift between his, blinking furiously.

"Jon," she whispers in the space between their lips.

His grin grows wider, a tenderness to it. "I have that now – because of you. And I didn't need to be a Stark to get it."

Her tears are hot along her lids now, threatening to fall. Her chest aches, her breaths coming short and shaky. "Are you certain?" she gulps out, words barely making it to air.

Because if he does this – if he does this –

"You may never get a second chance," she sobs out, her face falling, everything spinning, spinning – crashing.

Jon presses his cheek to hers, sighing heavily, his hand curling tighter around her waist, holding her to him, their naked forms a single, pressed line – seamless. "You are my second chance, Sansa." He presses his nose into her shoulder, the breath shuddering from him. "I don't intend to waste it," he promises into her skin, and then he tosses the will into the fire.

She doesn't have a chance to stop him, her intake of breath cut short by his own hot mouth, and then she's bundled in his arms, stumbling back beneath the force of him, pressed up against the sudden wall behind her, her sob caught on his tongue, and her gasp of his name is lost somewhere between their mouths, between his low groan, between her breathless whine, between the frantic, helpless way they reach for each other – limbs entangled like a mess of strings.

Between skin to skin. Between heart to heart. Between hope to hope.

She finds her own second chance – somewhere between his love and hers.

(She finds it, and doesn't ever plan to let it go.)

Sansa pulls a single, measured breath in as she cocks her head at Baelish now, that spinning, spinning, spinning from the night before finally settling into a slow rock, a smooth hum in the back of her mind.

A rhythm as fixed as the repetition of turns in this game for keeps.

The touch of a smirk lights upon Sansa's lips. "Would you like to play a game, Lord Baelish?" she asks, voice lilting girlishly.

Littlefinger goes pale, recognition blooming behind his eyes, the silent fall of his mouth a darkly satisfying thing to Sansa.

(She imagines the web of strings, the cat's cradle, pulling taut – threads bowing just before they give, coming undone in her hands.)

She glances to Arya with a graceful tilt of her head. Arya gives an acknowledging nod in return, starting to stalk a circle around their kneeling captive, dagger steady in her palm.

Baelish pants with a sudden terror, taking in Arya's gait frantically. "My lady," he stutters out, mouth trembling as he glances back up to Sansa.

"It's a game of foresight," she continues, ignoring his breathless plea.

Arya comes back around the other side of Baelish, boots halting along the cool stone just in front of him. A gurgled sound of desperation leaves his throat.

"A game of precision," Sansa clips out, eyes never leaving his. "Of control."

"Sansa, please," he begs, tears hot along his blotchy cheeks now, his hands wringing in his lap.

Arya raises the dagger, a single brow cocked his way.

Baelish shifts frantic eyes from Arya and the blade back to Sansa, and then to Jon, back to Arya, Sansa again. "Sansa," he gurgles out – small and worthless and writhing.

Sansa's lips press into a thin line. "A game of follow-through," she finishes.

Arya's wrist flicks out instantly, the blade catching smoothly along his throat, a wide arc of red spraying the stones at his feet. He cries out – or tries to, a hand jerking out toward her, reaching, grasping at air, and then he's falling, his other hand pressed to his slit throat as he topples forward, blood gushing over his knuckles, his wrist. He flails against the stones, coughing, eyes squeezed shut, legs kicking out.

It's a game of strings - one misplaced line, one slip of the hand, and it all comes undone.

Sansa watches with unblinking eyes, the warmth of Jon's hand returning along her back, the hush of the still crowd blanketing the hall.

Arya wipes the blood from her blade in one smooth, clean motion.

Baelish claws at his own throat, choking grotesquely, a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath his twitching form.

Sansa breathes deep, exhales slowly. She looks up at the rafters, at the long stretch of the hall's ceiling, the wooden beams crossing and webbing out.

She lets the first bloom of long-awaited relief flood her lungs.

"My turn," she whispers to herself.

(One string at a time.)